Part 2

“It is”--

“Never mind. If it is wasteful and wicked, I cannot help it. Will it do for digging clams to-morrow?”

“We may not dig clams to-morrow.”

“And why not, Adam,--if I will?”

“The tide. It will be too late. But the sun will go down.”

“Good-night, Adam. You may have the clams I dug.”

“If I could press them, Eve, like flowers! Good-night.”

And again I sat through an evening too long for a clammer; and, though my book was in my hand, and my candle burned bright and clear, I did not read, but I stared into the dark shadows. And from those shadows there shone out that wonderful hair with the light upon it from the western sky; and those wonderful eyes, with the light in them from the soul within. Oh, Eve, Eve! And I have seen you only twice.

* * * * *

There is a restlessness that seizes upon men in certain case. I have seen it often, and wondered at the poor fools who turned from this to that, then tried the other thing, and found no satisfaction in any. And I have laughed at them and counseled them to turn to clamming. And there is a cure for that malady, too; a simple cure, as simple as the fount of eternal youth. It is only to find it and the thing is done. And some find the fount, and some do not. And those who find it, why, eternal youth is theirs, and joy and peace are in their abiding places forever. And those who find it not, why, Heaven help them! For there is no peace for them nor rest on earth.

So it befell that I rose before the dawn, and went forth. And there, without, was a fog as thick as cheese. But though I could not see ten fathoms, yet I looked out toward my clam beds. And then I thought: You poor fool, shall she come down in this thickness, at four in the morning, looking for clams? And yet again, I took my basket and wandered in that fog like a lost soul. And the more fool I, for the tide was not half down, and no dawn to see. And as I wandered along the shore, angry and out of sorts, striking with my hoe in the sand, I met one of my neighbors; and as he passed behind me, I heard him laughing in the fog.

And my breakfast was no better. My fresh-gathered eggs were bitter in my mouth, and they tasted of sulphur; and my coffee was gray that should have been a rich red-brown like the copper beech; and my rolls were lead or cotton, I knew not which. I lighted my pipe and went out.

The hot sun was burning off the fog. I stood at the foot of my garden, where I have a seat against the trunk of an old pine, and I watched the fog writhing and twisting in the anguish of defeat and dissolution, vanishing into the hot air above in little jets and shreds, rolling away over the water to the ocean, a far gray bank. And the waters of the bay danced in the sun, and dazzled my eyes. So, for some while I paced there, back and forth. Then I heaved a sigh and sat me upon my seat, and the great pine whispered softly above me; but I fidgeted upon the seat and found no peace.

So, all day, I wandered the shores, and I dug no clams, but found myself picking shells and pebbles of bright colors. And in the early afternoon I stood by our clam beds--Eve’s and mine--and looked up through all the greenery toward the great house, and saw the gleam of dresses. And I left my basket by the bank and turned and ran,--like the fool I was. Why did I run? For as the sun was low, and my pulse high, I wandered once more over to that place. And as I came near, behold there on the bank sat Eve. And at the sight, that ganglion which serves me for a heart began its rioting so that I nearly choked. But I came nearer yet, and sat me down beside her, and she smiled at me. And then I found that peace I had sought all day.

“Fisherman,” she said, “you are not early to-night.”

“I am not,” I said, “and yet I am. For I have haunted this place all day, and yet I feared to come too soon.”

She did not ask me why, but pointed to my basket. “Are these your gatherings?”

I nodded.

“Why, Adam? They are not clams--nor fish.”

“I do not know, Eve. I have done strange things to-day.”

“Are they for me?”

“What shall a governess do with pebbles?”

“They might be useful in my teaching, Adam. Are they for me?”

“If you will. Anything I have is yours”--

“Fisherman, remember”--

“Eve, Eve, how shall I remember, with you sitting beside me, and your eyes smiling, and that light upon your hair?”

“Then I will not smile nor sit beside you. And so I must go”--

“No, no,” I cried. “Stay, for the pity of man. I will remember,--or I will try. I cannot promise more. A fisherman and a governess! So I may not give you the pebbles, Eve, but I will bargain with you.”

“For what?”

“For that rose you wear.” For she wore a great red rose upon her bosom.

