happened that the book she had been holding slid from her lap and fell
upon the floor; which should have grieved me, for it was one of my
favorites and bound in full calf, with hand tooling around the edges.
But I scarcely noticed it. I reached forth my hand, and it met hers,
which was reaching out for mine; and I looked deep into her eyes--eyes
swimming in tenderness--eyes like-- No, I will not say it, for it has
been said too often--though there is some excuse for the poets. And
after some while I spoke.
“I am glad that you are happy,” I said; “and I am glad that there is
no one here to-night--except only us two.”
And Eve said nothing, but I knew that she was glad as well as I.
“There are times,” I continued, “when I could wish that my friends
were--less my friends. It is pleasant to have them--I am glad that they
like to come--but they might give us more than one evening a week to
spend together.”
Again Eve said nothing, but again she smiled; and, smiling, it chanced
that her eyes fell upon the book that was lying where it had fallen,
face downward, upon the floor.
“Oh, the poor book!” she cried; and stooped to pick it up. And I
stooped, too, so that we were near bumping our heads; which somewhat
delayed the rescue of the book. And, when it was done, it befell that
Eve’s hair was a bit rumpled and she had a pretty flush.
“Now, Adam,” said she, “you must tell me the matter that bothered you.
For I know well enough that it was not your friends.”
I looked at her in some amusement. “Why,” I answered, “that is true. I
marvel that you should have guessed it, although my marveling is not
so great as it was, for women have a way of getting at the meat of a
matter without being at the trouble of cracking the shell. Oh, I am
learning. And whom should I tell if not my wife?”
Eve laughed, a low laugh and sweet. “I am to be the sharer of your
sorrows,” she said, “hereafter. Remember that, Adam. And now out with
it.”
And I did out with it. “It is my neighbors that bother me,” I said.
“For I see plainly that they are well like to become my visitors; and
they like me not at all, nor ever did. I know no reason why they should
have had a change of heart. Certainly it is none of my doing.”
Eve did not answer this directly, but sat looking at me with a queer
smile, so that I grew restive under it.
“Adam,” she said, “do you believe that Solomon was a wise man?”
“I was brought up in that belief,” I observed, “but, notwithstanding, I
have my doubts.”
“Oh, you have your doubts?” she asked. “And why do you doubt his
wisdom?”
“For the best reason in the world,” I answered; and I laughed as I
spoke. “And I hold that I am wiser than he--as I have said before. For
he had seven hundred wives while I have one--but that one, Eve”--
But Eve had stopped my mouth. “Now, Adam,” she said, “I have missed
some pretty speech of yours--and I love your pretty speeches--but you
may make another for me when I am done. For I have a purpose. Did you
know that?”
“Yes,” I said. “I was sure that you had. You generally have a
purpose--which you invariably accomplish. So ask, and I will answer;
and if my answers are not what are expected of me it will be but my
misfortune. My intentions are of the best.”
And, at that, she laughed. “Well, then,” she said, “was not Solomon a
wise man?”
“He had that reputation,” I replied meekly; “and I believe that he has
it still--though it is a marvel to me that a dead man can have anything
in this world. Yes, I think there can be no doubt that he was the
wisest man in the world.”
“That will do--nicely, on the whole,” said Eve, having weighed my
answer carefully, “although it leaves something to be desired. Now,--do
you know what Solomon said about despising your neighbors?”
She was looking down--and trembling at her boldness, I made no
doubt--and so she did not see the look of grieved astonishment that
came into my face. I was silent for some while, trying to recall just
what Solomon did say about despising one’s neighbors. He said such a
vast number of things. And, at last, Eve looked up,--and I saw that
she had not been trembling at her boldness, for she was quite at her
ease, and smiling at me.
“Eve,” I said, and I tried to be severe--but failed lamentably, for I
smiled, too; and there is some excuse for me, for how could any one,
meeting that smile of hers, remember such a purpose? “Eve,” I said, “I
did not think it of you, that you would thus put your own husband to
shame. For I do remember, and would you imply that I am void of wisdom?
I have no doubt that I, myself, could write proverbs well enough”--
But Eve interrupted me. “Do you remember,” she asked, “the Welsh giant?”
Now what had the Welsh giant to do with it? “I was about to say,”
I continued, “when you interrupted me, that I had no doubt that I,
myself, could write proverbs,--quite passable proverbs,--if Solomon had
not covered the field completely, some thousands of years ago.”
