for I had had no idea that she would come.
And that Rich man spoke, and what he said was a surprise to me. “Mrs.
Goodwin wished me to say,” said he, “that she feared to catch cold as
the wind is somewhat biting. But she thanks you for asking her.”
Then I looked at Eve, and she seemed surprised, too. But Old Goodwin
had found his box that he had sat upon before, and he brought it out
and set it by the table.
“I will sit here,” he said. “I have an affection for this box. It tilts
nicely.”
And that other stared a moment. “I wonder,” he said at last, “if there
is another--no, no.” For I had started for the shed. “Let me get it.”
And I laughed and nodded, and he went. And we heard a tremendous
racket, and presently he came, bringing a box that was the fellow to
Old Goodwin’s. Laughing, too, he set it down.
“There!” he said. “And now for the clams.” He looked at me. “Is there a
fork for me? You must let me help.”
“Heaven forbid!” I said hastily. “You and Eve are the guests.”
And so Eve and he sat, while Old Goodwin helped me. And I took my
fork and opened the smoking dome, and together we set upon the table
corn and potatoes, both sweet and white, and a chicken and some fish
and the lobsters; and last of all a great pan of clams. And the rest,
upon the hot stones, I covered again with seaweed; but not deep, for
soon we should want more clams--and more fish and another chicken, for
here were three good men to eat them; and what three men can eat at a
clambake is nothing less than a marvel. Eve did her part, too. And Old
Goodwin, setting the things upon the table, was as pleased as Punch.
And as I pitched the weed, again I heard Eve laughing.
“Now, who would believe,” she said, “that had not seen,”--
But Old Goodwin interrupted her cheerily. “Not a bit too much--not half
enough,” he said.
So Eve and I sat side by side upon the bench, and the two Rich men sat
opposite, on their boxes. And no sound was heard save the noise of the
wind that whispered softly in the tree above, and the noise of the clam
shells as they struck upon the ground among their fellows that had gone
before. And if we spoke little or not at all, but only ate, we were
merry at our eating, which, as I have heard, wards off dyspepsia. For
dyspepsia abides not with them that are merry, but is mortally afraid
of a laugh. And those two Rich men got to tilting back and forth upon
their boxes--they had been too busy at the first--and, having eaten a
prodigious quantity of clams and all things else, they fell a-laughing
as they had been two boys; and they called for more clams. So I opened
the bake again, and, behold, there were no clams left, not one, so that
I marveled at it.
I must have looked blank with astonishment. “Now who would have
supposed,” said I, “that we could have eaten them all? For I thought
that I had had enough for six at least.”
At that Old Goodwin burst out laughing afresh. “If you could have seen
your face, Adam! But never mind. No doubt we have eaten more than is
good for us, as it is.”
“I am sure of that,” I observed. And the two Rich men, filled full of
lobster and corn and clams, did but laugh again, and they tilted upon
their boxes. And I was filled full, too, but with content more than
with clams, so that the wind that sighed in my pine sighed merrily.
We sat long at my little table under my great tree, but at last it was
cold, for the sun was gone behind a black cloud. And Old Goodwin rose,
reluctantly, and that other Rich man rose too, and his pocket that
had been toward Old Goodwin bulged. And when he emptied it there were
clam shells that Old Goodwin had deposited there. And he laughed--I
thought him good to laugh--I fear that, in his place, I should not have
laughed--and he chased Old Goodwin. And when he had caught him and had
filled his pocket with the shells, he came and stood before us, where
we yet sat upon the seat.
“I have to thank you,” he said to me, and his laugh was gone, “for the
pleasantest time and the most delicious feast that I have had in many
a long day.” Then he hesitated and looked away a moment; but presently
his eyes came back to mine. “You are a better man than I am, Adam, and
better worthy of her. From my heart I wish you joy. I shall not come
again to plague you.” Again he looked away. “And I shall say as much to
Mrs. Goodwin,--with your permission.”
And I stood, and took the hand he offered; but I did not speak. I could
not for a moment. Then I mumbled something, I know not what, about his
kindness. But it did not matter what I said. And my heart warmed to
him, and I was sorry for him--he had lost so much--but he took it as
a man should. I thought nothing of his having called me Adam; indeed,
I doubted if he knew it. And so he went, quickly, without so much as
looking back, and Old Goodwin followed him as quickly, and they went
down the steep path, and we heard their laughter. And I turned to Eve,
and she smiled up at me.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, softly, “if we only could!”
