Part 3

So there we sat long at my little table under my great tree, and I saw the tide lapping high upon the shore, and heard the wind that sighed loud in the pine. And indeed that sighing wind fell in marvelously with my mood, for I was not merry, as any may guess. And at last Goodwin the Rich had filled him full with lobster and corn and clams, and he seemed well pleased, and sat upon his box, and smiled and exhaled peace. And in a while he rose and made some excuse, and thanked me and went his way.

Then, when he was gone, I sat there still and looked out upon the water, and said nothing. For I could not look at Eve and be content, but still I had the water and the shore. And I felt that Eve was watching me and smiling.

“Adam,” she said at last.

“Well?”

“We have had a pleasant clambake, have we not? Such a feast as I never had.”

I made no reply.

“Fisherman,” she said then, “you should make some pretty speech.”

“Is it for a fisherman,” I asked, “to make pretty speeches? He must catch his fish and dig his clams.”

“You have changed so, Adam,” she said, reproaching.

“It is not I have changed,” I answered.

Still I would not look at her, but she was silent, and I knew her smile was gone.

“And is there nothing more?” she asked. “Is it ended?”

“It is ended,” I said. “Even the stones grow cold.”

“Adam,” she cried, “why will you be so contrary? It is not ended. I will not have it so.”

“The Rich may have what they will,” I said, “nearly, but not quite. I was not made for a plaything for the Rich.”

“You are bitter, and you are not fair,” she said softly. “It is not like you, Adam. There is something more. Why will you make it hard?”

“I will not make it hard,” I answered. “There is nothing else. What has a fisherman to say to a Daughter of the Rich, or she to him? So, for that other matter, Miss Goodwin, I absolve you from an answer.”

“Adam,” she cried, “you make me angry. I have a mind to go home.”

“Shall I see you on your way?” I asked.

“I will not have it so,” she said, and stood and stamped her foot. I knew well how she must look, in that pretty rage. “And you forgot, Adam.”

“What?” I asked. “I would not fail in duty.”

“My name,” she said. “I told you it was Eve.”

“Are you not Miss Goodwin?”

“Adam,” she said firmly, “I said Eve.”

“Well, Eve, have you not done with me?” I sighed and would not look at her, though she stood before me.

“No, I have not,” she said. “I should laugh if I were not so angry. Look at me.”

I stood and looked down at her, an instant but no more. I could not, for I should have choked.

“Eve, Eve,” I cried, “have you no mercy? Must the Rich destroy the playthings that they weary of?”

“Adam,” she said, “you have a duty yet. Do not shirk it. A fisherman must not shirk his duty.”

“I am but a drowned fisherman,” I replied. “But what a drowned man may do, I will do.”

“You promised to be my good friend,” she said. “So come back with me along the shore.”

So we went down the steep path and side by side along the shore, where the water lapped high. And we came to our bank, where the pebbles shone in the sun, and there Eve sat her down.

“Sit beside me, Adam.”

And down I sat, as wretched as man was ever, and I looked into the water that covered my clam beds. I doubted I should have heart to dig in those beds again.

“Adam,” said Eve, and her voice was not steady, “I have considered, and”--

“Eve,” I cried, “can you not spare me that? If you feel any friendship for me, spare me that. I am blind enough, but I can see”--

“Oh, you are the blindest man that ever was.” And she slipped her hand within my arm, and drew it back again and began to cry softly. And at that I sprang to my feet, and my heart thumped like a hammer, till I thought it would burst my ribs.

“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking so it shamed me, “do not play with me. Do you mean”--

“Oh, you blind man, can you not see what I mean? Must I say it more plainly? It is yes, Adam, and no play.”

And she smiled at me through her tears, and suddenly, for me, earth and sky were flooded with a great glory.

Now, what I did next, I shall not tell, nor what she said to me; for those are things for my Eve and me to know and to remember. But any man who has been in such case as mine may guess to some purpose, if he will but try. And after some time, I know not how long, we sat there side by side upon the bank, most decorous, for out upon the water was a boat. But we might say what we would, and I might hold her hand, down upon the sod, out of sight, and I might gaze into her wonderful eyes and see in them the tender light that made them pass all wonders.