And I looked at Eve--but she was leaning back in her chair, looking at
me and smiling still; and she made me no answer. So I resumed.
“Out of my own mouth,” I said, “have you convicted me. But there is yet
more, Eve. Do you remember what it is?”
And, on a sudden, she had left her chair and was on the arm of mine;
and when she had made an end of rumpling my hair, she spoke.
“So you think, Adam,” she said, “that you have proved yourself a man of
understanding? Well, then, perhaps you have. But you may have these
same neighbors to visit with you, for I find much good in them. And
now,” she added, with a blush that well became her, “I must sew.”
So again she sat her in her chair and she took her basket from the
table; and, with another glance at me--a glance half shy and wholly
sweet--she drew forth, from some secret place, her sewing. And I sat
watching her, a tender smile upon my face--or what passed for that--Eve
seemed to like it--and I thought my thoughts. They were pleasant
thoughts. And Eve’s sewing--it was as if she were dressing a doll. As
I watched her fingers moving skillfully, but with no haste, I marveled
that she sewed so well; and as I watched her face I marveled yet again.
For her face was filled with love--a love that was not for me--filled
with love and a great yearning. And all that love she seemed to sew
into the little thing within her hands. But ever she had more, that
each stitch was done with it and yet it grew with every stitch she
took. And again Eve glanced up at me. I did but smile the more, until I
grinned like any Cheshire cat.
“Eve,” I said, “how do you know that they will fit”--I considered, and
saw nothing else for it--“how do you know that they will fit it?”
But I was wrong. “_It!_” she cried. “_It!_ Adam, I take shame to myself
that you would so call your first-born. _Him_, sir. I am sure of it.”
She put her sewing down, tenderly, and came to me. And her arms were
around my neck and her face was hidden on my shoulder. “Adam, Adam,”
she whispered, “my love for him is become so big, it hurts. How can I
bear to wait all the long months until I see him--my son? How can I,
Adam?”
And I--what could I do--or say? What but comfort her as best I might?
And God knows I had the best will in the world to it, but the fashion
of it was poor enough.
“In the fullness of time, Eve,” I whispered. “In the fullness of time.”
But she seemed to take some comfort from my words--or mayhap the
intent. So she lay as she was, but in some while she went back to her
sewing again. She held it up, for me to see; and I could but wonder
that any piece of humanity should be such a morsel as to go into that
garment. I said as much. But Eve only smiled and fell to sewing--her
eyes very bright.
As Eve sewed, I fell to musing on what she said about my neighbors. For
she was right, as she was ever, and I had not seen the good that was
in them--I had not been at the pains to see it, though I knew it was
there; and I had flattered myself that I had held my peace, and thereby
had proved me a man of understanding. And I saw plainly--I might as
well have stood upon the corner of the street and cried aloud unto
Heaven, giving thanks that I was not as other men--until the bubble of
my conceit had been pricked by Eve--and how gently! And presently the
candles were burned low, and Eve, glancing at them, put her sewing by,
and I knew that the time was come for me to cover the fire.
That done, I took the hand that Eve held out and I blew out the
candles, and I was moved to kiss the hand I held.
“For you have shown me, Eve,” I said, “that I have been in the wrong. I
will not withhold good from them to whom it is due. And I bless God for
my wife.”
For I felt very humble. And what answer I got to that I shall not tell;
but it satisfied me, and we mounted the stairs together.
I opened my window wide. There was the steady drip of melting snow, and
the air held a hint of spring, but the stars were bright. And, gazing
at them, I thought upon my son that was to be--or haply a daughter, it
mattered not which--and I remembered the time when I first knew it.
There had been the start of surprise, the impulse at rejoicing--then
the dread of it--the fear for Eve. And she had seen them all. She hung
upon my neck, weeping with the joy of it.
“Never fear for me, dear,” she cried, “never fear for me. But rejoice
exceedingly.”
And so I did. And I gazed at a faint star--a little one, just showing
to the naked eye--and as I gazed, I thought that I saw the eyes of my
son looking at me with an infinite knowledge and compassion--and an
infinite love. And as I gazed, behold, the eyes were the eyes of Eve.
And if my son shall have the spirit that his mother has I shall be well
content. So thinking, I turned from the window and got me into bed;
and having drawn the covers close, I slept.