She considered. “It is a fair bargain,” she said at last, “and I agree. A rose for your pebbles.”

So she took her rose and fastened it upon my coat. And I did not speak nor thank her, for I could not. What foolish thing should I have said? It was hard enough not to kiss the hand so near my lips. And we sat there a long while in silence, she looking at the west, and I gazing up at her or idly sticking the little pebbles in the sod. And when the sun was gone and she rose to go, she saw the pebbles, and they made two words, ADAM and EVE. I thought she would have stamped upon them, but she did not. She only smiled and bade me good-night.

And so for days I lived in purgatory and in paradise, wandering the shore, without purpose save to pass the endless day till sunset; and at evening I sat with Eve upon the bank until the twilight faded, and she left me. And the weeds sprang in my garden, and my neighbors laughed at me more than ever. For I went clamming at high tide. And upon my mantel, between two plates of glass that were cunningly bound about the edges, was a red rose.

Then, one evening, I waited there upon the bank and no Eve came. And I fretted and fumed and mourned until I bethought me of the great stone. Without hope, I looked beneath; and, wonder of wonders, there was a scrap of paper with its message. “They will not let me come to-night.” And I acted like the fool I was, and kissed the dainty thing, and thrust it in my pocket, and pulled it out again a dozen times. Never having seen her writing, I should know it, it was so like her. And I tore a corner, though I hated to,--I had no other paper,--and wrote, “We miss you, the sun and I. Eve, Eve, do not fail to-morrow. Do not shut the gates upon me yet.” And I put it beneath the stone and went away.

And in the morning the sky was gray, with low-hanging clouds, heavy and wet. And by afternoon there was a driving drizzle, and my heart sank. But I went. I would not fail, though I had no hope. And there, leaning against a tree, stood Eve, the water dripping from her wide felt hat, and shining upon her long coat. And she smiled at me as I came, and I could not speak; but I looked at her until the slow flush mounted to her forehead.

“Eve,” I said at last, “how shall a fisherman remember, when you stand so, before him,--and on such a day?”

“Why, fisherman,” she said lightly, “it is a good day. I find this weather as good as any other,--in fair measure.”

“It pleases me,” I said, “although this morning it did not.”

Then, deliberately, I went to the great stone and turned it up, and my paper was gone. And Eve watched me, and again the slow flush mounted to her forehead, but she said nothing. And as we stood together under the tree, there was a constraint upon us both. The things that I would say I might not, and for the light things that I might say, I had no heart.

And the next day, too, it rained, but I cared not. And again we stood together under the tree, Eve and I, and as we stood there, the clouds parted and showed the sun sinking in splendor. And I saw a greater glory than I had seen. And when the sun was gone, there was the young moon following.

“Peace on earth,” I said; but she did not speak.

So for some while we stood silent, and I saw the gold and the red fade from the clouds, and the clouds themselves were gone, deep banks of indigo, into the east. Then the western sky was grown violet and a green like the curl of a wave, till, overhead, it became the night. And I looked at Eve, and her look smote upon my heart, for it was troubled. But I might not say the thing I would; for shall a fisherman so speak to a governess to the Rich? Even a governess to the Rich may have her woes, it seems, and it is no fisherman’s part--

“Eve,” I said. And she started, as though her thoughts were wandering.

“Eve,” I said again, “would you dig for clams at dawn? For the beds will be uncovered by dawn to-morrow.”

“Oh,” she answered, “will they? And is it a joy to see the dawn?”

“Did you never see a dawn, Eve?”

“Never. Have I missed much?”

“If you see one, Eve, you will know how much.”

“I would like to see a dawn,” she said. And then she was silent, and I thought her near to tears, and a great fear came upon me.

“Now, Adam,” she said, at last, “I must go. Good-night.”

Then she turned and listened. “They are coming for me now. Run, Adam.”

“Run!” I cried. “Run, when I stand upon my own? Why should I run? No, I will stay. And they shall do nothing to you against your will.”

I had forgotten that I was a fisherman, but Eve did not note it. “Run, Adam,” she cried, beseeching. “If you care for my peace, run.”

And so I ran, like any poacher. And that night, sitting staring into the shadows, I wondered.