“Such trouble as I had to get you, Adam, at the last!”

“It served you right,” I said, “for your deceit.”

She laughed, a happy laugh. “You honest fisherman!” she said. “It was so easy to deceive you! But never again, Adam. You may trust me.”

“Always,” I answered, and stooped low and kissed the hand I held. And she stooped, too, and quite by chance, and if they saw us from the boat, I did not care.

“And were you deceived?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “for half an hour. You are too honest, Adam. But I love you for it.”

And then we did some other silly things, and cared not for the boat.

“And what of old Goodwin, Eve?” I asked, after some while. “What will he say?”

She laughed again her happy laugh. “What did he say, Adam? He seemed pleased, I thought.”

“Eve,” I cried, “you do not mean”--

“He came there for that purpose, Adam. I confessed to him. He is my friend, I told you.”

“Honest gentleman!” I said. “I beg his pardon. He may have my clam beds if he will.”

“No, no,” she cried, “for they must be mine, too, those clam beds. I will not have them changed.”

“They are yours, Eve,” I said, “for they were mine and I am yours. See the colors the old sun spreads over them now. He is almost sitting on that hill.”

“We will bid him good-night, together,” she said; “a happy one, Adam. Stand beside me.”

So we stood, and she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we saw the sun, that he spread the still water with all manner of reds and purples and shimmering greens. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind the bearded hill, we saluted. And again we sat upon the bank, and saw the red west turn to violet, and then to green. And then Eve rose and said good-night.

“Until to-morrow, Adam,” she said.

“Until to-morrow, Eve,” I echoed.

And then she seemed to listen.

“They are coming for me, Adam. If you love me, run!”

II

A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH

A DAUGHTER OF THE RICH

Some there may be who will say--who do say, no doubt, for they dearly love a bit of gossip--that I am no better than an adventurer; that I have wormed my way into a girl’s heart under false pretenses, and will but devour what I find there; and that two weeks--or three, or whatever the time was, according to the usual measure of man--is too short a time for two people to have found out that they love each other. Now, those who are most apt to speak thus foolishly are my neighbors, who have mated according to their lights; and I have not observed that they are happier than other folk. Indeed, I doubt whether they are as happy.

It is not to be imagined that my neighbors have remonstrated with me upon the subject. But I have observed, when I have met two of them together, they do but wait until I am out of hearing--sometimes scarcely that--before they get their heads together.

“That’s the fellow,” says one, “who is engaged to Old Goodwin’s daughter.”

“Is it, indeed?” says the other--and turns his head about, that he see me the better. And I stop short and lean casually upon a wall, my face toward them. For I would not cheat them of their birthright.

“Yes,” says the first. “In two weeks. Disgraceful, I call it.”

They gaze at me--both of them--as if I were some monster from a museum.

“Rich, isn’t he?” asks the second. “Goodwin, I mean--not this fellow.”

And they pass on, laughing uproariously. I would not stint their mirth, and giving over my leaning upon the wall, I, too, pass on.

Therefore it comes to pass that I have no great opinion of my neighbors’ judgment. Indeed, I contend that they speak of that they know not of. Eve agrees with me in this,--she agrees with me in most things, now,--for have we not been engaged for one whole month, and not the littlest shadow on our happiness? And still I am wont to take my basket on my arm and my clam hoe in my hand and wander the shores. But the clams that I dig would make but a sorry meal, and the clams that I leave--well, they will be the bigger and the lustier for digging when I am minded to it. And it is easy to guess what clam beds I frequent.

So it befell that I wandered, one afternoon, over the oozy flats toward my chosen hunting ground. The sun was getting low in the west, and well I knew what colors the Great Painter was spreading over the still water and upon the shining mud. But yet I would not look at them, but wended on, at a pace too great for a clammer. And joy was in my heart. For there, just where the sod broke off to the sand and the pebbles shone bright in the sun, sat Eve. And she smiled upon me as she spoke.

“Adam,” said she, reproving, “you are almost late to-night.”

