your asking. But father will be grateful. There are so few things the
rich may do simply. Father would like to muss around, himself,--to help
you with the bake, Adam,--and wear his old clothes. He generally has a
horrid time.”
She was smiling and eager, and her eyes shone. I nodded. “He shall have
his clambake.”
So Eve went in early, and Old Goodwin, for the sky was become all gray
and nothing to see. And to me there is nothing so dismal as a dull gray
sky when there is neither wind nor rain. There is the same gray light
on the water, the same wherever I look, and all nature seems waiting.
After a day of it, I am fit for battle and murder. But now a little
breeze came creeping in out of the east, chill and drear. And I was
wakened in the night by the wind, howling like a lost soul in torment.
I turned over and drew the covers closer and slept again.
And when the day broke, it was not tranquil, and no sun to see; and
the wind shrieking and yelling out of the southeast like some wild
thing, with gusts of drenching rain. I thought of my late corn, which
was heavy with great ears--and had been tall, too, the night before.
It was like to be blown flat in that wind--as flat as if it had been
harvested--and what was a clambake without fresh corn? But there was no
help for it. I ate my breakfast at my leisure,--there would be more
wind before there was less,--put on oilskins, boots, and sou’wester,
and fared forth.
As I passed down through my garden I glanced at my corn. It was flat,
as I expected, save one great stalk, stronger than its comrades, or
more deeply rooted, and that stalk waved and thrashed about in anguish.
It would break soon, I knew. And I mused as I leaned against the wind
upon its fate--how it must be broken and die, while the stalks less
well rooted did but go down before the blast, and live and grow. But
I gave my corn no more thought, for I was come to the steep path that
led me down along the shore, and by the water, now all brown with sand
and mud that had been stirred from the bottom. For, although it was
fairly quiet here, being in the lee of the bluff, the water was well
stirred, as any might guess from looking out upon it. And I came to
the bank, where the sod breaks off to the sand, and no Eve was there.
And, indeed, I had known better, but can a man help hoping? It was much
too early, and who could expect her to come down in that wind? And as
I made these excuses for her, behold, she stepped from behind a great
tree, and she laughed aloud to see my face.
“Oh, Adam!” she cried, “one would think, to see you as you came, that
you had lost your last friend, and were just come to the funeral.”
“And then,” I answered, smiling up at her,--“what then, Eve?”
“Why, then,--you seemed surprised and”-- With that she stopped, and
she stood upon the bank above, and I on the sand below; and she put her
hands upon my shoulders, one on each, and looked down into my face. And
I looked up into her eyes, and I forgot the storm, and I forgot that
wild wind that blew, and I forgot all things save what I saw there.
And, an instant, she bent to me. “Oh, Adam, Adam!” she cried, “I am
glad, glad that you care so much. For it is not easy for me.”
And I said no word, but only held her so for some while. And presently
she laughed, as if she were half ashamed, and drew her from my arms.
And I saw that her face was wet. It may have been the rain--I do not
know. A fisherman, in sou’wester and oilskins, holding in his arms a
Daughter of the Rich. I laughed aloud at the thought. For, though she,
too, had on boots, she seemed no fit mate for such as I--in her long
coat, that covered her from neck to heel, and with her wide felt hat,
tied down behind. Indeed, I grudged that to necessity--for her hair was
all hid, under the hat.
Out from my clam beds--some way out--is a reef of rocks. It is grim
enough in any weather: at low water just showing its rough head, dark
brown, barnacled, bearded with seaweed; at high tide, in calm weather,
nothing but a wide expanse of placid water. For which reason, the
government, in its wisdom, and to protect the lives of yachtsmen, who
ever walk in darkness--the fishermen know it from the beginning of
time--the government had set, upon the most outward rock a spindle.
It was awkward enough, that spindle, with its sprawling arms, like a
telegraph pole--but it served its purpose well in ordinary weather I
have no doubt. But now,--this was no ordinary weather, as any might
see,--it seemed like to go down, even as my solitary stalk of corn; to
be torn from its hold in the rock, or the shaft twisted and bent and
broken, till it served no longer.
“Look, Eve,” I shouted. For the gale tore my words out of my mouth.
“The spindle--it will go down at high tide--or before. See, it is bent,
already.”