* * * * *

My clam beds--mine and Eve’s--have many virtues. From them I can see both east and west; from that point neither dawn nor sunset escapes me. And another virtue they had had for me, that was more than dawn or sunset. And what that was, any man who has been in such case as mine will know without the telling. So, though I loved the dawn, it was more than that that brought me stealing through the early gray of morning to the bank, just where the sod breaks off to the sand.

There I sat and waited, alone, and I watched the gray brighten in the east, and hoped that Eve would not be too late. And just as the gray became a tender blue, and hope was leaving me, there was the light step behind me, and I rose and stood, as a fisherman should stand before a governess. And Eve did not speak to me, for she saw the east.

“Oh!” she cried softly.

And she said no word more, but there we stood together. And we saw the blue brighten and become suffused with pink, and there in the eastern sky lay a great rose that stretched its petals to the zenith. And in the heart of that rose was a little cloud like a flame, with one long finger pointed straight at Eve and me. And all those soft tints of blue and pink, with the flame of the little cloud, were spread upon the water that was but just stirring in its sleep, and dimpling here and there. Then was the little flame-cloud edged with gold upon its lower side, and shot through with orange lights, and the pink rose turned to saffron and then to orange, and the rim of the sea was luminous, like molten gold. And on a sudden the gold and orange fled from the little cloud, and a great blazing fire showed above the sea.

“The sun, Eve,” I whispered; and as I spoke, a little breeze flashed across the water and darkened it like a breath upon a mirror. And there was the great disk of the sun half risen, and we might no longer look him in the face.

And at that Eve fetched a great sigh, and turned, and the chorus of the birds broke forth in the trees behind us. They had been calling back and forth before, but now they sang madly. The old earth had waked once more, and it was day.

“Adam,” said Eve, “I thank you.”

Then she sat upon the bank, where the colored pebbles still marked the names, and I sat there beside her; and for some while we spoke not, but listened to the mad music of the birds. Then Eve would dig for clams.

“What matter, Eve?” I asked. “The clams will be the bigger for waiting. We have seen the dawn, and we may see the day grow.”

“Yes,” she said, “we have seen the dawn. I did not dream it could be like that. There are no words, Adam. And I would see the day grow. But for my conscience’ sake I must dig.”

“Eve,” I said, “a conscience is a most distressing comrade. Does a governess have a conscience--a governess to the Rich?”

“Does not a fisherman?” she asked.

“He cannot afford it,” I replied. “It is a luxury not for the poor nor for the very rich.”

“But a governess is not very rich. And if she were, she yet might have a conscience. I have.”

“And does it plague you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Come, let us dig, and I will tell you.”

I, too, had somewhat that I would tell, and presently we were digging. And Eve dug in silence, and gently, for she would not harm the clams.

“Well, Eve?” I said, when I was wearied of the silence.

She was so long in speaking that I feared she never would. “Adam,” she asked, at last, “are you a wise man?”

“Very,” I answered; “wiser than Solomon. He had seven hundred wives, and I have none.”

“And is that wise,--to have none?”

“Eve, Eve,” I cried, “you do not help me. I jest because I fear to speak in earnest.”

“You are good, Adam,” she said. “And if you are wise, you may tell me what to do.”

“If you would do what I tell you!”

She was bending very low over her digging, and her face was turned away, which did not please me. I like to see her face.

“I fear that I may lose my place,” she said.

I straightened up at that, but she bent lower yet.

“Lose your place!” I cried. “And why?”

“Why--they--it is not easy to tell you, Adam.”

“I will not urge you, Eve, but”--

“You need not. I wish to tell you, for I--a governess may not always stand alone. She is a woman, after all.”

“Yes,” I said, “thank God!”

“They--they would”-- She began to laugh, a nervous laugh and with no mirth in it,--“they would marry me, Adam.”

“What!” I cried. “They would--who would marry you? Not old Goodwin!”

“No,” she said; and laughed the more, and seemed really merry at it. “Now I feel better. Not old Goodwin. He has a wife.”

I was puzzled.

“Who, then, Eve? Who would marry you? I doubt not there are many who would, for I know”--

“It is old Goodwin’s wife,” she said, breaking me off short, and just in time.

