Part 5

It was there, just without the shadow of the pine, that the hole was scooped in the ground, and lined with great stones. Indeed, this was already done; for had I not had a clambake there? And, that I might not forget it--there was little danger of my forgetting--and, too, that I might have other clambakes, I had left the hole as it was, and the 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. And Old Goodwin helped me, and he whistled as he worked. He was no artist at the whistling, but yet it gave me pleasure to see him so well pleased, so that I must needs join him in his whistling; and I am no artist at it, either. But we were merry at our whistling, and we made so great a racket with it that any one would have thought to hear us, there was a flock of strange birds and it was springtime; instead of which it was fall and the birds had left, except some robins and some sparrows and the meadow-larks. And even they were silent. And the terns had gone, too,--that always marks the change of season, for me,--and the winter gulls had come to take their place.

And when, at last, we had the embers all raked off and the stones clean, Old Goodwin leaned upon his rake and wiped his forehead. It was hot there, so near the hot stones, and the fire just burned out. And he began to laugh, for sheer pleasure and for the merriment that he might hold in no longer; and, laughing, he could whistle no more.

“Adam,” he said, “do you know what it is that you are whistling?”

And I stopped long enough to answer. “No,” I said. “It does not matter. Make a glad noise.”

And, with that, I began to sing; and I am only worse at singing than I am at whistling. But what cared I? And Old Goodwin, as soon as he could, for his laughter, joined me in singing. And he sang worse than I. But we cared not at all,--our hearts were at ease,--and took our forks and shook down upon the stones fresh seaweed from the pile, and on the seaweed laid the clams that I had digged that morning. Then, more seaweed; and the other things, according to their season, orderly, in layers: the lobsters, and the fish, fresh caught, and the chicken, not too fresh, and sweet potatoes and white, and the last of my corn that had survived the storm. I had a fear that the ears might not be well filled--but it was fresh and tender. And over all we piled the weed and made a dome that smoked and steamed and filled the air with incense.

Then, our work done, we sat there and looked out, and were silent. At last Old Goodwin spoke, and he was looking at the smoking dome.

“Adam,” he said, “will there be another clambake after this?”

“I fear not,” I answered. “For it gets on toward winter, and it will be too cold. But when summer comes again we may have many, we three.”

He looked at me and smiled. “I feared this was the last,” he said. “But when summer comes again we will have many--God willing. You are good to please an old man so. I thank you, Adam.”

Now that was nothing more than a figure of speech for him to call himself an old man. For he was a very boy, and could whistle and sing and dig clams and mess about, and youth was in his heart. And who, having youth in his heart, can be rightly called old? Indeed, in point of years, he was not old; for he was not turned sixty, as I should have guessed. But he was again silent, gazing at the smoking dome of weed, and I made no answer, but I gazed out over the water. And presently Old Goodwin rose and went to garb himself, for he was dressed in his clammer’s clothes, that were well stained with mud and with salt water and with clams. And then I, too, would change my clothes, for I was no better dressed than he.

And when I was all arrayed I set out along the shore, and my heart-beat was too high, by far; but my spirits were high, too, so that I scarce kept from singing aloud, or from waving my arms and shouting at the deep-sounding sea. But I remembered that certain Rich man that I was to meet. What would he think of a clammer that sang aloud, by himself,--and most outrageously,--or that shouted an occasional line from Homer--what could he think, but that I knew no better--and no more? So I strode along the shore and came to the bank where the sod broke off to the sand and the pebbles shone in the sun; for the storm had spared them. And I sat not down, but paced to and fro. And soon came Eve, and up leaped my heart into my throat and choked me; and behind her came Old Goodwin and that other Rich man. A moment only Eve smiled at me and then she stood aside. And that other Rich man stepped forward and broke in upon Old Goodwin’s speech; for he would have introduced us.

“We need no introduction,” he said. “Thanks seem a poor thing enough to give in return for my life, but I can offer you no more.”