For, as I spoke, a great sea smashed down upon the rock, sending its
spray high; and when the wind had blown the bits of broken water far
to leeward, leaving the rock in a smother of foam, I saw the spindle,
and it stood straight no longer. And I watched for the fellow of the
sea that had come. But Eve held her peace. And we two watched the rock,
with its leaning spindle, and ever it leaned the more, but it kept fast
hold on the rock, though it was nearly buried in the foam. And ever the
tide came higher, until it was buried in every sea that came. So it was
come to dinner time; and I felt a great hunger that gnawed within me.
For a clammer must eat, even as other men.
“Eve,” I said, “it is my dinner time, and I am hungry.”
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “can you think about eating--with this to see? I
thought better of you.”
“Think none the worse of me,” I answered, “that when I am hungry I
would eat. For I am not one of your theorists who believe that when
a man is hungry he should go without. But I believe that hunger is a
sign from Heaven. God gave man hunger that he might know when to eat;
and thirst, that he might know when to drink. And so I do. I have
never found myself the worse for it, but the better. Hunger breeds an
evil temper, as you may see. Mark how much pleasanter I am when I have
dined.”
And she laughed at me. “And the spindle, Adam,” she said. “It may go
down, and you at dinner. And this storm--surely, it is worth staying
for.”
“The storm will increase,” I replied, “according to the lore of my
neighbors, until full tide. In such matters their lore is older than my
learning. As for the spindle, it will go or it will hold fast as it is
ordained for it. If it hold fast, well; and if it go down, why,--that
will be well enough, too. At least, I shall have dined. I wish that I
might ask you to dine with me, Eve. We shall have roast mutton, with
corn, and potatoes, and--whatever else the wind has left. And a steamed
pudding, after. It is not fashionable, but it will be good. My cook
makes excellent steamed puddings. And a dinner eaten alone--it is a
lonely meal.”
Again Eve laughed, then sighed. I know that she sighed, for I saw her;
I could not hear.
“I should love it, Adam,” she said, “but you know I may not.”
“Love what, Eve?” I asked. “The steamed pudding?”
“No doubt,” she answered, “for now that you have reminded me, I am
hungry, too. But you know that was not what I meant. I should love to
dine with you in your own house. But it will not be long--there will
not be many more lonely dinners”--
She hesitated and stopped. But I knew. “Let us count them,” I said.
“Let us see how many.”
And again the storm was forgot, and the great wind that blew. And so
she went in, and I tramped home, in the rain, along the shore. But my
dinner was too quickly eaten for a clammer, and I thanked a kind Heaven
that there were not many more such--there were far too many, but they
could be counted--there were less than a hundred. And having bolted my
dinner, which deserved better of me, I hurried back to the bank, and
there stood Eve, and she smiled to see me come along the shore.
“Eve,” I observed, “see now for what you are responsible. For, dining
alone, I did but bolt my dinner, for I would not miss a minute of your
company. And thereby I risked dyspepsia. And that is not the worst,
for the ills that follow hard upon it are these: melancholy and an
evil disposition; and backbiting and gossip, and, in short, all the
qualities which you see in my neighbors. And”--
But she was laughing. “Is that not enough?” she asked. “I would not
be responsible for more, and I promise to give you an hour for your
dinner--hereafter. You will have no need to hurry back, for I shall
not be here sooner. But this is an exception. We shall not have such
another storm, surely, in the next”-- Again she stopped. “Look, Adam,
can you see the spindle? Is it gone?”
I looked. The tide was risen now, so that only now and then, between
the great seas that came, could I catch a glimpse of it; and I saw that
it was bent almost even with the rock. It would be useless for its
purpose even if it held, and the tide that was coming would be very
high. Even now the waves lapped about my feet as I stood upon the sand,
and the seaweed washed against the bank, and it lacked an hour of high
tide. I feared for the pebbles, that they would no more shine in the
sun.
“I see it,” I said. “It is yet fast to the rock--as fast as any oyster.
But it is bent flat, so that it is no manner of use. It may as well go
as stay. The water covers it already, or it would, if it were smooth.”
And, indeed, the seas broke no longer over the rock, save an occasional
one, higher than the rest, and the trough lower. Such a sea did but
open an instant, to show the top, dark brown and barnacled, then closed
again, roaring, in a whirlpool of foam. And Eve said nothing, but only
looked. And as we stood looking, and the rain running off from our
clothes in streams, Old Goodwin came down to us, in oilskins and boots
and sou’wester. And he said nothing, either, which was not strange, for
he was not a man of words. And when he had been there some while, came
a mighty sea, and fell upon the rock. I shouted at the sight of that
sea; I could do no other. And when it was passed, the water opened
once more and there was but the shaft, bent and twisted.
