said he, “and honest. The hands that I have to take every day, they
are--well--it turns me nearly sick at times, to take them--though they
are white enough, and soft.” He looked out over my garden, that showed
already unbroken rows of green, where the early peas had come through
the earth. “So your planting is all done?” he asked. “I am sorry, for I
had hoped to have a hand in it.”
“And so you may,” I answered, “if you will. There are yet some
plantings of corn to be put in--but nothing for two weeks.” I
hesitated, and blundered on. “And Mrs. Goodwin--she is well?”
“Quite well,” he said, and smiled as he spoke--and so did Eve. “Yes,
she is quite well. She came down too. You may get a glimpse of her now
and then, I think, about the grounds, for she is restless this spring,
and out more than she has been used to be. No doubt,” he added, “it is
the weather.”
“No doubt,” I said; but I knew not how to take it, and I glanced at Eve
to see. “Yes, no doubt it is the weather.”
Then I went in, for I would change my boots. And Old Goodwin wandered,
that meanwhile, about my place with Eve beside him. When I came again
I found him on the seat under the pine; and he was gazing at the
stones, and then off over my clam beds, where the water danced in the
sun and the little waves broke upon the sands. But Eve was not there. I
marveled somewhat at it.
“She is gone to see her mother,” he said, answering the thought
unspoken. “She will be back presently. And how are the clams, Adam?”
I laughed, it was so exactly what I expected of him. “Pretty well, I
thank you,” I replied; “or they were, two weeks ago. I have not seen
them lately, for I have been busy. You may dig whenever you will. They
thrive, I think.”
He smiled again--his thanks. “And the stones--you have put some fresh
ones in, I see--they are all ready?”
“They are all ready,” I answered, “and the weed lies in heaps along the
shore. But I find that my appetite for baked clams is not yet ripe”--
But he interrupted. “Ah, Adam,” he said, “but you have this with you
all the year.” He waved his hand about. “That is much to be thankful
for. But I--the memory of those baked clams is all that has carried me
over many a hard place. For I realize--sometimes--that I am an old man;
but when I am here”--
“You are not,” I finished for him. “And that is reason enough for
staying. You have a roof over your head--such as it is--and a crust of
bread--with a chop or two when there is need. No man, however poor, can
ask more--and no man, however rich, can get more. So I foretell”--
Old Goodwin was roaring with laughter. “Yes,” he said, as soon as he
could speak, “I have a roof over my head--such as it is--and the tiles
upon it may last through a winter; and I shall have--no doubt--a crust
of bread--with a chop or two when there is need. And so you would have
me give up my house in town. Well, well, there is something to be said
for it. We shall see. We shall see.”
“Your house in town would be but a burden,” I said then. “No man can
live in two houses--two at once--having but one body. And you might
well give up--it is time to retire, having enough of means. And these
fields and this water and the woods are a never-ending delight. You
need not fear your nerves. For look at me. Am I nervous? And I have
retired--retired these many years--retired before my career was well
begun. I find amusement--and I am like to live long. And you should
know Judson--you must know him. He has lived long and will yet live
some while. He should have been here this morning.”
Old Goodwin looked at me, questioning. “Your neighbor?” he asked. “I
should like it much. But I thought you did not care for neighbors,
Adam.”
I was ashamed. “I did not,” I answered, “but Eve has shown me--I was
wrong.” Old Goodwin smiled at that, his quiet smile of peace. And I
went on. “But you”--
“I will consider,” he said; and I remembered me of a time when Eve had
said those very words. But she said more. There was “good fisherman” if
I remembered me aright. “I will consider the matter,” said Old Goodwin.
“And I must consult”--
“Ah!” I cried, “I had forgot.” And I smiled, more broadly than I meant
to; but it mattered not, for Old Goodwin was smiling too.
“There comes Eve,” he said. And indeed, I knew it well. Was I not
looking for her every minute that she was gone from me?
And that evening we sat before my fire, as we were wont to do, Eve
and I; but beside us sat Old Goodwin. It occurred to me to think that
Mrs. Goodwin was likely to be lonely--if she depended at all upon her
husband for company--and if he continued as he had begun. If it were
Eve and I, there would be a compromise--or a surrender--in short
order. But, I reflected, all married people are not as Eve and I; and
we have been married but a few months--although it will be the same
when the months are become years, I do believe. And Eve and her mother
are two very different persons. So, as we sat, Eve sewed upon her
doll’s dresses, unabashed; and Old Goodwin, if he noted it, and saw
upon what her fingers were busy, gave no sign of his surprise--it is
not easy to surprise him--but he seemed to find pleasure in the sight.