Then she stood straight. “Now, Adam,” she went on, “I am not so nervous as I was, but I may laugh or I may cry with no reason. I will sit upon the bank and tell you, for truly I am in straits. And do you bear with me, for you are honest, and I may trust you. And indeed I know no other I may trust--but one.”

“A governess advised in matrimony by a fisherman!” I said. “And who is that one, Eve?”

“You shall hear. And do not jest, Adam, or my laughter may turn to tears. They are near enough. And now for the story, which is a short one. Old Goodwin’s wife would marry me to a certain rich man,--for my worldly good, as she says.”

“A certain rich man,” I said, musing. “And will he enter the Kingdom of Heaven?”

“That he will not.”

“Then why doubt? And do you love him, Eve?”

“I do not.”

“Then why doubt?”

“If I do not,” she said, “I shall lose my place. And that is much to me, Adam, for what shall I do then? The man whom I may trust is old Goodwin, but he is not so much my friend as to hold against his wife.”

“And what said you to the man?”

“I said no, but still he came. And now I know not what I shall say next.”

“Shall I tell you what to do, Eve?”

“If you know, Adam.”

“Marry me,” I said. And she looked at me with wide eyes and laughed; and at that laugh I was sore and hurt, though I had no right. Then her laugh died and her eyes filled.

“Forgive me, Adam,” she said. “I should not laugh, but indeed I am overwrought. Truly--truly I might almost find it in my heart”--

I stood before her, trembling. “I should not have said it, Eve. What is a fisherman, that he should offer the little that he has to you? But I am well-to-do, Eve,--for a fisherman. You should never want--nor work. And if you might find it in your heart”--

“I will consider your offer, good fisherman,” she said, smiling. “I must consider. You have--I must tell you, in justice, you have an even chance with that other. But I must consider.”

“So an honest fisherman, well-to-do, has an even chance with a rich rascal whom you do not love. That is a high price on honesty, Eve.”

“Yes,” she said, “but not too high. And now, Adam, be my good friend still.”

“I will,” I replied, “if I may not be more.”

So she was silent, and so was I. And presently I reached down to my basket and drew forth a package wrapped in a napkin.

“Governess,” I asked, “are you, by chance, hungry?”

“Fisherman,” she answered, “I am famished; but not by chance. Open, quickly.”

So I unwrapped the package, and in it were slices of white bread, cut thin, and between, lettuce picked that morning, crisp and cool. And we ate together, and Eve grew merry, and my content came back to me.

“Fisherman,” she said at last, “I thank you. Now I must go.”

“Thank me for what, Eve?”

“It was the sandwiches I meant,” she said.

“And how long must you consider? When shall I have my answer?”

“Your answer? Oh, when I come to your clambake.”

“It shall be to-morrow,” I said.

“Oh, not so soon,” she cried.

“The day after, then.”

She hesitated. “Well,” she said, “good-by.”

“I shall come here for you, Eve.”

But she was gone, and I went, too, my brain in turmoil.

* * * * *

Down under my great pine is a pleasant place for a man--or for a governess, I should suppose--with a heart at ease. And for a fisherman whose heart is not at ease it serves as well as any place but one, and that one not fixed, but moving as she moves. And for a certain rich man it might, indeed, be pleasant under my pine, but not if I could make it otherwise. And there was the seat against the tree, and from that seat he might see my favorite clam beds. But what would rich men care for clam beds? And, for the seat, why, I had other views.

It was there, just without the shadow of the pine, that the hole was scooped in the ground and lined with 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. Then I shook down upon the stones fresh seaweed from the pile, and on the seaweed laid the clams that I had digged, myself--and alone--that morning. Then, more seaweed; and the other things, in layers, orderly, with the clean, salt-smelling weed between: the lobsters, green and crawling, and the fish, fresh caught, and the chicken, not too fresh, and the sweet and tender corn, and sweet potatoes. And over all I piled the weed and made a dome that smoked and steamed and filled the air with incense.

Then, my work done, I sat there and looked out. And when it was time I garbed myself and set forth. And my heart-beat was too high, by far, and there was a faintness at my throat. But I strode along the shore and came to our bank, where the colored pebbles shone in the sun, ADAM and EVE. And there I sat, just where the sod breaks off to the sand, and waited. And presently there was the light step I knew so well, and up came my heart into my throat and choked me. But I stood, as a fisherman should before a governess, and turned.

