her, though she stood before me.
“No, I have not,” she said. “I should laugh if I were not so angry.
Look at me.”
I stood and looked down at her, an instant but no more. I could not,
for I should have choked.
“Eve, Eve,” I cried, “have you no mercy? Must the Rich destroy the
playthings that they weary of?”
“Adam,” she said, “you have a duty yet. Do not shirk it. A fisherman
must not shirk his duty.”
“I am but a drowned fisherman,” I replied. “But what a drowned man may
do, I will do.”
“You promised to be my good friend,” she said. “So come back with me
along the shore.”
So we went down the steep path and side by side along the shore, where
the water lapped high. And we came to our bank, where the pebbles shone
in the sun, and there Eve sat her down.
“Sit beside me, Adam.”
And down I sat, as wretched as man was ever, and I looked into the
water that covered my clam beds. I doubted I should have heart to dig
in those beds again.
“Adam,” said Eve, and her voice was not steady, “I have considered,
and”--
“Eve,” I cried, “can you not spare me that? If you feel any friendship
for me, spare me that. I am blind enough, but I can see”--
“Oh, you are the blindest man that ever was.” And she slipped her hand
within my arm, and drew it back again and began to cry softly. And at
that I sprang to my feet, and my heart thumped like a hammer, till I
thought it would burst my ribs.
“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking so it shamed me, “do not play
with me. Do you mean”--
“Oh, you blind man, can you not see what I mean? Must I say it more
plainly? It is yes, Adam, and no play.”
And she smiled at me through her tears, and suddenly, for me, earth and
sky were flooded with a great glory.
Now, what I did next, I shall not tell, nor what she said to me; for
those are things for my Eve and me to know and to remember. But any
man who has been in such case as mine may guess to some purpose, if he
will but try. And after some time, I know not how long, we sat there
side by side upon the bank, most decorous, for out upon the water was a
boat. But we might say what we would, and I might hold her hand, down
upon the sod, out of sight, and I might gaze into her wonderful eyes
and see in them the tender light that made them pass all wonders.
“Such trouble as I had to get you, Adam, at the last!”
“It served you right,” I said, “for your deceit.”
She laughed, a happy laugh. “You honest fisherman!” she said. “It was
so easy to deceive you! But never again, Adam. You may trust me.”
“Always,” I answered, and stooped low and kissed the hand I held. And
she stooped, too, and quite by chance, and if they saw us from the
boat, I did not care.
“And were you deceived?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “for half an hour. You are too honest, Adam. But I
love you for it.”
And then we did some other silly things, and cared not for the boat.
“And what of old Goodwin, Eve?” I asked, after some while. “What will
he say?”
She laughed again her happy laugh. “What did he say, Adam? He seemed
pleased, I thought.”
“Eve,” I cried, “you do not mean”--
“He came there for that purpose, Adam. I confessed to him. He is my
friend, I told you.”
“Honest gentleman!” I said. “I beg his pardon. He may have my clam beds
if he will.”
“No, no,” she cried, “for they must be mine, too, those clam beds. I
will not have them changed.”
“They are yours, Eve,” I said, “for they were mine and I am yours. See
the colors the old sun spreads over them now. He is almost sitting on
that hill.”
“We will bid him good-night, together,” she said; “a happy one, Adam.
Stand beside me.”
So we stood, and she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we saw the
sun, that he spread the still water with all manner of reds and purples
and shimmering greens. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind
the bearded hill, we saluted. And again we sat upon the bank, and saw
the red west turn to violet, and then to green. And then Eve rose and
said good-night.
“Until to-morrow, Adam,” she said.
“Until to-morrow, Eve,” I echoed.
And then she seemed to listen.
“They are coming for me, Adam. If you love me, run!”
II
A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH
A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH
Some there may be who will say--who do say, no doubt, for they dearly
love a bit of gossip--that I am no better than an adventurer; that I
have wormed my way into a girl’s heart under false pretenses, and will
but devour what I find there; and that two weeks--or three, or whatever
the time was, according to the usual measure of man--is too short a
time for two people to have found out that they love each other. Now,
those who are most apt to speak thus foolishly are my neighbors, who
have mated according to their lights; and I have not observed that they
are happier than other folk. Indeed, I doubt whether they are as happy.
It is not to be imagined that my neighbors have remonstrated with
me upon the subject. But I have observed, when I have met two of
them together, they do but wait until I am out of hearing--sometimes
scarcely that--before they get their heads together.
