Part 4
If I would! And if our parting took more than just the minute she had said, why, I will bear the blame--if blame there is. For I left her happy and with her eyes shining. And so I stumbled home along the shore, my heart singing. And my supper--for what clammer would dine at seven--was ambrosia and nectar, being plain corn meal mush and fresh milk. And when I had filled myself full of it I betook me to the seat under the old pine, and I gazed at the stars and wondered. I saw Arcturus, hanging red, high in the west; and Altair blazing above me. But, gaze where I would, I saw always that wonderful hair with the light upon it from the western sky; and those wonderful eyes with the light within them that made them to outshine Altair himself. And, gazing, I wondered if in all the worlds that revolve about those innumerable suns there were a being as happy and as content as I.
* * * * *
Of all the gifts of the gods, happiness is the most elusive. For they that most seek it find it not; and to them that seek it not, but go calmly about their business, on a sudden it appears, saying: “Lo, here am I.” And we must not then attempt to hold it fast, for ever it breaks away and is gone--for a time--and naught is to do but wait, with what patience we may, until it come again. And the more we have patience the sooner will it come back.
So the days passed, and some days I found happiness, and other days I found it not; but usually I had it for a bedfellow. And it was lucky that I did, for what is to be said of a clammer who cannot sleep? And each afternoon, when the sun was low, I wended slowly over toward my clam beds along the shore where the water lapped ever. And the Great Painter spread his colors with lavish hand, and peace covered the earth and was upon the face of the waters. And peace was in my heart, too, for there on the bank sat Eve, and she smiled to see me come.
And it befell on a day that there was a flat calm, and the sun veiled his face before he set; and, above, the veil spread out in a thin sheet, feathery and white, so that I could not tell where it began.
“Look, Eve,” I said. “To-morrow it will be stormy.”
And she said nothing, but only looked as she was bid, being content to take my word in all things. But Old Goodwin was not.
“Indeed!” he said. “What makes you think so, Adam?”
Then I was tempted. I might have entered upon a disquisition concerning cyclones and the sequence of the weather. But I put that temptation from me. It was but a part of my past.
“Oh,” I answered simply, “the look of the sky.”
“And in what does the look of the sky differ from its look on any other day?” he asked. “I see no difference.”
“It is hard to tell,” I said; “but this is the hurricane season. I may be quite mistaken. But I think it will storm to-morrow.”
And so he was forced to be content, though he was but half convinced; and he would have betaken him to the digging of clams, but the tide was not half down. This he mourned, with frequent upward glances at the sky. For Old Goodwin was become more skilled in the finding of clams than he had been. Indeed, I marveled what he could do with the clams he dug, for he no longer gave them to us. I mentioned it to Eve.
She laughed, whispering. “I fear, Adam,” she said, “that he is contaminated. He sits up late at night, after everybody else is gone to bed--and I met him yesterday coming from the kitchen. He looked furtive as he smiled in passing. Yes, I fear that he is contaminated.”
“Steamed clams?” I whispered, in reply. “But steamed clams are not baked clams. They are, to clams from a bake, what--a bath in a tub is to a dip in that great ocean.”
“It is the best that he can do,” she said. “He may not have a clambake. My mother”--
“Ah,” said I, illuminated, “the poor man! We will have one for him. And we will ask your mother, too. She can but refuse, at the worst. And perhaps”--
Eve shook her head. “She will refuse,” she said,--“or take no notice of your asking. But father will be grateful. There are so few things the rich may do simply. Father would like to muss around, himself,--to help you with the bake, Adam,--and wear his old clothes. He generally has a horrid time.”
She was smiling and eager, and her eyes shone. I nodded. “He shall have his clambake.”
So Eve went in early, and Old Goodwin, for the sky was become all gray and nothing to see. And to me there is nothing so dismal as a dull gray sky when there is neither wind nor rain. There is the same gray light on the water, the same wherever I look, and all nature seems waiting. After a day of it, I am fit for battle and murder. But now a little breeze came creeping in out of the east, chill and drear. And I was wakened in the night by the wind, howling like a lost soul in torment. I turned over and drew the covers closer and slept again.
And when the day broke, it was not tranquil, and no sun to see; and the wind shrieking and yelling out of the southeast like some wild thing, with gusts of drenching rain. I thought of my late corn, which was heavy with great ears--and had been tall, too, the night before. It was like to be blown flat in that wind--as flat as if it had been harvested--and what was a clambake without fresh corn? But there was no help for it. I ate my breakfast at my leisure,--there would be more wind before there was less,--put on oilskins, boots, and sou’wester, and fared forth.