And, at that, the ganglion that I have mentioned, that does duty for my heart, leaped for joy, so that I was nigh to choking. And indeed, though it is but a ganglion, it knows its duty well, and leaps for joy or aches with sorrow as well as the best-behaved heart in the world. I have not known the ache for sorrow since the day of my clambake; but it can make a man very wretched. And I am convinced that it can ache for pure joy, too--although that is a different ache, with happiness in it.

So I smiled back at her. “Almost late,” I said, “is just in time. Late has no”--

“Adam, Adam,” she cried, “are you become a grammarian? Grammarians are tiresome. And I must go, for I have an engagement”--

“No, no,” I answered, in haste; for though in my heart I knew well she did but jest, yet I feared to lose her. “There is small danger that I shall become a grammarian. I have put all that behind me. It gets farther behind me with every day that passes. And your engagement is with me.”

She laughed, a low, sweet laugh.

“Yes,” she said, “it was.”

And we sat there, silent, and Eve gazed at the sun, that was near his setting, and he gazed back at her. He set no longer behind the bearded hill,--the time was passed for that,--but there were other hills, and he must set behind them, for that is his destiny. And if any should say to me that I do but ill to speak thus of his destiny, for that his destiny is a greater than that; and if that one should hint of some hypothesis or other concerning the life and death of the universe,--they may have a new one now--they may get up a new one every week, for aught I know or care; for what is the death of the universe to me?--I should answer such an one in this wise: “Go to, you speak foolishly. For have I not seen him every evening of my life, that he sets in the west? Talk not to me of any hypothesis. I know what I know.”

And I was leaning on my elbow, down upon the sod, and idly gazing at the sun, and idly gazing up at Eve. But I gazed at Eve the more. And the west was all golden, with a soft haze everywhere that left nothing with sharp outlines, and the sun was set, like a great yellow diamond, in its midst. It was one of those days--come a month or more before its time--when the whole earth seems to drowse and doze and breathe forth peace.

“Eve,” I said softly, for I almost feared lest I break the spell that was upon us.

She turned to me, but did not speak.

“Would you have me analyze those colors that we see? I might make shift to do it. Would this soft light be more beautiful to you”--

“Oh, no, no,” she cried. “Let it be. See, the sun is almost down. Stand beside me, Adam.”

So I stood, and she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we faced the west, for we would bid the old sun good-night. And as we stood thus, came Old Goodwin, silently, and stood at her other side. And she took his hand in hers, too, one hand to each, and we looked at the sun, and his rim rested on the hill. And there stood a tree, great and tall like a spire, that showed black against his disk. So we watched him sink, and as the last thin line vanished behind the hill, we saluted, all three. Then Eve breathed a deep sigh.

“Such a lovely day, Adam,” she said, “ended in beauty! If all the days could be like this!”

I remembered me of a day, not two months back, that had been a driving drizzle of rain, and of a certain figure that had stood beneath a tree, and the water dripped from the rim of her wide felt hat, and shone upon her long coat. And that day, with all its wetness, had seemed as good a day as this, for she had smiled to see me coming along the shore, my face as black as the clouds, and not expecting to find her; and she had smiled again to see my face change at the sight of her, and to see that I could not speak for the joy of it. But I had looked at her until she flushed red.

“Truly,” said I, “beauty is from within, Eve, and each day is but what we make it.”

Then Eve and I sat us down upon the bank where we were wont to sit, and Old Goodwin gave me a quiet smile for greeting. He was a quiet man, peaceable and peace-loving, and I marveled, often, that he should be Goodwin the Rich. But so it was. And his automobiles flashed past my front gate, as they had done before, covering my hedge with dust and enveloping my house in nauseous smells; also as they had done before. But I like automobiles better than I did. I even ride in them sometimes, with Eve, on the back seat; and Old Goodwin rides on the front seat, and drives as though the Devil were after him; which I think he is not, for Old Goodwin is a lovable man, and a good man I believe, as men go. So I sit in the back seat, with Eve, and hold my clothes on,--my hat I long ago learned to leave at home,--and I bump here and there, and now and then I shout a tender word to Eve, and I think my thoughts; and when we turn a corner--on two wheels--I thank goodness that there are high sides to hold me in.