“We can but try, Eve,” I answered, smiling back at her; “and we will.
He seems worth it.” And then I mused awhile, and at last I spoke my
thoughts. “Eve,” I said, “why did you choose me?”
She looked at me, her eyes wide. “Why did I choose you?” she asked,
perplexed. “What do you mean, Adam? Would you give me up?”
“Now, God forbid,” I cried, “that I should do that thing! What man,
having got you, would give you up? But that Rich man”--
She laughed, a merry laugh. “Why, that is simple--as simple as life
itself. I chose you because I loved you, and I did not love that Rich
man. And why it should be so I do not know.”
And what I did at that, I leave it to any to guess; for Old Goodwin was
gone and that other, and there was no one there save only Eve and me,
under my great tree.
“I thank Heaven that it is so,” I said, at last, “and what the reason
is I do not care.”
And, at that, the black cloud that was before the sun spilled a few
drops, great drops that splashed as they struck. For it was well over
us, and almost passed.
Eve was distressed. “Adam,” she said, “do you believe in signs?”
“Yes,” I answered, “if you like. Would you take that cloud to be a
sign?”
She nodded, saying nothing.
“Well,” said I, rising, “so be it. But come where we can see the east,
and I will interpret for you.”
So she rose, too, and together we went down the steep path and along
the shore. And as we went I interpreted for her in this wise.
“The shadow of that cloud, Eve, that seems so black, is the shadow of
a sorrow. And the cause is the behavior of your mother, who will have
none of me for a son-in-law,--who says that she will not come to your
wedding--if I am there. And the drops are your tears,--or hers; for I
do not doubt that she has shed many tears over this same matter. But
the cloud, although it is black, is not large and it is passed. Look,
Eve; you can see the sun.”
And as I spoke, the sun was peeping under the western edge, and we saw
his disk grow until we could look at him no longer. And we were come to
the bank, where the pebbles shone red in the sun. For he was near his
setting.
“Now,” said I, “I may have to wait some while for the rest of my
interpreting.”
And we waited, watching in silence, for some minutes. And the cloud was
gone from above us, into the east, and there were no more drops; but
under the cloud it was raining hard. And there began to form a bow:
first a patch of color here and a patch there; then, gradually, the
patches joined by fainter parts; then those faint parts brightened
into a perfect bow with its ends dipping into the sea, and with all its
colors perfect. And as we gazed there formed, within the first, another
bow, and yet a third--though one must look hard to find it.
“Indeed, Eve,” I said softly, “it needs no interpreter.”
And Eve smiled up at me. But the marvels were not yet done; for there
came broad sheaves of light that over-spread the bows, but did not
hide them. And there, at the centre of the bows, was a tiny sail; and
the sail was brighter than aught else, and it was as if the sheaves of
light had issued from it. And above were great masses of cloud, roll
upon roll, and the sun, in his setting, spread them with all manner of
saffron and scarlet and crimson, and with all the delicate shades of
pink that are known to man--and with many that man, with all his skill,
knows nothing of. But the shadows were blue or lilac or purple. And we
gazed long, until the brightness began to fade. Then Eve sighed, saying
nothing. The sun had dropped behind the western hills; and the twilight
faded swiftly, and the night was come.
* * * * *
There is a restlessness that seizes upon men in certain case. I had
felt it before, and had wandered the shores with my basket upon my arm
and my hoe in my hand; and I had digged here and there as the fancy
took me. But the clams that I digged lay forgotten upon the sands, to
bury themselves once more; while I, seated upon a barnacle-covered
rock--or even standing--gazed and gazed and saw nothing of what was
before me until the tide, lapping about my ankles, brought me to
myself. And then, with a heart-breaking sigh, I would shoulder my hoe
and again betake me to wandering the shores. Then Eve had been the
cause, for I had not got her; but at least I might find my content
again at sunset, when I sat upon the bank, where the sod breaks off
to the sand, with her beside me. Now, Eve was the cause, too, and my
content was fled from me; and though I might sit upon the bank, I
sat alone, or with no one but Old Goodwin. And Old Goodwin was well
enough, but he was not Eve. And I had no joy in the colors that the
Great Painter spread so lavishly, but was ill-tempered and out of
sorts, giving short answers to the remarks Old Goodwin made, and
never sitting still five minutes. And Old Goodwin but smiled his quiet
smile and was very patient with me; he knew well the cause of my sour
temper. For Eve had betaken herself to the city, that she might the
better make preparation for a certain Event. What Event that was, it is
but a dullard that cannot guess; and it was eighty days off, and then
it was seventy. Eighty æons--with Eve away. But I diverted myself by
counting it in hours, then in minutes. It was a prodigious number of
minutes--but I took what comfort I might in it.