I took the hand he held out, and I murmured something, I know not what, about its being of no consequence,--which, indeed, it was not, though I should not have said so. And we looked each other up and down, and either measured other. And what he thought of me I did not know--nor care.

So we wended along the shore to the steep path, and Eve walked beside me. She was not in white now, for it was cool, with a sharp wind out of the northwest. Indeed, what she had on I did not know--some dark stuff gown that well became her--I was not looking at her gown. No doubt I was grinning like any idiot; but I did not hold her hand, for behind us walked Old Goodwin and that Rich man--that Rich man that I would have cast into the sea so short a time before. And, walking so, we came to the steep path and climbed it, and we stood beneath my pine. And before the seat against the tree stood my table that I had made large enough for four; but the seat was unchanged, and it held but two.

Old Goodwin looked upon the seat, and he said no word, but he smiled his quiet smile and betook him to my shed. I bethought me of the other guest that I had asked.

“And Mrs. Goodwin?” I said. “Will she not come?” But I did but jest, for I had had no idea that she would come.

And that Rich man spoke, and what he said was a surprise to me. “Mrs. Goodwin wished me to say,” said he, “that she feared to catch cold as the wind is somewhat biting. But she thanks you for asking her.”

Then I looked at Eve, and she seemed surprised, too. But Old Goodwin had found his box that he had sat upon before, and he brought it out and set it by the table.

“I will sit here,” he said. “I have an affection for this box. It tilts nicely.”

And that other stared a moment. “I wonder,” he said at last, “if there is another--no, no.” For I had started for the shed. “Let me get it.”

And I laughed and nodded, and he went. And we heard a tremendous racket, and presently he came, bringing a box that was the fellow to Old Goodwin’s. Laughing, too, he set it down.

“There!” he said. “And now for the clams.” He looked at me. “Is there a fork for me? You must let me help.”

“Heaven forbid!” I said hastily. “You and Eve are the guests.”

And so Eve and he sat, while Old Goodwin helped me. And I took my fork and opened the smoking dome, and together we set upon the table corn and potatoes, both sweet and white, and a chicken and some 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; but not deep, for soon we should want more clams--and more fish and another chicken, for here were three good men to eat them; and what three men can eat at a clambake is nothing less than a marvel. Eve did her part, too. And Old Goodwin, setting the things upon the table, was as pleased as Punch. And as I pitched the weed, again I heard Eve laughing.

“Now, who would believe,” she said, “that had not seen,”--

But Old Goodwin interrupted her cheerily. “Not a bit too much--not half enough,” he said.

So Eve and I sat side by side upon the bench, and the two Rich men sat opposite, on their boxes. And no sound was heard save the noise of the wind that whispered softly in the tree above, and the noise of the clam shells as they struck upon the ground among their fellows that had gone before. And if we spoke little or not at all, but only ate, we were merry at our eating, which, as I have heard, wards off dyspepsia. For dyspepsia abides not with them that are merry, but is mortally afraid of a laugh. And those two Rich men got to tilting back and forth upon their boxes--they had been too busy at the first--and, having eaten a prodigious quantity of clams and all things else, they fell a-laughing as they had been two boys; and they called for more clams. So I opened the bake again, and, behold, there were no clams left, not one, so that I marveled at it.

I must have looked blank with astonishment. “Now who would have supposed,” said I, “that we could have eaten them all? For I thought that I had had enough for six at least.”

At that Old Goodwin burst out laughing afresh. “If you could have seen your face, Adam! But never mind. No doubt we have eaten more than is good for us, as it is.”

“I am sure of that,” I observed. And the two Rich men, filled full of lobster and corn and clams, did but laugh again, and they tilted upon their boxes. And I was filled full, too, but with content more than with clams, so that the wind that sighed in my pine sighed merrily.

We sat long at my little table under my great tree, but at last it was cold, for the sun was gone behind a black cloud. And Old Goodwin rose, reluctantly, and that other Rich man rose too, and his pocket that had been toward Old Goodwin bulged. And when he emptied it there were clam shells that Old Goodwin had deposited there. And he laughed--I thought him good to laugh--I fear that, in his place, I should not have laughed--and he chased Old Goodwin. And when he had caught him and had filled his pocket with the shells, he came and stood before us, where we yet sat upon the seat.