As I passed down through my garden I glanced at my corn. It was flat, as I expected, save one great stalk, stronger than its comrades, or more deeply rooted, and that stalk waved and thrashed about in anguish. It would break soon, I knew. And I mused as I leaned against the wind upon its fate--how it must be broken and die, while the stalks less well rooted did but go down before the blast, and live and grow. But I gave my corn no more thought, for I was come to the steep path that led me down along the shore, and by the water, now all brown with sand and mud that had been stirred from the bottom. For, although it was fairly quiet here, being in the lee of the bluff, the water was well stirred, as any might guess from looking out upon it. And I came to the bank, where the sod breaks off to the sand, and no Eve was there. And, indeed, I had known better, but can a man help hoping? It was much too early, and who could expect her to come down in that wind? And as I made these excuses for her, behold, she stepped from behind a great tree, and she laughed aloud to see my face.
“Oh, Adam!” she cried, “one would think, to see you as you came, that you had lost your last friend, and were just come to the funeral.”
“And then,” I answered, smiling up at her,--“what then, Eve?”
“Why, then,--you seemed surprised and”-- With that she stopped, and she stood upon the bank above, and I on the sand below; and she put her hands upon my shoulders, one on each, and looked down into my face. And I looked up into her eyes, and I forgot the storm, and I forgot that wild wind that blew, and I forgot all things save what I saw there. And, an instant, she bent to me. “Oh, Adam, Adam!” she cried, “I am glad, glad that you care so much. For it is not easy for me.”
And I said no word, but only held her so for some while. And presently she laughed, as if she were half ashamed, and drew her from my arms. And I saw that her face was wet. It may have been the rain--I do not know. A fisherman, in sou’wester and oilskins, holding in his arms a Daughter of the Rich. I laughed aloud at the thought. For, though she, too, had on boots, she seemed no fit mate for such as I--in her long coat, that covered her from neck to heel, and with her wide felt hat, tied down behind. Indeed, I grudged that to necessity--for her hair was all hid, under the hat.
Out from my clam beds--some way out--is a reef of rocks. It is grim enough in any weather: at low water just showing its rough head, dark brown, barnacled, bearded with seaweed; at high tide, in calm weather, nothing but a wide expanse of placid water. For which reason, the government, in its wisdom, and to protect the lives of yachtsmen, who ever walk in darkness--the fishermen know it from the beginning of time--the government had set, upon the most outward rock a spindle. It was awkward enough, that spindle, with its sprawling arms, like a telegraph pole--but it served its purpose well in ordinary weather I have no doubt. But now,--this was no ordinary weather, as any might see,--it seemed like to go down, even as my solitary stalk of corn; to be torn from its hold in the rock, or the shaft twisted and bent and broken, till it served no longer.
“Look, Eve,” I shouted. For the gale tore my words out of my mouth. “The spindle--it will go down at high tide--or before. See, it is bent, already.”
For, as I spoke, a great sea smashed down upon the rock, sending its spray high; and when the wind had blown the bits of broken water far to leeward, leaving the rock in a smother of foam, I saw the spindle, and it stood straight no longer. And I watched for the fellow of the sea that had come. But Eve held her peace. And we two watched the rock, with its leaning spindle, and ever it leaned the more, but it kept fast hold on the rock, though it was nearly buried in the foam. And ever the tide came higher, until it was buried in every sea that came. So it was come to dinner time; and I felt a great hunger that gnawed within me. For a clammer must eat, even as other men.
“Eve,” I said, “it is my dinner time, and I am hungry.”
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “can you think about eating--with this to see? I thought better of you.”
“Think none the worse of me,” I answered, “that when I am hungry I would eat. For I am not one of your theorists who believe that when a man is hungry he should go without. But I believe that hunger is a sign from Heaven. God gave man hunger that he might know when to eat; and thirst, that he might know when to drink. And so I do. I have never found myself the worse for it, but the better. Hunger breeds an evil temper, as you may see. Mark how much pleasanter I am when I have dined.”
And she laughed at me. “And the spindle, Adam,” she said. “It may go down, and you at dinner. And this storm--surely, it is worth staying for.”
“The storm will increase,” I replied, “according to the lore of my neighbors, until full tide. In such matters their lore is older than my learning. As for the spindle, it will go or it will hold fast as it is ordained for it. If it hold fast, well; and if it go down, why,--that will be well enough, too. At least, I shall have dined. I wish that I might ask you to dine with me, Eve. We shall have roast mutton, with corn, and potatoes, and--whatever else the wind has left. And a steamed pudding, after. It is not fashionable, but it will be good. My cook makes excellent steamed puddings. And a dinner eaten alone--it is a lonely meal.”
Again Eve laughed, then sighed. I know that she sighed, for I saw her; I could not hear.
“I should love it, Adam,” she said, “but you know I may not.”
“Love what, Eve?” I asked. “The steamed pudding?”
“No doubt,” she answered, “for now that you have reminded me, I am hungry, too. But you know that was not what I meant. I should love to dine with you in your own house. But it will not be long--there will not be many more lonely dinners”--
She hesitated and stopped. But I knew. “Let us count them,” I said. “Let us see how many.”