But Old Goodwin had gone to a tree that was at hand, and from some recess had pulled some rubber boots. They were old boots, battered and dingy with much wading through mud. And after the boots came a hat, as old and battered as they, and a coat. And he put them all on, deliberately, and stood. And, standing, he looked more like some old fisherman than like Goodwin the Rich, which was, no doubt, why he wore them. My neighbors would be but too happy if they were to see Old Goodwin--and know him--digging in my clam beds, and their tongues are ever ready at inventing tales. Those neighbors of mine are a grief to Eve, and an incitement to anger, which, as every one knows, heats the blood and causes vapors in the brain. Eve does not like vapors. So I was at some pains to get those boots.

And Old Goodwin, after further searching in the tree, drew forth a clam hoe and a basket; and being thus equipped, he hied him to the flats, which were, by now, almost bare, and he began to dig. Now that is a luxury which the rich may seldom have, that they should dig for clams. Old Goodwin enjoyed it mightily, splashing here and there in his boots, and digging as the fancy seized him; which was as like to be where the clams were not as where they were. But he cared not at all, and drew long breaths for very joy of living; and the clams that he found he put within his basket. And with his boots, as he waded here and there, he stirred long lines of color that went rippling in waves of yellow or red or a tender blue until they died at our feet. For the west was all a brilliant, dazzling yellow, with one long cloud that showed indigo above, but a bright crimson below. And behind us were other long clouds, and they were crimson, too. But the sky between was a tender blue. And I gazed long.

“Adam,” cried Eve at last, “how can you be content to sit there?”

I looked up in some surprise. “Should I not be content?” I said. “For here are you, beside me, and before us is spread a picture of peace that changes with each moment that passes. Look at that tranquil water, Eve, with its long tongue of blue that marks the current. Should I not be content?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered, “I hope so. I trust so, always--with me beside you. I would not have it otherwise. But even the tranquil water has its current. Let us dig, too.”

I laughed--as quietly as I could, for I would not break that tranquillity. She had me there.

“What a governess!” I said. “She has her way always. Well, then, let us dig--though it seems a pity to disturb the clams.”

“They live in eternal darkness,” said Eve. “It is better for them to be disturbed. Besides, Adam, I came to dig. I got this gown on purpose.”

I had not noticed the gown. But she stood straight before me, and I looked her up and down, as she would have me. Truly, I could see no difference between that gown and any other--save that it was shorter. But Eve would look adorable in any--and it was the woman that I saw.

I said as much. “To tell the truth,” I said, “I did not see your gown. What does it matter what you wear?”

“To dig?” she said, reproving. “Have you forgotten, Adam? Surely you would not have your wife drip salt water upon her best dress and spot it?”

As she spoke she looked at me, and I saw that in her eyes that brought me up upon one knee. At least I might kiss her hand, with Old Goodwin pottering about my clam beds. He considerately turned his back upon us.

And so we digged for clams, too, until the light had faded from the western sky, and the twilight was almost gone. And when, at last, Old Goodwin turned and lumbered peacefully up the bank and sat him down to become once more Goodwin the Rich, behold, our basket was well filled. For Eve and I have but the one basket; and her back does not tire now.

And I, too, sat me down--for Eve had to take off her rubber boots--and I sat me near Old Goodwin. And he gave me once more that quiet smile of greeting that breathed of peace.

“And Mrs. Goodwin?” I asked. “Will she not see me yet?”

“Not yet,” he answered, still with that quiet smile. “But do you have patience. She will come around--at least, I hope so. It was rather--in the way of a surprise, you know. And as a surprise,” he added, with a chuckle of delight, “it was rather good--yes, it was a success.”

I sighed. I am not a patient man; and here was Old Goodwin counseling me to have patience. There is nothing harder for me to have.

“I have had patience,” I said; “and shall have it until it leaves me. And when that will be I do not know, but not so long as I can keep it with me. And, after all, I do not know that I care--except for Eve’s sake.”