“I have to thank you,” he said to me, and his laugh was gone, “for the pleasantest time and the most delicious feast that I have had in many a long day.” Then he hesitated and looked away a moment; but presently his eyes came back to mine. “You are a better man than I am, Adam, and better worthy of her. From my heart I wish you joy. I shall not come again to plague you.” Again he looked away. “And I shall say as much to Mrs. Goodwin,--with your permission.”

And I stood, and took the hand he offered; but I did not speak. I could not for a moment. Then I mumbled something, I know not what, about his kindness. But it did not matter what I said. And my heart warmed to him, and I was sorry for him--he had lost so much--but he took it as a man should. I thought nothing of his having called me Adam; indeed, I doubted if he knew it. And so he went, quickly, without so much as looking back, and Old Goodwin followed him as quickly, and they went down the steep path, and we heard their laughter. And I turned to Eve, and she smiled up at me.

“Oh, Adam,” she cried, softly, “if we only could!”

“We can but try, Eve,” I answered, smiling back at her; “and we will. He seems worth it.” And then I mused awhile, and at last I spoke my thoughts. “Eve,” I said, “why did you choose me?”

She looked at me, her eyes wide. “Why did I choose you?” she asked, perplexed. “What do you mean, Adam? Would you give me up?”

“Now, God forbid,” I cried, “that I should do that thing! What man, having got you, would give you up? But that Rich man”--

She laughed, a merry laugh. “Why, that is simple--as simple as life itself. I chose you because I loved you, and I did not love that Rich man. And why it should be so I do not know.”

And what I did at that, I leave it to any to guess; for Old Goodwin was gone and that other, and there was no one there save only Eve and me, under my great tree.

“I thank Heaven that it is so,” I said, at last, “and what the reason is I do not care.”

And, at that, the black cloud that was before the sun spilled a few drops, great drops that splashed as they struck. For it was well over us, and almost passed.

Eve was distressed. “Adam,” she said, “do you believe in signs?”

“Yes,” I answered, “if you like. Would you take that cloud to be a sign?”

She nodded, saying nothing.

“Well,” said I, rising, “so be it. But come where we can see the east, and I will interpret for you.”

So she rose, too, and together we went down the steep path and along the shore. And as we went I interpreted for her in this wise.

“The shadow of that cloud, Eve, that seems so black, is the shadow of a sorrow. And the cause is the behavior of your mother, who will have none of me for a son-in-law,--who says that she will not come to your wedding--if I am there. And the drops are your tears,--or hers; for I do not doubt that she has shed many tears over this same matter. But the cloud, although it is black, is not large and it is passed. Look, Eve; you can see the sun.”

And as I spoke, the sun was peeping under the western edge, and we saw his disk grow until we could look at him no longer. And we were come to the bank, where the pebbles shone red in the sun. For he was near his setting.

“Now,” said I, “I may have to wait some while for the rest of my interpreting.”

And we waited, watching in silence, for some minutes. And the cloud was gone from above us, into the east, and there were no more drops; but under the cloud it was raining hard. And there began to form a bow: first a patch of color here and a patch there; then, gradually, the patches joined by fainter parts; then those faint parts brightened into a perfect bow with its ends dipping into the sea, and with all its colors perfect. And as we gazed there formed, within the first, another bow, and yet a third--though one must look hard to find it.

“Indeed, Eve,” I said softly, “it needs no interpreter.”

And Eve smiled up at me. But the marvels were not yet done; for there came broad sheaves of light that over-spread the bows, but did not hide them. And there, at the centre of the bows, was a tiny sail; and the sail was brighter than aught else, and it was as if the sheaves of light had issued from it. And above were great masses of cloud, roll upon roll, and the sun, in his setting, spread them with all manner of saffron and scarlet and crimson, and with all the delicate shades of pink that are known to man--and with many that man, with all his skill, knows nothing of. But the shadows were blue or lilac or purple. And we gazed long, until the brightness began to fade. Then Eve sighed, saying nothing. The sun had dropped behind the western hills; and the twilight faded swiftly, and the night was come.