And, indeed, it was a pleasant sight to see Eve sewing there--pleasant
for a prospective father and for a prospective grandfather it was as
pleasant, as I judged. I doubt me much that Mrs. Goodwin sewed, ever,
of an evening; or ever had sewed, even when sewing was to be done
for Eve’s coming. The clothes that she had made for her baby were of
the finest and the softest and the richest no doubt--but she had them
made; and can even the finest and the softest and the richest, made
by the hand of another, mean as much as these, with love sewed under
every stitch of them? I do not think so. And the one thing she could
not evade if she would;--but she had but the one child, and I think
that was a sorrow to Old Goodwin. So we sat, and talked little or not
at all; and the candles burned low, that they were but stumps. Noting
that, Old Goodwin took his leave. And the evening and the morning were
the first day.
Then followed other days; and, first of all, Old Goodwin must
betake him to the digging of clams and I must help him at it. And,
having digged many clams, we must needs have a clambake, for I would
not destroy good clams to no purpose; but it was a sorry clambake,
lacking the corn and the sweet potatoes and the lobster. And, though I
sacrificed a chicken to it, the sacrifice went to my heart, for early
in May is no time to kill chickens. I asked Judson to our clambake, and
though he came, his appetite for clams was no more ripe than mine. But
Judson and Old Goodwin met and enjoyed the meeting mightily; and sat
upon their boxes and talked until I thought they would never have done.
So Eve and I left them there, sitting upon their boxes. And presently
they rose and wandered over into Judson’s place and I saw Old Goodwin
no more that day.
And, again, we went to the woods, and saw them breaking forth into
leaf. For the leafing of the woods is a little later than the leafing
of a tree which grows in the open. And I saw the seed-pods lifting on
their dry stems, but they were few and the pods were empty; for the
stems were brittle, that the weight of snow had broken them down, for
the most part, and the birds had gleaned the seeds. But the dead leaves
were fading into mould, out of which peeped a seedling, here and there;
and the rotting logs were fast being covered with a coat of green--moss
and the creeping vines were doing that. And I saw the birches, their
tiny leaves like so many little green spangles--or so they looked
until I came near. And the pines, too, had burst the buds, that every
tip was a lighter green, with clusters of little needles that, here
and there, still bore their caps of brown; but the oak buds were just
bursting.
I spoke to Old Goodwin. “There is much for a man to see here,” said I,
“when he is retired--even in winter.”
He laughed and made me no reply.
And, yet again, there grow before my house--but within my hedge--two
hawthorn trees. They are very mountains of trees, for hawthorns, and
their tops are above the eaves of my house. I would not miss the
time of blossoming of those two trees for aught; and one of them has
white blossoms and the other has pink. And the time came for them to
blossom, and so they did, for they are well behaved trees as any
could wish; and on the one side of my front walk was a mass of white
blossoms, and on the other side a mass of pink. Solid banks of blossoms
they were, with a green leaf showing through here and there, even to
the tips of the trees. I found Old Goodwin viewing them from the road.
And it was come to be the last week in May. And, though I found him
gazing at my trees--I have a pride in them, which may be pardoned--I
said not much.
“There is much for a man to see, here and there,” I said, “when he is
retired.”
And once more he laughed, but he made me a reply to this. “True enough,
Adam,” he answered, “true enough. There is enough for a man to
see--and I think there is enough for him to do.”
So June was come. It was in June that my appetite for clams was become
ripe; and we digged in my clam beds more than ever, and put some heart
into the digging. It was Old Goodwin and I that did the digging, for
the most part--he loved it--while Eve sat on the bank and watched us.