“That’s the fellow,” says one, “who is engaged to Old Goodwin’s
daughter.”
“Is it, indeed?” says the other--and turns his head about, that he see
me the better. And I stop short and lean casually upon a wall, my face
toward them. For I would not cheat them of their birthright.
“Yes,” says the first. “In two weeks. Disgraceful, I call it.”
They gaze at me--both of them--as if I were some monster from a museum.
“Rich, isn’t he?” asks the second. “Goodwin, I mean--not this fellow.”
And they pass on, laughing uproariously. I would not stint their mirth,
and giving over my leaning upon the wall, I, too, pass on.
Therefore it comes to pass that I have no great opinion of my
neighbors’ judgment. Indeed, I contend that they speak of that they
know not of. Eve agrees with me in this,--she agrees with me in most
things, now,--for have we not been engaged for one whole month, and not
the littlest shadow on our happiness? And still I am wont to take my
basket on my arm and my clam hoe in my hand and wander the shores. But
the clams that I dig would make but a sorry meal, and the clams that I
leave--well, they will be the bigger and the lustier for digging when
I am minded to it. And it is easy to guess what clam beds I frequent.
So it befell that I wandered, one afternoon, over the oozy flats toward
my chosen hunting ground. The sun was getting low in the west, and well
I knew what colors the Great Painter was spreading over the still water
and upon the shining mud. But yet I would not look at them, but wended
on, at a pace too great for a clammer. And joy was in my heart. For
there, just where the sod broke off to the sand and the pebbles shone
bright in the sun, sat Eve. And she smiled upon me as she spoke.
“Adam,” said she, reproving, “you are almost late to-night.”
And, at that, the ganglion that I have mentioned, that does duty for
my heart, leaped for joy, so that I was nigh to choking. And indeed,
though it is but a ganglion, it knows its duty well, and leaps for joy
or aches with sorrow as well as the best-behaved heart in the world. I
have not known the ache for sorrow since the day of my clambake; but it
can make a man very wretched. And I am convinced that it can ache for
pure joy, too--although that is a different ache, with happiness in it.
So I smiled back at her. “Almost late,” I said, “is just in time. Late
has no”--
“Adam, Adam,” she cried, “are you become a grammarian? Grammarians are
tiresome. And I must go, for I have an engagement”--
“No, no,” I answered, in haste; for though in my heart I knew well she
did but jest, yet I feared to lose her. “There is small danger that
I shall become a grammarian. I have put all that behind me. It gets
farther behind me with every day that passes. And your engagement is
with me.”
She laughed, a low, sweet laugh.
“Yes,” she said, “it was.”
And we sat there, silent, and Eve gazed at the sun, that was near
his setting, and he gazed back at her. He set no longer behind the
bearded hill,--the time was passed for that,--but there were other
hills, and he must set behind them, for that is his destiny. And if
any should say to me that I do but ill to speak thus of his destiny,
for that his destiny is a greater than that; and if that one should
hint of some hypothesis or other concerning the life and death of the
universe,--they may have a new one now--they may get up a new one
every week, for aught I know or care; for what is the death of the
universe to me?--I should answer such an one in this wise: “Go to, you
speak foolishly. For have I not seen him every evening of my life, that
he sets in the west? Talk not to me of any hypothesis. I know what I
know.”
And I was leaning on my elbow, down upon the sod, and idly gazing at
the sun, and idly gazing up at Eve. But I gazed at Eve the more. And
the west was all golden, with a soft haze everywhere that left nothing
with sharp outlines, and the sun was set, like a great yellow diamond,
in its midst. It was one of those days--come a month or more before its
time--when the whole earth seems to drowse and doze and breathe forth
peace.
“Eve,” I said softly, for I almost feared lest I break the spell that
was upon us.
She turned to me, but did not speak.
“Would you have me analyze those colors that we see? I might make shift
to do it. Would this soft light be more beautiful to you”--
“Oh, no, no,” she cried. “Let it be. See, the sun is almost down. Stand
beside me, Adam.”
So I stood, and she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we faced the
west, for we would bid the old sun good-night. And as we stood thus,
came Old Goodwin, silently, and stood at her other side. And she took
his hand in hers, too, one hand to each, and we looked at the sun, and
his rim rested on the hill. And there stood a tree, great and tall like
a spire, that showed black against his disk. So we watched him sink,
and as the last thin line vanished behind the hill, we saluted, all
three. Then Eve breathed a deep sigh.