Then, one morning, I awoke at dawn, and, as I leaned from my window, I
saw the ground all white with frost. Then the east was grown all red,
a narrow line of color changing to yellow and a faint green, and on a
sudden the sun popped up. And then I got to thinking of that other dawn
that Eve and I had seen, and content abode with me no longer. And I
drew in my head and dressed in sullen haste and went down to breakfast.
It was a good breakfast, but gall and wormwood had been sweeter in
my mouth if I could but find again that peace I sought; and, having
done, I lighted my pipe and went forth. Sighing, I betook me--not to
the shore--I had traveled that until I knew each pebble, and I had not
found content; but the woods were gorgeous--I betook me to the woods.
Perchance content had taken refuge there.
So all that day I wandered the wood, seeing the red of the dogwood
and of the sumach, the reds and yellows of the maples, and the yellow
leaves of the birches showing against the white trunks; and here and
there a clump of pine, their dark green the darker for the color with
which they were surrounded. But I found no beauty in any. Truly content
was not there; or, if it were, I found it not. And I saw the seed-pods
lifting on their dry stems, and the rotting logs and the dead leaves.
I sat me down on a log, and from my pocket I drew forth a bundle of
letters. They were Eve’s letters--and one for each day that she had
been gone from me--and I read them all through again--for the hundredth
time. When I was done the sun was on his downward journey, and I had
found some measure of peace--and I bethought me that it was almost time
for another letter. I seized my stick and hurried home.
And with days like this one, or, later, with days when I sat moping
before my fire, a book in my hand, my tale of days was coming to an
end. I had great fireplaces, fitting for the chimneys, and I would
gaze deep into the glowing heart of one of them, my book forgotten. I
thanked Heaven that I was alone. For I was no less than a fool. I knew
it well; but I had no power to do otherwise--the veriest lovesick boy
might give me points--and then would come the postman’s knock at the
door--I knew that knock, you may be sure, and, as it went clattering
through the house,--before its echoes had died away,--I was on my
feet, and running. And I would open to him, and he, with a knowing
smile, would hand me my letter, and make some foolish remark about
the weather. The weather, forsooth! What knew I about the weather? It
might be raining great guns, but for me the sun was shining--with that
letter. And so I made him some answer--which was as like to be wise as
foolish, for I doubt if he ever heard it clearly--I do not remember one
of those answers--and I shut the door before he was well turned about,
and I hurried back to my fire to read--but not my book.
So at last my tale of days was done, and Eve was come home. And I
awoke one morning to see a thin skimming of ice, crisp and crackling,
spread over every shallow pool, and it was well into November. And my
breakfast was ambrosia and nectar, being the same that had been gall
and wormwood before; for Eve was come. And if I did not eat much, why,
that lovesick boy that I have mentioned can tell you why it was. Then
having done, I hurried off, and on every shallow pool that was skimmed
with ice I slid. And the ice rose up before my feet, and broke into
a thousand pieces behind them; but I did not wet so much as the sole
of my shoe. And I hurried over to my clam beds; for there, I thought,
shall I find my lost content.
The sun lay warm upon the bank, where the pebbles shone in the sun, but
no Eve was there. And I paced to and fro, fuming with impatience, my
head down upon my breast. For I found not content, having been certain
that I should find it that had been lost to me for a month and more.
And as I paced the shore, to and fro, there came a light touch upon my
shoulder. I turned swiftly, and there was Eve, her eyes shining. And
I--but I know not what I did--and, if I knew, I would not tell.
“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking, “you were gone so long!”