And such a governess! All in light, filmy white, with two red roses at her bosom, and her hair a glory. And her eyes,--there are no other such eyes as hers,--her eyes smiled at me, and then they opened wide in wonder.

“Adam,” she said, “is it you? Are you my fisherman?”

“Truly,” I answered, “I am your fisherman, whether you will or not,--and for as long as I have life.”

“The time is not yet, fisherman,” she said. “Remember.”

“It is hard to remember, governess, even for a fisherman.”

“I did not know you, Adam,” she said. “You should have told me.”

“What, Eve? That a fisherman may have decent raiment? But I am well-to-do--for a fisherman.”

“Come,” said she, “let us go, or we shall be late to the clambake.”

“With all my heart,” I answered, “though it matters not if we are late. For there is but one guest.”

“There will be two, Adam.”

“Two!” I cried. “I have asked but one. If it is that certain rich man, I give you warning he shall have no clams of mine, but I will cast him into the sea.”

“It is my father, Adam,” she replied. “He is here and would see a clambake, so I asked him.”

“Your father, Eve? Do governesses have fathers? And is he here to help you?”

“I hope that he will help me,” she said. “I think he will.”

And she smiled brightly.

My heart grew cold, and froze beneath my ribs. “Then,” I said, “you will not need help from a fisherman, governess.”

“Adam,” she said, reproaching, “let us enjoy our clambake.”

“That is good doctrine, Eve,” said I, “and I will do my best. But how will your father know”--

“It is for him to find it,” she answered, “and he may, for he has eyes and a nose. Now I might find my way straight enough, for I see a smoking mound upon that point, beneath the pine. It seems a pleasant place, Adam.”

“That queer fellow that I mentioned let me use it,” I said in haste. “He is from home just now.”

“He seems a good friend of yours,” she said.

“At times I think he is,” I said, “and at other times he is the poorest friend I know.”

As we talked we walked along the shore. And we climbed the steep path and stood beneath the pine. The dome of seaweed still smoked bravely, and before the seat against the pine was set a little table, upon stakes. It was just large enough for two, and upon it were all things fitting--and no more. No cloth, only the bare white boards of pine, rubbed smooth.

“Now, governess,” I said, “the bake is done. Do you sit there, and I will serve you.”

“No, Adam,” she cried, “for I must help.”

She always had her will, that red-haired governess. So I took my fork and opened the smoking dome, and together we set upon the table corn and sweet potatoes and a chicken and a 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. And as I pitched the weed, I heard Eve laughing.

“Adam,” she said, “look here. And there are two of us.”

I turned and saw the table filled to overflowing, and no place left large enough to set a plate; and Eve sitting on the seat, and laughing so that tears stood in her eyes.

“I should have made the table larger,” I said. “But we need no plates. What would the first man have done with a plate, Eve?”

“Or with baked clams?” she asked. “But we are not in Eden.”

“I am,” I said.

And she spoke hastily: “At least the other guest shall not want.”

“Let us begin,” I said, “while the clams are hot. There is yet more.”

So we sat side by side upon the bench, and the wind whispered softly in the tree above. And suddenly Eve rose.

“My father, Adam,” she said. “He is just in time.”

I stood and turned. Her father! It was Goodwin the Rich; and my castles were tumbling about my ears.

So we saw each other, he and I, and looked each other up and down, and either measured other. And though he was Goodwin the Rich, he seemed a man, and I hoped he thought as much of me. And he said something about clams and his daughter, I know not what, and I said some foolish thing, I know not what. Then I fetched a box from my shed, for him to sit upon,--a proper seat for the Rich,--and he seemed to like it, and tilted back and forth, and ate prodigious quantities of clams and all things else, and pronounced them uncommon good.

And I sat mute, but Eve talked steadily, a merry talk, and ate the heads of the clams--or tried to eat them--and found them but ill eating--until I showed her how to take the clam by the head and dip him in the butter, and eat him properly. And she bit the corn from the cob, and opened the clams with her fingers, and I watched her in adoration and despair. For what should I say to a Daughter of the Rich?