“Such a lovely day, Adam,” she said, “ended in beauty! If all the days
could be like this!”
I remembered me of a day, not two months back, that had been a driving
drizzle of rain, and of a certain figure that had stood beneath a tree,
and the water dripped from the rim of her wide felt hat, and shone upon
her long coat. And that day, with all its wetness, had seemed as good
a day as this, for she had smiled to see me coming along the shore, my
face as black as the clouds, and not expecting to find her; and she had
smiled again to see my face change at the sight of her, and to see
that I could not speak for the joy of it. But I had looked at her until
she flushed red.
“Truly,” said I, “beauty is from within, Eve, and each day is but what
we make it.”
Then Eve and I sat us down upon the bank where we were wont to sit,
and Old Goodwin gave me a quiet smile for greeting. He was a quiet
man, peaceable and peace-loving, and I marveled, often, that he should
be Goodwin the Rich. But so it was. And his automobiles flashed past
my front gate, as they had done before, covering my hedge with dust
and enveloping my house in nauseous smells; also as they had done
before. But I like automobiles better than I did. I even ride in them
sometimes, with Eve, on the back seat; and Old Goodwin rides on the
front seat, and drives as though the Devil were after him; which I
think he is not, for Old Goodwin is a lovable man, and a good man I
believe, as men go. So I sit in the back seat, with Eve, and hold my
clothes on,--my hat I long ago learned to leave at home,--and I bump
here and there, and now and then I shout a tender word to Eve, and I
think my thoughts; and when we turn a corner--on two wheels--I thank
goodness that there are high sides to hold me in.
But Old Goodwin had gone to a tree that was at hand, and from some
recess had pulled some rubber boots. They were old boots, battered
and dingy with much wading through mud. And after the boots came a
hat, as old and battered as they, and a coat. And he put them all on,
deliberately, and stood. And, standing, he looked more like some old
fisherman than like Goodwin the Rich, which was, no doubt, why he wore
them. My neighbors would be but too happy if they were to see Old
Goodwin--and know him--digging in my clam beds, and their tongues are
ever ready at inventing tales. Those neighbors of mine are a grief to
Eve, and an incitement to anger, which, as every one knows, heats the
blood and causes vapors in the brain. Eve does not like vapors. So I
was at some pains to get those boots.
And Old Goodwin, after further searching in the tree, drew forth a clam
hoe and a basket; and being thus equipped, he hied him to the flats,
which were, by now, almost bare, and he began to dig. Now that is a
luxury which the rich may seldom have, that they should dig for clams.
Old Goodwin enjoyed it mightily, splashing here and there in his boots,
and digging as the fancy seized him; which was as like to be where the
clams were not as where they were. But he cared not at all, and drew
long breaths for very joy of living; and the clams that he found he
put within his basket. And with his boots, as he waded here and there,
he stirred long lines of color that went rippling in waves of yellow
or red or a tender blue until they died at our feet. For the west was
all a brilliant, dazzling yellow, with one long cloud that showed
indigo above, but a bright crimson below. And behind us were other long
clouds, and they were crimson, too. But the sky between was a tender
blue. And I gazed long.
“Adam,” cried Eve at last, “how can you be content to sit there?”
I looked up in some surprise. “Should I not be content?” I said. “For
here are you, beside me, and before us is spread a picture of peace
that changes with each moment that passes. Look at that tranquil water,
Eve, with its long tongue of blue that marks the current. Should I not
be content?”
“Yes, yes,” she answered, “I hope so. I trust so, always--with me
beside you. I would not have it otherwise. But even the tranquil water
has its current. Let us dig, too.”
I laughed--as quietly as I could, for I would not break that
tranquillity. She had me there.
“What a governess!” I said. “She has her way always. Well, then, let
us dig--though it seems a pity to disturb the clams.”
“They live in eternal darkness,” said Eve. “It is better for them to be
disturbed. Besides, Adam, I came to dig. I got this gown on purpose.”
I had not noticed the gown. But she stood straight before me, and I
looked her up and down, as she would have me. Truly, I could see no
difference between that gown and any other--save that it was shorter.
But Eve would look adorable in any--and it was the woman that I saw.
I said as much. “To tell the truth,” I said, “I did not see your gown.
What does it matter what you wear?”
“To dig?” she said, reproving. “Have you forgotten, Adam? Surely you
would not have your wife drip salt water upon her best dress and spot
it?”