And she only smiled up at me, the same smile that I had seen so often
in my dreaming before my fire; and I knew that I had found again that
peace that had been so long lost. And what we did then is for my Eve
and me to remember; but presently we found ourselves sitting upon the
bank, and the ice was gone from the shore and the sun shone warm.
“And when shall I see,” I asked, “your finery? So long a visit should
accomplish much.”
She laughed, a merry laugh. “Shall a bride not be properly fitted
out?” she answered. And she said it softly, as if she were half
ashamed; and at that I kissed her,--I could not help it. Eve did not
chide me for it. “And you shall see all my finery--on Christmas day, or
any day after.”
Then I looked blank, I do not doubt, and she laughed again her merry
laugh. For Christmas day is to be our wedding day. But I had Eve. That
was enough--and she had promised that she would not go away again. And
we sat there, talking or silent, as the whim took us, until Eve was
cold.
So the days passed, and I was happy; and the leaves of the wood, that
had been red and yellow and bronze, turned to a dull brown and fell,
whirling; but the oaks kept theirs, and they rattled in each breeze.
And the ice formed on the shore, great jagged cakes that covered my
clam beds and the bank as well, so that we could not see the pebbles.
And though the sunsets came earlier with each day that passed, it was
become too cold to stay and see them. But the days of my waiting were
grown less and less, till there was but one left. Still, there was no
snow. And the morrow was Christmas day.
I was prowling the shores that morning, looking for Eve--as I ever
did when I was not with her. And as I made my way carefully among the
broken cakes of ice that the tide had left, I saw her coming down the
path under the trees. I hurried--and looked again--and, behold, it
was not Eve at all, but a lady clad in furs, and seeming proud and
haughty. And she came near the bank, and so did I.
“I wished to speak with you,” she said. And I bowed low. But what she
said next astonished me.
“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she said again, her head
high,--“and you a fisherman!”
Again I bowed low, saying nothing. What should I say to that? Had she
not been told? I had ado not to laugh--but I did not, only bowed. And
yet again she spoke.
“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she repeated; “but I will come to
your wedding--to my daughter’s wedding. I wished you to know that, so I
came to tell you.”
And I thought she would have wept, but she did not. For she was
proud--and now I realized where my Eve had got her beauty. But I had
found my tongue at last.
“I thank you, madam,” said I; “and I am grateful for so little. I
should be the more grateful for a little more--for Eve’s sake more than
for my own--I am not your enemy, come to rob you, and if you would”--
“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she broke in, and turned swiftly,
and was gone up the path, her head high. But I could hear her weeping,
though she tried to still it. And so I stood and watched her out of
sight among the trees.
I was telling Eve of it that afternoon. And the sun was low, though it
was early. Eve listened in silence, watching the sun.
“Let us stay and say good-night to him,” she said, at last.
“With all my heart,” I answered. “But let us walk, Eve. You will be the
warmer.”
And so she slipped her hand within my arm, and we walked to and fro
along the shore, and we watched the sun. And, on a sudden, I looked at
Eve, and her eyes were filled with tears. And I stopped short.
“What is it, Eve?” I asked.
“This is the last sunset, Adam,” she said softly, “that Eve Goodwin
will ever see.”
And the tears fell, and she was weeping. My heart stood still.
“And you are sorry, Eve?” I said; and I scarce knew my own voice.
“Would you draw back?”
“No, oh, no, Adam,” she cried. “Not that--I did not mean that. I do
not regret--anything. But--let me cry a little.”
“Cry to your heart’s content,” I said, and smiled upon her; for my
heart was going again--like a hammer.
And so she wept and smiled at once, and then she wept again. And
presently she was done, her heart eased. And the sun was sitting on the
western hills.
“See,” I said. “He has stopped his southern journey, and has started
back again.”
And Eve said nothing, but she clasped my fingers close in hers, and
we saw the sun spreading the still waters with all manner of reds
and purples and shimmering greens. And as the last thin line of red
vanished behind the hills, we saluted. And Eve murmured something, I
knew not what.
“Good-night, Adam,” she said.
“Good-night, Eve--for the last time,” I whispered in return.
And she fled up the path under the trees.
For to-morrow will be Christmas day; to-morrow the gates will open.