“Gone!” I cried. And Eve looked at me with wide eyes, but Old Goodwin
only nodded.
So we three watched for some while, and at last the water was as smooth
over the rock as it was elsewhere. And that is not saying that it
was smooth at all--even on my clam beds, where it was, in a measure,
sheltered, the waves broke high, so that I feared for the bank; but the
great seas raced evenly over the rock, and it was as there was none
there, for no man could tell its place.
Then, on a sudden, the rain ceased and the wind increased, and it
seemed that the whole earth must be torn up by the roots. And up on the
hill I heard the crash of a tree, falling, and then another. And the
water was level with the bank, and the waves broke over my pebbles. Old
Goodwin turned at the sound of the trees, and said something, I know
not what. For the noise of the wind and the noise of the water was a
great noise, and swallowed up the sound of his voice. And he looked
once more out to sea, and there came that into his face that made me to
look, too.
Now there had been, a moment before, a veil of rain over the surface
of the sea that prevented our seeing more than a little way. But now
the veil was withdrawn, and I looked, and rubbed my eyes, and looked
again. For there came a yacht--a steam yacht, and she was steaming
her best, and with the wind nearly behind her she came at a great
pace. Now she was lost in a hollow, so that I saw no more than her
stack, belching smoke, and now she rose on a wave, so that I saw her
hull. What fool, thought I, would venture from a safe harbor in such
weather? If they had left port before this storm,--well, it is but a
poor skipper that knows the weather no better,--and they were not like
to have been a day’s steaming from some good harbor. And as I thought
these things, the yacht was come nearer, and I knew it, and I knew that
here was that certain rich man come to plague me. I even saw the man
himself, standing forward, and holding on by a stanchion. And as I saw
I marveled, for I had supposed the man a coward.
I turned to Eve. “Do you know”-- But I did not finish, for she nodded;
and her look was troubled. I hated that rich man with a mighty hate.
And while I still gazed into her eyes, I saw them open wide with horror.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried. “The spindle is gone, and they will go on the
rocks! See!”
I turned. They had come on swiftly--too swiftly--and now were headed
straight for the place where the rock lay hid; steaming headlong to
destruction. I hesitated--I say it to my shame, though a man is but a
man after all--I hesitated an instant; then Old Goodwin began to shout,
and I shouted, too, wading into the water up to my waist, and waving my
hands. For I would warn them farther off. And at our shouting, the man
did but get upon the rail, still holding by the stanchion, and lean far
out, and put his hand behind his ear. For the wind whipped the words
out of our mouths before they were well spoken, and they reached him
not at all. And the yacht was but a length from the rock. And the man
understood, though he could not hear, and he leaned yet farther out, to
call up to the captain; but the captain had understood, too, and she
was already turning. And as we looked and held our breath for fear, she
struck with a great shock and careened, and the great seas dashed high
and hid her for a moment. And when she rolled back again and I could
see, the man was gone.
Then Eve shrieked and I cursed, under my breath, and I hurried to
shore; and hastily I stripped off my coats and cast down my sou’wester
upon them as they lay, and tried to pull off my boots. But they were
filled full with water from my wading, and would not come. So I pulled
out my knife and ripped them down the side; for I was of no mind to be
weighted down with rubber boots. Then they came off easily enough, and
I rose and looked at Eve.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “can you swim--in that water?”
I looked out upon the water that was roaring and racing. A fish might
fail to swim on the top of that water, and be well excused for failing.
And I was no fish, though I could swim passing well.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then,” said Eve, “go, and God keep you!” And she kissed me, taking
no shame to herself that her father saw, and those on the yacht--they
had little leisure for observing--and some of my neighbors, who had
gathered near,--who had leisure.
And, with that kiss upon my lips, I could have gone to my death with
a light heart; indeed, I knew not but that I was going to it. So I
plunged in and swam, thinking as I went, with some bitterness, that
here was I, risking my life for a man who was come but to give me
trouble. Truly, I thought, he has begun well, and it will be no strange
matter if the beginning and the ending are the same. Then I was come to
an end of my shelter, and the wind tore at me, and the waves buffeted
me, so that I was forced to give all my thought to my swimming; and
that was well, too.