Sometimes she would dig, but more often she did but watch, cheering
us, the while, with observations; and, now and then, I would go and
sit beside her and leave Old Goodwin. But he did not mind--did not
appear to notice. Every evening, after supper, we came, Eve and I, to
the bank. And Old Goodwin joined us there and we stayed until the sun
was set and we had said our good-nights to him. And it befell, on an
evening that was thick with fog--it is apt to be a thick fog toward
the last of June--out at sea the fog lies all day, rolling in over the
land by the end of the afternoon--it befell, on this evening, that I
had been watching the fog. It sent its skirmishers ahead and covered
the shore, only to uncover it; for the skirmisher must move fast--and
it is not large, being but a skirmisher. And then would come another
and hide another piece of shore--haply my point with the pine upon
it; and I could see the top of the pine sticking up out of it, like a
sentinel. But always the main body of the fog followed fast after, dark
and dim and gray. And as it enveloped us at last, something--I know not
what it was--made me turn about; and there, in the path, up under the
trees, stood Eve’s mother. No doubt she thought she was safe there and
would not be seen. And I saw there, for a moment, a mighty pride that
struggled for its life, and grief and longing that were yet mightier.
Ghost-like I saw it--but I saw it. Then it, too, was blotted out. I
thought that I heard a faint cry in the fog.
And Eve turned toward me, startled. “What was that, Adam?” she asked.
“I thought I heard some one cry out.”
“In a fog, Eve,” I answered, “one hears many strange sounds.” Old
Goodwin turned and smiled at me, a smile of comprehension.
So June came to an end, and July was come. And, now and then, I came
again upon Mrs. Goodwin at our bank, and twice I found her on the
shore near the steep path that led up to my pine. But each time, she
swiftly turned, and fled so fast that I should have some trouble in
catching her, save in a foot-race. And that, I thought, seemed to lack
dignity. Racing along the beach after Mrs. Goodwin, as if she had been
some trespasser! I laughed--which was the wrong thing to do. For she
but went the faster as she heard my laugh--was well nigh running. Poor
lady! To be laughed at by her son-in-law! But I was not laughing at
her. I saw her shoulders shake as she were sobbing, and she put her
hands up quickly to her eyes.
The terns were come, long since. And, one morning, I was watching them,
lazily, from my bank. I was alone, that morning, lying stretched out on
the sand, my head against the bank; and I saw the terns, in regular
procession, flying swiftly down the wind, along the shore, and beating
slowly up against it. Now and then a tern would stop, and hover for an
instant; then again take up his slow beating, his beak pointing to the
water and moving restlessly from side to side. Or, if he dove, it was
too far for me to see whether his strike succeeded; for the fish that
they catch are very small and hard to see. But over my clam beds--just
before me--was a favored spot. Here, each tern hovered for some while,
and dove; dove once or twice or thrice, it might be,--until he had
succeeded in his fishing--then began, once more, his beat to windward.
For their fishing was successful, here; and, with a rapid flutter of
the wings, they gobbled their victim down, whole--and, I suppose,
alive. Poor little fish! Alive in a living tomb! And, as I thought
these thoughts, I heard a sound behind me, on the bank. I raised my
head--and there was Mrs. Goodwin. She was leaning against a tree--Eve’s
tree--and she was gazing at the terns, too, but mournfully. And, with
all her gazing, I doubt whether she saw aught of the sight that was
before her eyes.
Slowly, I got upon my feet, for I would not startle her. But she was
startled none the less. She showed it in her eyes as they met mine.
“Mrs. Goodwin,” I said softly, “Mrs. Goodwin”--
What more I would have said I do not know, for she broke in upon my
speech.
“You!” she said. “You!” And she said no more, but rose quickly; and
gathered her skirts about her and fled up the path and was gone from me.
I hesitated for a moment, gazing after her; then I sat me down again.
And I fell to musing and I watched the terns. They had scattered, with
screams of anger, as I rose, but were, by this, once more busied with
their fishing. What could I do? I doubted not that I had done the wrong
thing, rising up before her--but, it seemed, I had a talent for the
wrong thing--else aught that I might do would seem wrong--in her eyes.
Eve went to see her every day, but I--I sighed, and put the matter
from me. I had done my best--and would do my best, whatever befell.
And I saw the terns at their fishing, and I bethought me that I was
hungry, for it must be dinner time. I glanced up at the sun--I carry
no watch--what should a clammer do with a watch? And I saw that he had
passed the noon-point a half-hour since, and something more. It should
be nearly one o’clock. So I took my way homeward, along the shore.