As she spoke she looked at me, and I saw that in her eyes that brought
me up upon one knee. At least I might kiss her hand, with Old Goodwin
pottering about my clam beds. He considerately turned his back upon us.
And so we digged for clams, too, until the light had faded from the
western sky, and the twilight was almost gone. And when, at last, Old
Goodwin turned and lumbered peacefully up the bank and sat him down to
become once more Goodwin the Rich, behold, our basket was well filled.
For Eve and I have but the one basket; and her back does not tire now.
And I, too, sat me down--for Eve had to take off her rubber boots--and
I sat me near Old Goodwin. And he gave me once more that quiet smile of
greeting that breathed of peace.
“And Mrs. Goodwin?” I asked. “Will she not see me yet?”
“Not yet,” he answered, still with that quiet smile. “But do you have
patience. She will come around--at least, I hope so. It was rather--in
the way of a surprise, you know. And as a surprise,” he added, with a
chuckle of delight, “it was rather good--yes, it was a success.”
I sighed. I am not a patient man; and here was Old Goodwin counseling
me to have patience. There is nothing harder for me to have.
“I have had patience,” I said; “and shall have it until it leaves me.
And when that will be I do not know, but not so long as I can keep it
with me. And, after all, I do not know that I care--except for Eve’s
sake.”
“No,” he said, and the smile was gone. “You win in any case,--or so it
seems to me. She loses. Remember that. She loses. And so I ask you to
have patience. It is worth while, if only for Eve’s sake.”
“It is not easy for me to be patient,” I replied. “But I will,--at
least I will try. That I promise, and no man can promise more. For I
win in any case. She may gain a son or lose a daughter--but Eve-- No, I
will be patient.”
Old Goodwin had got his boots changed by this, and now he rose--Goodwin
the Rich.
“I thank you, Adam,” he said. He called me Adam, too. “It will be the
easier for me. And that is something to you--is it not?”
I jumped to my feet and seized his hand. “It is much to me,” I cried.
“If ever you see me going wrong, I beg you to remind me. For Eve’s
sake and yours. That will bring me back.”
Indeed, he had been my good friend--my good friend and Eve’s. And now
he smiled once more Old Goodwin’s quiet smile. I loved that smile,
breathing peace on earth and good will to men. It was easy to see where
Eve had got hers. She smiled with her eyes, too, and in them I saw--but
perhaps that was for me alone. But Old Goodwin, with his quiet smile,
was yet Goodwin the Rich. It was a marvel.
“You are good children,” he said. “Good-night,--and bless you.”
So he ambled off, up the path that was beginning to show, even in that
dim light. For a path is made by walking upon it, and even once a day
will serve for that. And that path was walked on more than once a day.
As he reached a turn, he waved his hand to us, and we to him.
“Eve,” I said, musing, “there goes a good man.”
She turned to me. “He is,” she said. “And I am glad to have you think
that, Adam. There are those--who say cruel things of him.”
“They are wrong,” I cried. “I am convinced of it. From all envy,
hatred, and malice, good Lord, deliver us. But what of that other rich
man, Eve?”
As I looked up at Eve, waiting for my answer, I saw that she was
smiling merrily.
“I told him,” she said, “that I was engaged already. And he seemed
surprised at that, and he would know the name of the happy man. And
I told him that, too. Did I do well? Are you”-- She stopped and
hesitated.
“Am I happy, Eve?” I answered softly. “Surely you know that I am.
Happier than I thought I should ever be. And what did he say to that?”
“Oh, then, he did not understand. For I think he did not know you,
Adam. And I said you were a fisherman, or a clammer, as occasion
served. You should have seen his face. And he but wished me joy, and
went; which was what I wanted.”
I chuckled. For I do chuckle on occasion.
“I have no other occupation,” I said, “and neither has he. And he
comes, in his yacht, to ask you,--steam yachts are luxuries, Eve, which
my wife will know nothing of,--he comes, very grand, in his yacht, to
ask you. And you tell him that you are to wed a digger of clams. And
where is he now?”
“I do not know,” she answered; and the smile faded.
And I thought my thoughts, and was silent. Truly, the digging of clams
has its delights, and not all the rich are fitted to partake thereof.
For how many of them see what lies before their eyes? How many of them
see the colors the old sun spreads on the still water and the shining
mud? A flat is a flat to them, a thing to be shunned; a thing that will
spoil their white flannels and get their dresses all muddy. Not all of
them are Old Goodwins. And the works of the Great Painter are not for
such as these. But the colors were gone now, and the light, too, and I
heard Eve sighing.