And again the storm was forgot, and the great wind that blew. And so she went in, and I tramped home, in the rain, along the shore. But my dinner was too quickly eaten for a clammer, and I thanked a kind Heaven that there were not many more such--there were far too many, but they could be counted--there were less than a hundred. And having bolted my dinner, which deserved better of me, I hurried back to the bank, and there stood Eve, and she smiled to see me come along the shore.
“Eve,” I observed, “see now for what you are responsible. For, dining alone, I did but bolt my dinner, for I would not miss a minute of your company. And thereby I risked dyspepsia. And that is not the worst, for the ills that follow hard upon it are these: melancholy and an evil disposition; and backbiting and gossip, and, in short, all the qualities which you see in my neighbors. And”--
But she was laughing. “Is that not enough?” she asked. “I would not be responsible for more, and I promise to give you an hour for your dinner--hereafter. You will have no need to hurry back, for I shall not be here sooner. But this is an exception. We shall not have such another storm, surely, in the next”-- Again she stopped. “Look, Adam, can you see the spindle? Is it gone?”
I looked. The tide was risen now, so that only now and then, between the great seas that came, could I catch a glimpse of it; and I saw that it was bent almost even with the rock. It would be useless for its purpose even if it held, and the tide that was coming would be very high. Even now the waves lapped about my feet as I stood upon the sand, and the seaweed washed against the bank, and it lacked an hour of high tide. I feared for the pebbles, that they would no more shine in the sun.
“I see it,” I said. “It is yet fast to the rock--as fast as any oyster. But it is bent flat, so that it is no manner of use. It may as well go as stay. The water covers it already, or it would, if it were smooth.”
And, indeed, the seas broke no longer over the rock, save an occasional one, higher than the rest, and the trough lower. Such a sea did but open an instant, to show the top, dark brown and barnacled, then closed again, roaring, in a whirlpool of foam. And Eve said nothing, but only looked. And as we stood looking, and the rain running off from our clothes in streams, Old Goodwin came down to us, in oilskins and boots and sou’wester. And he said nothing, either, which was not strange, for he was not a man of words. And when he had been there some while, came a mighty sea, and fell upon the rock. I shouted at the sight of that sea; I could do no other. And when it was passed, the water opened once more and there was but the shaft, bent and twisted.
“Gone!” I cried. And Eve looked at me with wide eyes, but Old Goodwin only nodded.
So we three watched for some while, and at last the water was as smooth over the rock as it was elsewhere. And that is not saying that it was smooth at all--even on my clam beds, where it was, in a measure, sheltered, the waves broke high, so that I feared for the bank; but the great seas raced evenly over the rock, and it was as there was none there, for no man could tell its place.
Then, on a sudden, the rain ceased and the wind increased, and it seemed that the whole earth must be torn up by the roots. And up on the hill I heard the crash of a tree, falling, and then another. And the water was level with the bank, and the waves broke over my pebbles. Old Goodwin turned at the sound of the trees, and said something, I know not what. For the noise of the wind and the noise of the water was a great noise, and swallowed up the sound of his voice. And he looked once more out to sea, and there came that into his face that made me to look, too.
Now there had been, a moment before, a veil of rain over the surface of the sea that prevented our seeing more than a little way. But now the veil was withdrawn, and I looked, and rubbed my eyes, and looked again. For there came a yacht--a steam yacht, and she was steaming her best, and with the wind nearly behind her she came at a great pace. Now she was lost in a hollow, so that I saw no more than her stack, belching smoke, and now she rose on a wave, so that I saw her hull. What fool, thought I, would venture from a safe harbor in such weather? If they had left port before this storm,--well, it is but a poor skipper that knows the weather no better,--and they were not like to have been a day’s steaming from some good harbor. And as I thought these things, the yacht was come nearer, and I knew it, and I knew that here was that certain rich man come to plague me. I even saw the man himself, standing forward, and holding on by a stanchion. And as I saw I marveled, for I had supposed the man a coward.
I turned to Eve. “Do you know”-- But I did not finish, for she nodded; and her look was troubled. I hated that rich man with a mighty hate. And while I still gazed into her eyes, I saw them open wide with horror.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried. “The spindle is gone, and they will go on the rocks! See!”
I turned. They had come on swiftly--too swiftly--and now were headed straight for the place where the rock lay hid; steaming headlong to destruction. I hesitated--I say it to my shame, though a man is but a man after all--I hesitated an instant; then Old Goodwin began to shout, and I shouted, too, wading into the water up to my waist, and waving my hands. For I would warn them farther off. And at our shouting, the man did but get upon the rail, still holding by the stanchion, and lean far out, and put his hand behind his ear. For the wind whipped the words out of our mouths before they were well spoken, and they reached him not at all. And the yacht was but a length from the rock. And the man understood, though he could not hear, and he leaned yet farther out, to call up to the captain; but the captain had understood, too, and she was already turning. And as we looked and held our breath for fear, she struck with a great shock and careened, and the great seas dashed high and hid her for a moment. And when she rolled back again and I could see, the man was gone.