* * * * *
One may guess that my friends did not desert me--so long as Eve was
there; and she was like to be there long. For if it had not been well
with Eve, this story had never been written. There is grief enough
in the world without my adding to the sum of it--and I doubt much if
I should have the heart to write it down. So I kept my friends, and
they came as they had been wont and sat them by my fire; but I noted
that they sat not still, but they were apt to rise and stroll about
the room, and then they sat only to rise again. For the season got on
towards spring; and spring ever breeds a restless fire in the bones
of man that grows and glows until he can get him out-of-doors again.
Then he finds that peace that seemed like to escape him. I doubted if
my friends knew what ailed them--even knew that they were restless;
but I knew well. And I advised with them and counseled that they turn
their thoughts to gardening--and their restless bodies, too. For a man
must needs do his digging for himself. What is a hired gardener but an
abomination? Let a man dig, if he would find peace. It has taken refuge
in the earth; and he that seeks shall find it.
So I watched the snow melt on my garden and the ground soften; and it
was come to the first week in April. But the ground was too wet for
working--I tried it, every day, with my hoe, and the earth clung to the
hoe; for it was but mud, and the frost went deep. But at last came
a day when the earth clung no longer, but came away and left the hoe
clean. And I knew that the spring had come. And, having made the test,
I hurried to the house.
“Eve,” I shouted--I must needs shout, with the spring rioting in my
veins. “Eve, the spring is here!”
And Eve laughed--and came out a door at my elbow. “Why do you shout it
so, Adam? Have I not known it this last month? For the song sparrows
came long since, and the bluebirds, and it is weeks since I saw the
first robin. And now the birds are coming fast. Why shout it? As well
come in and shout that the sun is shining.”
“Truly that would be well done, too,” I answered, “for the sun shines
as it has not shone these many months. And a song sparrow does not
make a spring,--he comes while it is yet winter, and so do the
bluebirds. And I must dig, Eve, or I shall burst.” And, with that, I
seized her about the waist and whirled her until we both were dizzy;
and, with a kiss, I released her, and she leaned against the door,
laughing again.
There she leaned until she had got back her breath. “I suppose you will
have me to see your digging,” she said then, “and there is no help for
it.” But she smiled as she spoke, that I knew she was minded to it as
well as I. “Well, then, I will get my things on, and come.”
So I had what I wanted, and I betook me to my digging. And soon came
Eve, in her coat; for she did no digging, and the air held some faint
chill, though the sun shone warm. And, with our digging and our
planning, we were busy for some while; but at last I straightened up,
and there was Judson, leaning upon his fence and watching us.
Now Judson lives next me, on the side where lies my garden, so that
he may have a good view of it whenever he will; but never before have
I found him watching me. And although he and I have been next door
neighbors these many years, never have I exchanged a dozen words with
him. Not that I had any fault to find with him--he is an old man now,
spending long days in his garden, grubbing the weeds or pottering
about--it is a brave weed that will sprout in his garden, but he can
always hoe and dig--not that I could find any fault with Judson, but
I classed him with those others, with whom I held no communion; and,
after all, they, too--well,--I doubt if I care to learn their opinion
of me. For Judson was born where he lives--and the others, likewise,
for the most part--while I have held my land a scant ten years; and he
has held his peace, though he might well think me but an interloper.
He has more wisdom than I, and it grows with his years. And again I
was glad of my wife, that she had opened my eyes. And, thinking such
thoughts as these, I hailed him standing there.
“Good morning, Mr. Judson,” I called to him. “It is a fine spring
morning.”
He did but smile and wave his hand for greeting. And I heard Eve’s
voice beside me. “Adam,” she said, and in her voice was wonder at what
she had noted, “Mr. Judson is very deaf. Did you not know it?”
I took shame to myself that I did not know it--much shame; for here was
I that had been his neighbor so long, and the thing about him that was
most obvious I had not observed. I marveled somewhat that Eve should
know it.
“Eve,” I answered, “I am ashamed. Come, let us talk with him.”
“With all my heart,” she said; “for he is a good man, Adam, and a wise,
and--and”--
I laughed. “And it will do me good,” I finished for her. “Why hesitate,
Eve? For you are beyond me in wisdom, and so is Judson, I do not doubt.
Why hesitate?”
And she, uncertain whether to laugh or not, looked up at me to see.
For my conversion was but recent, and I was yet somewhat sore with
it. But, having looked at me, she smiled and slipped her hand within
my arm--which soothed my ruffled temper to a marvel, and I smiled
down at her. And so we were come to the wall--the fence was a stone
fence--where stood Judson, smiling, too.