III
OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE
OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE
My friends like me well enough, as I have some reason to suppose; for
although I am as peculiar as I ever was, they no longer remonstrate
with me as they used to do. Perhaps they think that marriage has
cured me of all my queerness--the summer is not yet come to prove the
contrary. And I may be sure that, when it does come, I shall roam the
shores, as I ever did, and hunt the elusive clam, as I ever did; and
dig, or gaze, as ever; and whether the one or the other, depends upon
my fancy at the moment. But if I do as I was wont to do, I shall not
roam the shores alone. Eve will roam with me; and there will be two
clam hoes in my shed, and two pairs of rubber boots reposing in the
closet--when they are not in use, which is like to be seldom. And the
one pair will be large and clumsy, and well stained with much wading
through mud, while the other pair will be small and dainty--yes, even
dainty, though they be rubber boots--and--well--not overmuch stained,
though she wade even as I. Rubber boots--for clamming--cannot be kept
spotless, nor should they be, if they could. But there will be but the
one basket, to serve us both. I may be sure of this, I say; but they
think, forsooth, that I will have done with such foolishness--now that
I am married. Wherefore, they have given over their remonstrating.
But I note that I am more popular than I was. Some of them are always
to be found at my house--not the same ones, but one or mayhap two
will come in of an evening and sit before my fire. My fire goes not
out, ever, nor does it roar; but always there are coals in plenty, so
that the logs blaze gently and send out heat. I love it so, quiet and
peaceful, for it makes my content the greater--a roaring fire makes me
uneasy, even though I have confidence in my chimney. And my content
would be enough in any case, with a friend sitting on the one side, and
my wife sitting on the other; and I--but I sit in the deep shadow, to
watch Eve the better. I love to watch her, and I would not be watched;
for thus I can think my thoughts--and not be bothered with knowing that
I am showing them too plainly in my face. For I have not been married
long--not long enough to show my feelings plainly and not to care what
people think.
And if I cleave to candles--as a clammer should--what matter? Five of
them give a pretty light, and a candle is long enough for an evening,
even though it is winter. A short candle is as good as a clock--better,
I think--for serving notice when to go. My friends have learned that,
too; and when the candles have become no more than stumps, they are
wont to jump up hastily, say their good-nights and be gone. And as
I cover the fire, to save coals for the morning wherewith to kindle
it afresh, I bethink me of my mighty wood-pile out by my shed--it is
mighty even now, and the winter nearly gone--and I smile to myself, so
that I am smiling yet as I rise from my task. Eve, seeing that, smiles,
too, although she knows not what she is smiling at; but her smile is
ever ready--ready and waiting that it break forth, like the gentle
sunshine--and she holds her hand to me. And I, having taken it, blow
out the candles, and we mount the stairs together.
Yes, my friends like me well enough, as I have some reason to suppose;
but my neighbors do not, as I have also some reason to suppose. And
if I have no great love for them, the reason therefor is not far to
seek. For they ever have seemed to think me one to be laughed at and
made game of,--they knew no better, which I suppose I should have
remembered,--well knowing that they might make their petty jests with
impunity. And sometimes I have wondered whether it were not better to
answer fools according to their folly; but my witticisms they would not
comprehend, and I have held back from that, although the provocation
was often great enough. For they never let slip an opportunity--and
there were a plenty--of letting me hear their loud laughter as I passed
them by chance; or even making a jest of me in my hearing. So that it
has come to pass that I despise them; and I have withdrawn my foot
from my neighbor’s house, now these many years, for weary of him I am
already. But now I find these same neighbors are well like to become my
visitors, which would plague me mightily. And I marveled at it.
I was thinking upon this matter one evening, sitting by my fire. And,
for a wonder, no friend was there, but Eve sat by the fire, too, a
book in her hand and her sewing basket near. For Eve, not having been
brought up to sew,--save embroidery, if that be called sewing,--has
developed, suddenly, a great desire for it, so that she always has her
basket by her. But this evening, whereof I speak, she was not sewing,
nor reading either, though she had a book in her hand; but her hand lay
in her lap for the most part, and now and then I caught her glancing at
me; and when I did so catch her, she smiled at me. So I smiled, too,
and at last I leaned toward her.
“Eve,” I said, “why do you smile?”
And, at that, she did but smile the more. “Why should it be, Adam,”
she answered, “except that I am happy?”