Then Eve shrieked and I cursed, under my breath, and I hurried to shore; and hastily I stripped off my coats and cast down my sou’wester upon them as they lay, and tried to pull off my boots. But they were filled full with water from my wading, and would not come. So I pulled out my knife and ripped them down the side; for I was of no mind to be weighted down with rubber boots. Then they came off easily enough, and I rose and looked at Eve.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “can you swim--in that water?”
I looked out upon the water that was roaring and racing. A fish might fail to swim on the top of that water, and be well excused for failing. And I was no fish, though I could swim passing well.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then,” said Eve, “go, and God keep you!” And she kissed me, taking no shame to herself that her father saw, and those on the yacht--they had little leisure for observing--and some of my neighbors, who had gathered near,--who had leisure.
And, with that kiss upon my lips, I could have gone to my death with a light heart; indeed, I knew not but that I was going to it. So I plunged in and swam, thinking as I went, with some bitterness, that here was I, risking my life for a man who was come but to give me trouble. Truly, I thought, he has begun well, and it will be no strange matter if the beginning and the ending are the same. Then I was come to an end of my shelter, and the wind tore at me, and the waves buffeted me, so that I was forced to give all my thought to my swimming; and that was well, too.
Now I have no purpose to give an account of my fool’s errand that I had swum out upon, for thus should I be but a boaster and a braggart and one marked out for destruction. But I found the man,--I do not well know how,--and I brought him to shore, to Eve and Old Goodwin waiting there; and I do not well know how I did that either. And there I left him, to be cared for by those same neighbors of mine, and to recover or not, as it happed him. But I turned to Eve before I went, and she was crying softly.
“Oh, Adam, Adam,” she said; and with that she stopped and said no more, for she could not speak. But she put her arms about me, all wet as I was, and held me tight, and I heard her voice whispering, but I could make out no words. And when she had made an end of her whispering, she let me go.
“Now, Adam,” she said, “you are all wet, and you are all weary. Do you go home and get off those wet clothes, and rest yourself. And when you are all rested I will come and tell you how he is.”
So I went, and weary I must have been, for I thought not to marvel that Eve should come to my house, and I gave no thought to the yacht, that had been in evil case enough when I saw her last. And as I plodded along the shore, it chanced that I glanced out upon the water. For the wind was beginning to fall already. And the yacht was on the rock, where she had struck, but she had swung clean around, so that her bow was toward the seas, and she seemed like to slide off. And as I looked, a boat put out from shore and pulled toward her. After all, my neighbors have their good points.
And when I had got into dry clothes and had swallowed a draught of hot tea I felt somewhat rested. So I went out and sat me down on the seat under my pine. From that place I could see the west, and the clouds were somewhat broken and driving fast, but no glimpse of the sun yet, though he must be near his setting. And out upon the water lay the yacht, at anchor in a spot that was sheltered, and she was well down by the head. About her, like a flock of crows, were some small boats. And I looked no more upon the yacht, but I gazed at the tree like a spire, that should show against the sun’s disk as he set, and I thought with bitterness on what I had done; and my thoughts were the thoughts of Ahab. In the bitterness of my heart I spoke aloud.
“Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?”
And, even as I spoke, I heard behind me the light step that I knew and loved, and there was Eve. And she sat upon the seat beside me.
I looked at her questioning. “Is it well?” I asked.
She smiled up at me. “It is well,” she answered; and my bitterness fell from me as a garment, and I marveled that it was so.
And so we sat and saw the twilight fail, early, and the night fall. And out upon the water, a light marked where the yacht lay at her anchor, and the light bowed slowly, up and down; for there yet was a swell coming in, although the wind had fallen. And peace fell upon my spirit, and a great content.
* * * * *
Under my great pine is a pleasant place for a man--or for a Daughter of the Rich, as I make bold to guess--with a heart at ease. And for a certain rich man it might, indeed, be pleasant under my pine,--I did not know. But I was to find out, for a week had gone by since I hauled him ashore like any drifting mess of seaweed, and with no more life in him, as it seemed, than in the weed; his legs and his arms trailing in the water. And, Eve asking it, I invited him to my clambake that I made to pleasure Old Goodwin. From my seat against the tree he might look out upon my clam beds. But it might well be that he would not care for clam beds; for every Rich man is not an Old Goodwin. And he might see, too, the place where he so nearly lost his life. And it might well be that he would not care for that, either. But he should have the chance. And, to make the tale complete, I had asked Mrs. Goodwin, too.