Now I have no purpose to give an account of my fool’s errand that I had
swum out upon, for thus should I be but a boaster and a braggart and
one marked out for destruction. But I found the man,--I do not well
know how,--and I brought him to shore, to Eve and Old Goodwin waiting
there; and I do not well know how I did that either. And there I left
him, to be cared for by those same neighbors of mine, and to recover or
not, as it happed him. But I turned to Eve before I went, and she was
crying softly.
“Oh, Adam, Adam,” she said; and with that she stopped and said no more,
for she could not speak. But she put her arms about me, all wet as I
was, and held me tight, and I heard her voice whispering, but I could
make out no words. And when she had made an end of her whispering, she
let me go.
“Now, Adam,” she said, “you are all wet, and you are all weary. Do you
go home and get off those wet clothes, and rest yourself. And when you
are all rested I will come and tell you how he is.”
So I went, and weary I must have been, for I thought not to marvel that
Eve should come to my house, and I gave no thought to the yacht, that
had been in evil case enough when I saw her last. And as I plodded
along the shore, it chanced that I glanced out upon the water. For the
wind was beginning to fall already. And the yacht was on the rock,
where she had struck, but she had swung clean around, so that her
bow was toward the seas, and she seemed like to slide off. And as I
looked, a boat put out from shore and pulled toward her. After all, my
neighbors have their good points.
And when I had got into dry clothes and had swallowed a draught of hot
tea I felt somewhat rested. So I went out and sat me down on the seat
under my pine. From that place I could see the west, and the clouds
were somewhat broken and driving fast, but no glimpse of the sun yet,
though he must be near his setting. And out upon the water lay the
yacht, at anchor in a spot that was sheltered, and she was well down by
the head. About her, like a flock of crows, were some small boats. And
I looked no more upon the yacht, but I gazed at the tree like a spire,
that should show against the sun’s disk as he set, and I thought with
bitterness on what I had done; and my thoughts were the thoughts of
Ahab. In the bitterness of my heart I spoke aloud.
“Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?”
And, even as I spoke, I heard behind me the light step that I knew and
loved, and there was Eve. And she sat upon the seat beside me.
I looked at her questioning. “Is it well?” I asked.
She smiled up at me. “It is well,” she answered; and my bitterness fell
from me as a garment, and I marveled that it was so.
And so we sat and saw the twilight fail, early, and the night fall.
And out upon the water, a light marked where the yacht lay at her
anchor, and the light bowed slowly, up and down; for there yet was a
swell coming in, although the wind had fallen. And peace fell upon my
spirit, and a great content.
* * * * *
Under my great pine is a pleasant place for a man--or for a Daughter
of the Rich, as I make bold to guess--with a heart at ease. And for a
certain rich man it might, indeed, be pleasant under my pine,--I did
not know. But I was to find out, for a week had gone by since I hauled
him ashore like any drifting mess of seaweed, and with no more life in
him, as it seemed, than in the weed; his legs and his arms trailing in
the water. And, Eve asking it, I invited him to my clambake that I made
to pleasure Old Goodwin. From my seat against the tree he might look
out upon my clam beds. But it might well be that he would not care for
clam beds; for every Rich man is not an Old Goodwin. And he might see,
too, the place where he so nearly lost his life. And it might well be
that he would not care for that, either. But he should have the chance.
And, to make the tale complete, I had asked Mrs. Goodwin, too.
It was there, just without the shadow of the pine, that the hole was
scooped in the ground, and lined with great stones. Indeed, this was
already done; for had I not had a clambake there? And, that I might not
forget it--there was little danger of my forgetting--and, too, that
I might have other clambakes, I had left the hole as it was, and the
great stones. And on these stones I kindled a fire that roared high;
and when it had burned long and the stones were hot I raked the ashes
off. And Old Goodwin helped me, and he whistled as he worked. He was
no artist at the whistling, but yet it gave me pleasure to see him so
well pleased, so that I must needs join him in his whistling; and I am
no artist at it, either. But we were merry at our whistling, and we
made so great a racket with it that any one would have thought to hear
us, there was a flock of strange birds and it was springtime; instead
of which it was fall and the birds had left, except some robins and
some sparrows and the meadow-larks. And even they were silent. And
the terns had gone, too,--that always marks the change of season, for
me,--and the winter gulls had come to take their place.