Once there, we talked long of things appropriate to the season; of what
to plant, and when, and peas and beans and what not; and he wondered
that I had no rhubarb and no asparagus--grass, he called it. So I asked
him over the wall--for the first time in ten years--and he came, most
willing; and we wandered about my garden, discussing, and finally we
sat us down on a bench, that was before my shed, in the sun. Then Eve,
noting the pipe that he held in his worn fingers, bade him fill and
light it. Which he did, with some apology, but to his great content.
And there we sat, basking, until, at last, Judson arose, excusing
himself for staying so long. Eve asked him to come again, often.
“And,” she said, “I would like it much if I might run in to see Mrs.
Judson.”
The old man was pleased at that. “So do,” he said; “so do. She’ll be
glad to see ye.”
And we watched his bent figure crossing the garden; and, having got
over the wall again, and on his own side, he paused a moment to wave
his hand and to smile at us as we still sat. I felt a glow at my heart
that warmed it mightily, even as the sun warmed my body. It was worth
while being friends with Judson--and that I might have been ten years
ago had I but known. But a fool in his folly--
“Eve,” I said, “again I have to thank you. But you should have appeared
to me ten years ago. Where were you, Eve?”
“I was but a child, Adam,” she replied, “or scarcely more.” And as she
spoke she smiled at me and sat closer; for she well knew that I was
sore hurt in my self-esteem. She well knew, too, how to heal the hurt
so that it leave but a scar--for she would not have me forget again.
And presently she drew a letter from the pocket of her coat. “See,” she
said. “I have a letter from my father. They will come down soon--in two
weeks. It is a full month before their time.”
I drew the letter forth. It was characteristic of Old Goodwin--only
two lines, in his rapid writing, telling of their coming, and sending
love to her and Adam. Eve had had a letter like this one--about as
long--twice a month; he had no time for writing more. I had seen them
all; and I had noted what was missing--missing from them all.
“No word from your mother, Eve?”
She glanced up at me. “Not yet,” she said. “But I have no fear, Adam.
She is proud and she is stubborn--but they come a month early. No, I
have no fear.”
And I looked out to my pine, where the hole was scooped in the ground
and the seat was builded against the tree. The hole was filled
full with dried leaves and other rubbish, and the seat needed some
repairing.
“It behooves me to see to my oven,” I said, “for as it seems to me, we
are like to have a clambake soon. And I have a mind to ask Judson--and
his wife.” Eve beamed at me for that. “And I may have to get some new
stones.”
Eve slipped her hand within my arm. “Do the stones grow cold, Adam?”
she asked, softly.
And that made me to remember. I stooped and kissed her. “Truly,” I
answered, “the stones have been passing cold and now they grow warm
again. But it does not matter about the stones, for we have kept the
fire warm upon the hearth--and in our hearts, Eve. And it behooves
me to look at my clam beds, too. We may watch the sunset if you
will--watch it from the bank.”
She rejoiced at that. “With all my heart, Adam.”
So it befell that we wended, that afternoon, over to our clam beds,
along the shore where the water lapped ever. And, as it chanced, the
tide was low and would yet be lower; for it was a spring tide. And we
walked hand in hand--for there was nobody about--and what if there
were? Shall a man not hold his wife’s hand, in going along the shore?
And shall he not kiss her if he will--and if she will? Though in such
matters we should, no doubt, bow to convention. And, as we went, the
Great Painter spread his colors as he was wont to do, and the still
waters were covered with all manner of reds and purples. We saw our
flats just awash and now and then there broke upon them a wave that
ran across in ripples of color, and left the wet sand shining in a coat
of shimmering green. For, though the water was calm, the waves yet
broke upon the sands. It was a day of promise now well nigh come to
an end but yet it held a promise of other days. And such a day maketh
the soul of a man to rejoice--if he be in truth a man, and not a mere
beast of burden--it maketh the soul of him to rejoice within him and
his heart to sing; and of such as rejoice not in such a day, there is
little hope.
And Eve and I came to the bank, where the pebbles shone in the
sun--save some few that had been washed out in the storms of winter.
Eve cried out at that, and set herself to find others, that she make
the names whole again. And I looked up at our path, that still showed
bravely--with little piles of snow in the deeply shaded spots, the
remnants of great drifts--but they were going fast. And the grass
showed green on the slope--the tender green of spring. Seeing all this,
I sighed and turned me from it to our clam beds.