“What is it, Eve?” I asked. “Must you go?”
“Soon,” she said, “very soon. But I was thinking of my mother. She
hinted--almost threatened--that he would come again.”
“That rich man?” I said. “He is better forgot.” And, indeed, I had
forgot him already. “After all, what does it matter? His goings and his
comings are nothing to us. And your mother--was it hard to tell her? I
did what I could.”
“It was not easy,” she answered, and I knew by her voice that tears
were in her eyes, though I could not see. “Your note, Adam, she tore up
before my eyes. Oh, I was angry! And I said what I should not. And then
she said--she was angry, too--that she would not come to my wedding”--
“We will have patience, Eve,” I said, “and perhaps she may change her
mind. And for the note, why, it is better torn up than passed around
among her friends to be laughed over. Yes, I am glad about the note.”
“And I saved the pieces--every one,” she said then, laughing shyly.
“After my mother was gone, I gathered them up. But now I must go,
Adam. See, it is quite dark. You may come up the path with me--if you
will--for just a minute.”
If I would! And if our parting took more than just the minute she had
said, why, I will bear the blame--if blame there is. For I left her
happy and with her eyes shining. And so I stumbled home along the
shore, my heart singing. And my supper--for what clammer would dine
at seven--was ambrosia and nectar, being plain corn meal mush and
fresh milk. And when I had filled myself full of it I betook me to
the seat under the old pine, and I gazed at the stars and wondered.
I saw Arcturus, hanging red, high in the west; and Altair blazing
above me. But, gaze where I would, I saw always that wonderful hair
with the light upon it from the western sky; and those wonderful eyes
with the light within them that made them to outshine Altair himself.
And, gazing, I wondered if in all the worlds that revolve about those
innumerable suns there were a being as happy and as content as I.
* * * * *
Of all the gifts of the gods, happiness is the most elusive. For they
that most seek it find it not; and to them that seek it not, but go
calmly about their business, on a sudden it appears, saying: “Lo, here
am I.” And we must not then attempt to hold it fast, for ever it breaks
away and is gone--for a time--and naught is to do but wait, with what
patience we may, until it come again. And the more we have patience the
sooner will it come back.
So the days passed, and some days I found happiness, and other days I
found it not; but usually I had it for a bedfellow. And it was lucky
that I did, for what is to be said of a clammer who cannot sleep? And
each afternoon, when the sun was low, I wended slowly over toward my
clam beds along the shore where the water lapped ever. And the Great
Painter spread his colors with lavish hand, and peace covered the earth
and was upon the face of the waters. And peace was in my heart, too,
for there on the bank sat Eve, and she smiled to see me come.
And it befell on a day that there was a flat calm, and the sun veiled
his face before he set; and, above, the veil spread out in a thin
sheet, feathery and white, so that I could not tell where it began.
“Look, Eve,” I said. “To-morrow it will be stormy.”
And she said nothing, but only looked as she was bid, being content to
take my word in all things. But Old Goodwin was not.
“Indeed!” he said. “What makes you think so, Adam?”
Then I was tempted. I might have entered upon a disquisition concerning
cyclones and the sequence of the weather. But I put that temptation
from me. It was but a part of my past.
“Oh,” I answered simply, “the look of the sky.”
“And in what does the look of the sky differ from its look on any other
day?” he asked. “I see no difference.”
“It is hard to tell,” I said; “but this is the hurricane season. I may
be quite mistaken. But I think it will storm to-morrow.”
And so he was forced to be content, though he was but half convinced;
and he would have betaken him to the digging of clams, but the tide was
not half down. This he mourned, with frequent upward glances at the
sky. For Old Goodwin was become more skilled in the finding of clams
than he had been. Indeed, I marveled what he could do with the clams
he dug, for he no longer gave them to us. I mentioned it to Eve.
She laughed, whispering. “I fear, Adam,” she said, “that he is
contaminated. He sits up late at night, after everybody else is gone to
bed--and I met him yesterday coming from the kitchen. He looked furtive
as he smiled in passing. Yes, I fear that he is contaminated.”
“Steamed clams?” I whispered, in reply. “But steamed clams are not
baked clams. They are, to clams from a bake, what--a bath in a tub is
to a dip in that great ocean.”
“It is the best that he can do,” she said. “He may not have a clambake.
My mother”--
“Ah,” said I, illuminated, “the poor man! We will have one for him.
And we will ask your mother, too. She can but refuse, at the worst. And
perhaps”--