* * * * *

There is a restlessness that seizes upon men in certain case. I had felt it before, and had wandered the shores with my basket upon my arm and my hoe in my hand; and I had digged here and there as the fancy took me. But the clams that I digged lay forgotten upon the sands, to bury themselves once more; while I, seated upon a barnacle-covered rock--or even standing--gazed and gazed and saw nothing of what was before me until the tide, lapping about my ankles, brought me to myself. And then, with a heart-breaking sigh, I would shoulder my hoe and again betake me to wandering the shores. Then Eve had been the cause, for I had not got her; but at least I might find my content again at sunset, when I sat upon the bank, where the sod breaks off to the sand, with her beside me. Now, Eve was the cause, too, and my content was fled from me; and though I might sit upon the bank, I sat alone, or with no one but Old Goodwin. And Old Goodwin was well enough, but he was not Eve. And I had no joy in the colors that the Great Painter spread so lavishly, but was ill-tempered and out of sorts, giving short answers to the remarks Old Goodwin made, and never sitting still five minutes. And Old Goodwin but smiled his quiet smile and was very patient with me; he knew well the cause of my sour temper. For Eve had betaken herself to the city, that she might the better make preparation for a certain Event. What Event that was, it is but a dullard that cannot guess; and it was eighty days off, and then it was seventy. Eighty æons--with Eve away. But I diverted myself by counting it in hours, then in minutes. It was a prodigious number of minutes--but I took what comfort I might in it.

Then, one morning, I awoke at dawn, and, as I leaned from my window, I saw the ground all white with frost. Then the east was grown all red, a narrow line of color changing to yellow and a faint green, and on a sudden the sun popped up. And then I got to thinking of that other dawn that Eve and I had seen, and content abode with me no longer. And I drew in my head and dressed in sullen haste and went down to breakfast. It was a good breakfast, but gall and wormwood had been sweeter in my mouth if I could but find again that peace I sought; and, having done, I lighted my pipe and went forth. Sighing, I betook me--not to the shore--I had traveled that until I knew each pebble, and I had not found content; but the woods were gorgeous--I betook me to the woods. Perchance content had taken refuge there.

So all that day I wandered the wood, seeing the red of the dogwood and of the sumach, the reds and yellows of the maples, and the yellow leaves of the birches showing against the white trunks; and here and there a clump of pine, their dark green the darker for the color with which they were surrounded. But I found no beauty in any. Truly content was not there; or, if it were, I found it not. And I saw the seed-pods lifting on their dry stems, and the rotting logs and the dead leaves. I sat me down on a log, and from my pocket I drew forth a bundle of letters. They were Eve’s letters--and one for each day that she had been gone from me--and I read them all through again--for the hundredth time. When I was done the sun was on his downward journey, and I had found some measure of peace--and I bethought me that it was almost time for another letter. I seized my stick and hurried home.

And with days like this one, or, later, with days when I sat moping before my fire, a book in my hand, my tale of days was coming to an end. I had great fireplaces, fitting for the chimneys, and I would gaze deep into the glowing heart of one of them, my book forgotten. I thanked Heaven that I was alone. For I was no less than a fool. I knew it well; but I had no power to do otherwise--the veriest lovesick boy might give me points--and then would come the postman’s knock at the door--I knew that knock, you may be sure, and, as it went clattering through the house,--before its echoes had died away,--I was on my feet, and running. And I would open to him, and he, with a knowing smile, would hand me my letter, and make some foolish remark about the weather. The weather, forsooth! What knew I about the weather? It might be raining great guns, but for me the sun was shining--with that letter. And so I made him some answer--which was as like to be wise as foolish, for I doubt if he ever heard it clearly--I do not remember one of those answers--and I shut the door before he was well turned about, and I hurried back to my fire to read--but not my book.