They were well uncovered by this, and I took my hoe and pottered about
and slopped here and there, digging where I would. And now and again
I made me straight--for some months past I had not bent my back so
steadily--and gazed at the changing colors or at the old sun, which was
drawing near to the western hills; then I bent my back again. And the
clams that I found I did but restore with care, to bury themselves once
more--we had no basket, not wanting clams as yet--and I found many.
They seemed good thriving clams, big and lusty, and none the worse for
the winter.
At last I was done with my digging and I straightened up and looked
for Eve; and there she was, beyond me, in the water, with her skirts
tucked up, and she was paddling like any schoolgirl. And the sun shone
through the wisps of hair--they straggled, ever, those wisps, and sadly
bothered her with their wanderings--the sun shone through the wandering
locks and made an aureole about her head. But now she minded them not.
And so I gazed long at her, and I saw the colors that she stirred with
her paddling, and I saw her standing in their midst. At last she looked
up at me.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “I am having such a beautiful time. Stop your
digging and come out here with me--and paddle. It is great fun. See, I
can almost catch that streak of gold! Oh, now it is gone.”
“Truly, Eve,” I said, “I am amazed at you. But I will come--and
paddle--although that is what I never thought that I should come to;
for I am done with my digging. And soon we must go in, for the sun is
almost set. It is not yet summer.”
Then Eve laughed, and I went and stood beside her, and we paddled
nobly--until I was laughing, too. And the sun set--he had already
passed the tree that was like a spire--I saw it for a moment against
his southern edge as he coasted down the slope--and we bade him
good-night together, as we had been wont to do. Eve turned to me.
“I am cold, Adam,” she said. “I confess it.”
Indeed, that water was passing cold, for there were in it all the
melting snows of winter. And so we raced along the shore in our rubber
boots--Eve’s are less of a burden than mine, so that I was beaten in
the race--and climbed the steep path; and in the house our fire burned
upon the hearth.
As I sat there before the fire, musing upon many things--with my back
feeling tired and comfortable among the cushions--I heard a robin
calling sleepily from my pine. It sent a glow through me. Verily,
Spring is here.
* * * * *
So the season grew and filled me with joy. And as evening came, I sat
before my fire, but I withdrew somewhat from its heat; and I had no
interest in the book that I took up, but I must needs lay it down in my
lap. For, first, I found myself reading but words and getting no sense
from them, that I knew not whether I had read a passage or no. And I
would struggle awake and read a line, or mayhap two, and make sense
of it; and then I read the same line again, as like as not, and knew
not where I was nor what my author would be at. Then I would let the
book fall into my lap and care not for my author nor for aught else,
and suck at my pipe--it was as like to be out as burning--and doze and
dream. And Eve would glance at me and smile and go on with the making
of doll’s clothes. For I had been out all day in my garden--with Judson
giving me counsel, if I asked it--never, if I did not; and it was
borne in upon me that he that withholdeth advice, if it be unasked, is
a wise man--I had been all day in the garden, hoeing and digging and
planting. When Judson did his planting was a mystery--probably about
daylight; but he had got in the way of coming over the wall, and I
would no sooner be at work than there would appear Judson at the wall,
waving his hand in greeting. I think I shall make a gate there if he
does not object. It is hard for an old man to climb walls.
And I wondered at the apparent defection of my friends; for they came
seldom, so that Eve made some progress with her doll’s wardrobe. I
wondered, I say, until I reflected upon the advice I had given them,
myself. No doubt they were busy as well as I; and if they made gardens
they went to bed early.
So it was come to be the first of May and all my planting was done
except my corn. The birds had become noisy--they sang as though they
would split their throats; and, as I planted, I heard the shrill
whistle of the meadow-larks--but I could not stop to enjoy it. Only at
evening I sat me on my seat under the great pine, with Eve beside me,
and drank my fill of music. And the leaves were coming out upon the
trees.
I marveled somewhat that Eve had had no word more from her father;
but I must plant my corn. And my first planting of corn was done; and
as I straightened up from it, sighing with weariness, I heard a low
chuckling laugh. I turned quickly, and behold, there was Old Goodwin
watching me; and beside him Eve. He was still laughing.
I hurried across my garden, the earth sticking to my boots; and made
some apologies for my hands. The hands of a delver in the earth are not
fit for contact with the Rich.