“No,” he said, and the smile was gone. “You win in any case,--or so it seems to me. She loses. Remember that. She loses. And so I ask you to have patience. It is worth while, if only for Eve’s sake.”

“It is not easy for me to be patient,” I replied. “But I will,--at least I will try. That I promise, and no man can promise more. For I win in any case. She may gain a son or lose a daughter--but Eve-- No, I will be patient.”

Old Goodwin had got his boots changed by this, and now he rose--Goodwin the Rich.

“I thank you, Adam,” he said. He called me Adam, too. “It will be the easier for me. And that is something to you--is it not?”

I jumped to my feet and seized his hand. “It is much to me,” I cried. “If ever you see me going wrong, I beg you to remind me. For Eve’s sake and yours. That will bring me back.”

Indeed, he had been my good friend--my good friend and Eve’s. And now he smiled once more Old Goodwin’s quiet smile. I loved that smile, breathing peace on earth and good will to men. It was easy to see where Eve had got hers. She smiled with her eyes, too, and in them I saw--but perhaps that was for me alone. But Old Goodwin, with his quiet smile, was yet Goodwin the Rich. It was a marvel.

“You are good children,” he said. “Good-night,--and bless you.”

So he ambled off, up the path that was beginning to show, even in that dim light. For a path is made by walking upon it, and even once a day will serve for that. And that path was walked on more than once a day. As he reached a turn, he waved his hand to us, and we to him.

“Eve,” I said, musing, “there goes a good man.”

She turned to me. “He is,” she said. “And I am glad to have you think that, Adam. There are those--who say cruel things of him.”

“They are wrong,” I cried. “I am convinced of it. From all envy, hatred, and malice, good Lord, deliver us. But what of that other rich man, Eve?”

As I looked up at Eve, waiting for my answer, I saw that she was smiling merrily.

“I told him,” she said, “that I was engaged already. And he seemed surprised at that, and he would know the name of the happy man. And I told him that, too. Did I do well? Are you”-- She stopped and hesitated.

“Am I happy, Eve?” I answered softly. “Surely you know that I am. Happier than I thought I should ever be. And what did he say to that?”

“Oh, then, he did not understand. For I think he did not know you, Adam. And I said you were a fisherman, or a clammer, as occasion served. You should have seen his face. And he but wished me joy, and went; which was what I wanted.”

I chuckled. For I do chuckle on occasion.

“I have no other occupation,” I said, “and neither has he. And he comes, in his yacht, to ask you,--steam yachts are luxuries, Eve, which my wife will know nothing of,--he comes, very grand, in his yacht, to ask you. And you tell him that you are to wed a digger of clams. And where is he now?”

“I do not know,” she answered; and the smile faded.

And I thought my thoughts, and was silent. Truly, the digging of clams has its delights, and not all the rich are fitted to partake thereof. For how many of them see what lies before their eyes? How many of them see the colors the old sun spreads on the still water and the shining mud? A flat is a flat to them, a thing to be shunned; a thing that will spoil their white flannels and get their dresses all muddy. Not all of them are Old Goodwins. And the works of the Great Painter are not for such as these. But the colors were gone now, and the light, too, and I heard Eve sighing.

“What is it, Eve?” I asked. “Must you go?”

“Soon,” she said, “very soon. But I was thinking of my mother. She hinted--almost threatened--that he would come again.”

“That rich man?” I said. “He is better forgot.” And, indeed, I had forgot him already. “After all, what does it matter? His goings and his comings are nothing to us. And your mother--was it hard to tell her? I did what I could.”

“It was not easy,” she answered, and I knew by her voice that tears were in her eyes, though I could not see. “Your note, Adam, she tore up before my eyes. Oh, I was angry! And I said what I should not. And then she said--she was angry, too--that she would not come to my wedding”--

“We will have patience, Eve,” I said, “and perhaps she may change her mind. And for the note, why, it is better torn up than passed around among her friends to be laughed over. Yes, I am glad about the note.”

“And I saved the pieces--every one,” she said then, laughing shyly. “After my mother was gone, I gathered them up. But now I must go, Adam. See, it is quite dark. You may come up the path with me--if you will--for just a minute.”