So at last my tale of days was done, and Eve was come home. And I awoke one morning to see a thin skimming of ice, crisp and crackling, spread over every shallow pool, and it was well into November. And my breakfast was ambrosia and nectar, being the same that had been gall and wormwood before; for Eve was come. And if I did not eat much, why, that lovesick boy that I have mentioned can tell you why it was. Then having done, I hurried off, and on every shallow pool that was skimmed with ice I slid. And the ice rose up before my feet, and broke into a thousand pieces behind them; but I did not wet so much as the sole of my shoe. And I hurried over to my clam beds; for there, I thought, shall I find my lost content.

The sun lay warm upon the bank, where the pebbles shone in the sun, but no Eve was there. And I paced to and fro, fuming with impatience, my head down upon my breast. For I found not content, having been certain that I should find it that had been lost to me for a month and more. And as I paced the shore, to and fro, there came a light touch upon my shoulder. I turned swiftly, and there was Eve, her eyes shining. And I--but I know not what I did--and, if I knew, I would not tell.

“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking, “you were gone so long!”

And she only smiled up at me, the same smile that I had seen so often in my dreaming before my fire; and I knew that I had found again that peace that had been so long lost. And what we did then is for my Eve and me to remember; but presently we found ourselves sitting upon the bank, and the ice was gone from the shore and the sun shone warm.

“And when shall I see,” I asked, “your finery? So long a visit should accomplish much.”

She laughed, a merry laugh. “Shall a bride not be properly fitted out?” she answered. And she said it softly, as if she were half ashamed; and at that I kissed her,--I could not help it. Eve did not chide me for it. “And you shall see all my finery--on Christmas day, or any day after.”

Then I looked blank, I do not doubt, and she laughed again her merry laugh. For Christmas day is to be our wedding day. But I had Eve. That was enough--and she had promised that she would not go away again. And we sat there, talking or silent, as the whim took us, until Eve was cold.

So the days passed, and I was happy; and the leaves of the wood, that had been red and yellow and bronze, turned to a dull brown and fell, whirling; but the oaks kept theirs, and they rattled in each breeze. And the ice formed on the shore, great jagged cakes that covered my clam beds and the bank as well, so that we could not see the pebbles. And though the sunsets came earlier with each day that passed, it was become too cold to stay and see them. But the days of my waiting were grown less and less, till there was but one left. Still, there was no snow. And the morrow was Christmas day.

I was prowling the shores that morning, looking for Eve--as I ever did when I was not with her. And as I made my way carefully among the broken cakes of ice that the tide had left, I saw her coming down the path under the trees. I hurried--and looked again--and, behold, it was not Eve at all, but a lady clad in furs, and seeming proud and haughty. And she came near the bank, and so did I.

“I wished to speak with you,” she said. And I bowed low. But what she said next astonished me.

“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she said again, her head high,--“and you a fisherman!”

Again I bowed low, saying nothing. What should I say to that? Had she not been told? I had ado not to laugh--but I did not, only bowed. And yet again she spoke.

“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she repeated; “but I will come to your wedding--to my daughter’s wedding. I wished you to know that, so I came to tell you.”

And I thought she would have wept, but she did not. For she was proud--and now I realized where my Eve had got her beauty. But I had found my tongue at last.

“I thank you, madam,” said I; “and I am grateful for so little. I should be the more grateful for a little more--for Eve’s sake more than for my own--I am not your enemy, come to rob you, and if you would”--

“You have robbed me of a daughter,” she broke in, and turned swiftly, and was gone up the path, her head high. But I could hear her weeping, though she tried to still it. And so I stood and watched her out of sight among the trees.

I was telling Eve of it that afternoon. And the sun was low, though it was early. Eve listened in silence, watching the sun.

“Let us stay and say good-night to him,” she said, at last.

“With all my heart,” I answered. “But let us walk, Eve. You will be the warmer.”