So the summer passed. And we--Old Goodwin and Eve and I, with some
one of my friends or of my neighbors, as it chanced--scarce gave the
stones time to cool before we had them hot again. I had some fear that
my clam beds would give out. Mrs. Goodwin I saw as I had seen her; on
the shore or on the bank--but always at a distance--and she fled, ever,
at the sight of me. So I took no notice of her; and that seemed to be
the wrong thing, too. It did not matter what I did. And the summer
was come to an end--a happy summer for me, and for Old Goodwin, too, I
think--and I had had my fill of clams. It was October; and in my house
was a nurse, white-capped and white aproned--it gave me the horrors,
making my house seem a hospital--and she was waiting.
* * * * *
Paternity has its responsibilities, so I am told by all who have the
good fortune to be fathers--and from those who have not, I hear no less
of it--more, perhaps. But, though I squared my shoulders, the load is
light as yet, so that they bear it passing well. For who could feel
the load heavy, for a mite that lies by his mother, as yet, and turns
to the world but a red and wrinkled face, serious and thoughtful and
unsmiling? For he has not yet smiled; and I doubt whether I am right in
calling his face thoughtful. He is bent upon two things; and to those
two things he directs all his attention, with a concentration that is
commendable. And no sooner is his hunger satisfied then he composes him
to sleep, graciously permitting Eve to hold his little red fist--if
it is quite comfortable for himself. He regards me with a grave
contemplation, on occasion, as if I were some unknown animal--which,
of course, I am--no doubt he would look upon a hippopotamus or upon a
bear with as little fear and as much affection--and, on occasion, he
gives way to his feelings and laments, loudly. Then I disappear, and
he stops crying, instantly. And I--I have not ventured to touch him
yet--I regard him with an awe which grows as I regard him. For here is
he--my son--that was not; and within these few days there has been born
a new soul. It is the one great mystery, and I marvel; but a mystery I
am content to leave it.
I remember well enough--it is not so long ago that I should forget
it--I remember well that night--I had waited since midnight--and the
morning that followed. I could not eat and I but paced to and fro,
still waiting. And at last came the nurse, smiling, and said that I
could soon go in to Eve.
So presently, after some further waiting, I went in. And there lay Eve,
very white but very happy; and she smiled to see me come. And, having
received my greeting, she turned back the covers and showed me my
son. Only for an instant I saw him, then he was covered again. I was
impelled to be respectful. But I must go, for Eve would rest her. Again
I kissed her, and again she smiled.
“I am so happy, Adam,” she said.
And I went down the stairs, and I nearly forgot my breakfast, in my
joy. But, having eaten hastily, I went out, my heart glad within me.
I took a turn up and down the yard, and paused under the pine to look
along the shore. There was Mrs. Goodwin, and she was almost at the
path. I waved my hat to her.
“You have a grandson, Mrs. Goodwin,” I called to her, “and Eve is doing
well.”
I know not what she did then--I did not care what she did; for I was
still waving my hat. Soon I should be shouting aloud. That would not
do, for Eve; and I hurried out at my gate and almost ran Old Goodwin
down.
“You have a grandson,” I cried, for the second time; “and Eve is doing
well.”
And he made no reply, but smiled and smiled; and I shook him by the
hand until he made a face and took his hand away and looked at it. And
I did but laugh and push by him.
“Go in,” I said, “go in. Eve is sleeping, and I--I must walk.”
So he went in, and I went on, down the road. At the next corner I met
Burdon; and, though I had not spoken to him for years--I have forgot
what was the cause of it--I rushed up and took him by the hand. He
seemed astonished, as well he might.
“Congratulate me,” I cried; “for I have a son.”
At that he grinned. “Mother doing well?” he asked. “I am glad--very
glad.” And he shook my hand with heartiness. I left him, looking after
me, and grinning still.
But I went on swiftly, until the houses were all behind me, and before
me were the woods and the everlasting hills. Yet a little while I
waited--until the woods had shut me in--then I could wait no longer. I
waved my hands and shouted to the echoing woods.
“Why hop ye so,” I cried, “ye high hills?” And the hills sent me back
my question again. And--well, I am glad that there was no one there
to see what I did--they would surely have thought me gone out of my
wits. And when I was, in a measure, quieted, I turned me about and went
soberly back again; though I was ready enough to laugh if there had
been any to laugh with me.