And when, at last, we had the embers all raked off and the stones
clean, Old Goodwin leaned upon his rake and wiped his forehead. It was
hot there, so near the hot stones, and the fire just burned out. And he
began to laugh, for sheer pleasure and for the merriment that he might
hold in no longer; and, laughing, he could whistle no more.
“Adam,” he said, “do you know what it is that you are whistling?”
And I stopped long enough to answer. “No,” I said. “It does not matter.
Make a glad noise.”
And, with that, I began to sing; and I am only worse at singing than
I am at whistling. But what cared I? And Old Goodwin, as soon as he
could, for his laughter, joined me in singing. And he sang worse than
I. But we cared not at all,--our hearts were at ease,--and took our
forks and shook down upon the stones fresh seaweed from the pile, and
on the seaweed laid the clams that I had digged that morning. Then,
more seaweed; and the other things, according to their season, orderly,
in layers: the lobsters, and the fish, fresh caught, and the chicken,
not too fresh, and sweet potatoes and white, and the last of my corn
that had survived the storm. I had a fear that the ears might not be
well filled--but it was fresh and tender. And over all we piled the
weed and made a dome that smoked and steamed and filled the air with
incense.
Then, our work done, we sat there and looked out, and were silent. At
last Old Goodwin spoke, and he was looking at the smoking dome.
“Adam,” he said, “will there be another clambake after this?”
“I fear not,” I answered. “For it gets on toward winter, and it will
be too cold. But when summer comes again we may have many, we three.”
He looked at me and smiled. “I feared this was the last,” he said. “But
when summer comes again we will have many--God willing. You are good to
please an old man so. I thank you, Adam.”
Now that was nothing more than a figure of speech for him to call
himself an old man. For he was a very boy, and could whistle and sing
and dig clams and mess about, and youth was in his heart. And who,
having youth in his heart, can be rightly called old? Indeed, in point
of years, he was not old; for he was not turned sixty, as I should have
guessed. But he was again silent, gazing at the smoking dome of weed,
and I made no answer, but I gazed out over the water. And presently
Old Goodwin rose and went to garb himself, for he was dressed in his
clammer’s clothes, that were well stained with mud and with salt water
and with clams. And then I, too, would change my clothes, for I was no
better dressed than he.
And when I was all arrayed I set out along the shore, and my heart-beat
was too high, by far; but my spirits were high, too, so that I scarce
kept from singing aloud, or from waving my arms and shouting at the
deep-sounding sea. But I remembered that certain Rich man that I
was to meet. What would he think of a clammer that sang aloud, by
himself,--and most outrageously,--or that shouted an occasional line
from Homer--what could he think, but that I knew no better--and no
more? So I strode along the shore and came to the bank where the sod
broke off to the sand and the pebbles shone in the sun; for the storm
had spared them. And I sat not down, but paced to and fro. And soon
came Eve, and up leaped my heart into my throat and choked me; and
behind her came Old Goodwin and that other Rich man. A moment only Eve
smiled at me and then she stood aside. And that other Rich man stepped
forward and broke in upon Old Goodwin’s speech; for he would have
introduced us.
“We need no introduction,” he said. “Thanks seem a poor thing enough to
give in return for my life, but I can offer you no more.”
I took the hand he held out, and I murmured something, I know not
what, about its being of no consequence,--which, indeed, it was not,
though I should not have said so. And we looked each other up and
down, and either measured other. And what he thought of me I did not
know--nor care.
So we wended along the shore to the steep path, and Eve walked beside
me. She was not in white now, for it was cool, with a sharp wind out of
the northwest. Indeed, what she had on I did not know--some dark stuff
gown that well became her--I was not looking at her gown. No doubt I
was grinning like any idiot; but I did not hold her hand, for behind
us walked Old Goodwin and that Rich man--that Rich man that I would
have cast into the sea so short a time before. And, walking so, we came
to the steep path and climbed it, and we stood beneath my pine. And
before the seat against the tree stood my table that I had made large
enough for four; but the seat was unchanged, and it held but two.
Old Goodwin looked upon the seat, and he said no word, but he smiled
his quiet smile and betook him to my shed. I bethought me of the other
guest that I had asked.