And now my son has grown apace, and no longer shows to the world a red
and wrinkled face, but one that is fair, with some pink color in his
cheeks, where it should be. And his hair--he has a quantity of hair,
which, as I understand, is not the habit of new-born infants--his hair
is not black, as it was at first, but shows yellow at the ends. Indeed,
I marveled somewhat at the blackness of his hair, for my hair is not
black, and certainly Eve’s is not. But, when I mentioned the matter,
the nurse did but smile at my ignorance and say that it would be light
enough in time. And my son has smiled at last--he does little else
now,--save when he is laughing. And I--I am become his slave, being no
longer a strange animal, and when he wills I bend my head and let him
twine his fingers in my hair and pull. He pulls well, and laughs the
while, and crows mightily with the joy of it.
And, now, though it is come to the last of November, the fall is kind
to us, and Eve walks beside the coach as the nurse wheels it. Where
they go when I am not with them I do not know--but I suspect. For Mrs.
Goodwin sent, every day, a maid to get the news of Eve. She would
not come herself, though she was near it twenty times, and had well
nigh set her foot to the steep path; but, always, her stubborn pride
prevented. But Old Goodwin is his grandson’s shadow. I shall yet be
jealous of him. And so it was come time that we speak of a certain
weighty matter.
“Eve,” said I, one day, “I suppose that you will have him christened.”
For whenever we say “him” we mean our son; and no doubt I should have
said baptized--I did not know about such things.
And Eve was smiling. “Yes,” she answered, “I should like it--and soon,
Adam, if we may.”
“And what is his name to be?” I asked. “For that is a trifle that must
be settled first, I suppose.”
“I suppose it must,” she said. “And I--what would you name him, Adam?”
“I had thought of giving him your father’s name,” I answered, “but”--
And I stammered and hesitated and grew red. But come it must. “That
rich man, Eve”--
She laughed aloud, with joy, I thought; and she seized me about the
neck and kissed me. “Oh,” she cried, “I _hoped_ you would. And I will
write to him, for he must be godfather.”
And so she did write to him, and he came--laden with peace-offerings.
And as I met him at my gate he took my hand and gripped it.
“Adam,” he said--and this time, too, I doubted if he knew what he
called me--but I did not care. “Adam, it was good of you to think of
me--it was kind.” His voice was not steady; but Eve was close behind
me, and he must say his greetings to her. So I did not find out whether
my voice was any steadier than his.
He spread his gifts before my son; and it befell that my son passed
them all by, with no more than a grunt of approval, until he came to
the silver cup. It was huge, more like a tankard than a cup, and Eve
and I had laughed at it as a gift for a baby--but let it pass--at
least it had no sharp corners. And when my son, in his inspection,
had come to that cup, he gave a crow of delight and grasped it by the
two handles, one on either side, and lifted it. I had not thought it
possible, for it was heavy; but he had his heart set upon it, and he
did it--and I was proud and let my pride show. And he managed to get
the cup well nigh over his face, and then he roared into it; and the
cup roared back at him again. He was astonished--he slipped the cup
aside to see how we took it--then, seeing us laughing, he laughed, too,
and roared again. Now he lies and plays by the hour with that cup,
roaring into it, and making all manner of queer noises, and listens to
it. And that Rich man sits beside him, and they play together.
Eve had the christening--or baptizing--in our little country church. I
had left the whole to her, to manage as she saw fit; and when, in the
church, I looked about, and saw those that she had bid to the feast,
I was somewhat surprised--until I remembered. There were Old Goodwin
and that Rich man, of course, and my friends; but there, too, were
Judson and Burdon and my other neighbors. And there was Mrs. Goodwin,
looking--but I did not look at her, after the first, so I know not
how she looked. And when it was all done, I lingered, for a reason of
my own, and walked with Judson, and Burdon walked with us. An old man
walks but slowly. So it came to pass that we were the last. And, having
entered my own house, I found Eve and Old Goodwin and that other Rich
man sitting in a half circle; and, at the centre of that circle, with
my son in her arms, sat Mrs. Goodwin.
I walked up to her quickly. “Mrs. Goodwin,” I said, “I rejoice that you
are here,--at last.”
So speaking, I held out my hand. And she took it, and would have
spoken, too, but she could not. She hid her face on the shoulder of him
that was but just baptized; and he, thinking, no doubt, that he had
had enough of water for one day, set up a wail. And I turned me about
and went forth and left them.
The Riverside Press
_Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.