Part 6

And so she slipped her hand within my arm, and we walked to and fro along the shore, and we watched the sun. And, on a sudden, I looked at Eve, and her eyes were filled with tears. And I stopped short.

“What is it, Eve?” I asked.

“This is the last sunset, Adam,” she said softly, “that Eve Goodwin will ever see.”

And the tears fell, and she was weeping. My heart stood still.

“And you are sorry, Eve?” I said; and I scarce knew my own voice. “Would you draw back?”

“No, oh, no, Adam,” she cried. “Not that--I did not mean that. I do not regret--anything. But--let me cry a little.”

“Cry to your heart’s content,” I said, and smiled upon her; for my heart was going again--like a hammer.

And so she wept and smiled at once, and then she wept again. And presently she was done, her heart eased. And the sun was sitting on the western hills.

“See,” I said. “He has stopped his southern journey, and has started back again.”

And Eve said nothing, but she clasped my fingers close in hers, and we saw the sun spreading the still waters with all manner of reds and purples and shimmering greens. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind the hills, we saluted. And Eve murmured something, I knew not what.

“Good-night, Adam,” she said.

“Good-night, Eve--for the last time,” I whispered in return.

And she fled up the path under the trees.

For to-morrow will be Christmas day; to-morrow the gates will open.

III

OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE

OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE

My friends like me well enough, as I have some reason to suppose; for although I am as peculiar as I ever was, they no longer remonstrate with me as they used to do. Perhaps they think that marriage has cured me of all my queerness--the summer is not yet come to prove the contrary. And I may be sure that, when it does come, I shall roam the shores, as I ever did, and hunt the elusive clam, as I ever did; and dig, or gaze, as ever; and whether the one or the other, depends upon my fancy at the moment. But if I do as I was wont to do, I shall not roam the shores alone. Eve will roam with me; and there will be two clam hoes in my shed, and two pairs of rubber boots reposing in the closet--when they are not in use, which is like to be seldom. And the one pair will be large and clumsy, and well stained with much wading through mud, while the other pair will be small and dainty--yes, even dainty, though they be rubber boots--and--well--not overmuch stained, though she wade even as I. Rubber boots--for clamming--cannot be kept spotless, nor should they be, if they could. But there will be but the one basket, to serve us both. I may be sure of this, I say; but they think, forsooth, that I will have done with such foolishness--now that I am married. Wherefore, they have given over their remonstrating.

But I note that I am more popular than I was. Some of them are always to be found at my house--not the same ones, but one or mayhap two will come in of an evening and sit before my fire. My fire goes not out, ever, nor does it roar; but always there are coals in plenty, so that the logs blaze gently and send out heat. I love it so, quiet and peaceful, for it makes my content the greater--a roaring fire makes me uneasy, even though I have confidence in my chimney. And my content would be enough in any case, with a friend sitting on the one side, and my wife sitting on the other; and I--but I sit in the deep shadow, to watch Eve the better. I love to watch her, and I would not be watched; for thus I can think my thoughts--and not be bothered with knowing that I am showing them too plainly in my face. For I have not been married long--not long enough to show my feelings plainly and not to care what people think.

And if I cleave to candles--as a clammer should--what matter? Five of them give a pretty light, and a candle is long enough for an evening, even though it is winter. A short candle is as good as a clock--better, I think--for serving notice when to go. My friends have learned that, too; and when the candles have become no more than stumps, they are wont to jump up hastily, say their good-nights and be gone. And as I cover the fire, to save coals for the morning wherewith to kindle it afresh, I bethink me of my mighty wood-pile out by my shed--it is mighty even now, and the winter nearly gone--and I smile to myself, so that I am smiling yet as I rise from my task. Eve, seeing that, smiles, too, although she knows not what she is smiling at; but her smile is ever ready--ready and waiting that it break forth, like the gentle sunshine--and she holds her hand to me. And I, having taken it, blow out the candles, and we mount the stairs together.

Yes, my friends like me well enough, as I have some reason to suppose; but my neighbors do not, as I have also some reason to suppose. And if I have no great love for them, the reason therefor is not far to seek. For they ever have seemed to think me one to be laughed at and made game of,--they knew no better, which I suppose I should have remembered,--well knowing that they might make their petty jests with impunity. And sometimes I have wondered whether it were not better to answer fools according to their folly; but my witticisms they would not comprehend, and I have held back from that, although the provocation was often great enough. For they never let slip an opportunity--and there were a plenty--of letting me hear their loud laughter as I passed them by chance; or even making a jest of me in my hearing. So that it has come to pass that I despise them; and I have withdrawn my foot from my neighbor’s house, now these many years, for weary of him I am already. But now I find these same neighbors are well like to become my visitors, which would plague me mightily. And I marveled at it.

I was thinking upon this matter one evening, sitting by my fire. And, for a wonder, no friend was there, but Eve sat by the fire, too, a book in her hand and her sewing basket near. For Eve, not having been brought up to sew,--save embroidery, if that be called sewing,--has developed, suddenly, a great desire for it, so that she always has her basket by her. But this evening, whereof I speak, she was not sewing, nor reading either, though she had a book in her hand; but her hand lay in her lap for the most part, and now and then I caught her glancing at me; and when I did so catch her, she smiled at me. So I smiled, too, and at last I leaned toward her.

“Eve,” I said, “why do you smile?”

And, at that, she did but smile the more. “Why should it be, Adam,” she answered, “except that I am happy?”

And she leaned toward me, too, and our heads were very close, and it happened that the book she had been holding slid from her lap and fell upon the floor; which should have grieved me, for it was one of my favorites and bound in full calf, with hand tooling around the edges. But I scarcely noticed it. I reached forth my hand, and it met hers, which was reaching out for mine; and I looked deep into her eyes--eyes swimming in tenderness--eyes like-- No, I will not say it, for it has been said too often--though there is some excuse for the poets. And after some while I spoke.

“I am glad that you are happy,” I said; “and I am glad that there is no one here to-night--except only us two.”

And Eve said nothing, but I knew that she was glad as well as I.

“There are times,” I continued, “when I could wish that my friends were--less my friends. It is pleasant to have them--I am glad that they like to come--but they might give us more than one evening a week to spend together.”

Again Eve said nothing, but again she smiled; and, smiling, it chanced that her eyes fell upon the book that was lying where it had fallen, face downward, upon the floor.

“Oh, the poor book!” she cried; and stooped to pick it up. And I stooped, too, so that we were near bumping our heads; which somewhat delayed the rescue of the book. And, when it was done, it befell that Eve’s hair was a bit rumpled and she had a pretty flush.

“Now, Adam,” said she, “you must tell me the matter that bothered you. For I know well enough that it was not your friends.”

I looked at her in some amusement. “Why,” I answered, “that is true. I marvel that you should have guessed it, although my marveling is not so great as it was, for women have a way of getting at the meat of a matter without being at the trouble of cracking the shell. Oh, I am learning. And whom should I tell if not my wife?”

Eve laughed, a low laugh and sweet. “I am to be the sharer of your sorrows,” she said, “hereafter. Remember that, Adam. And now out with it.”

And I did out with it. “It is my neighbors that bother me,” I said. “For I see plainly that they are well like to become my visitors; and they like me not at all, nor ever did. I know no reason why they should have had a change of heart. Certainly it is none of my doing.”

Eve did not answer this directly, but sat looking at me with a queer smile, so that I grew restive under it.

“Adam,” she said, “do you believe that Solomon was a wise man?”

“I was brought up in that belief,” I observed, “but, notwithstanding, I have my doubts.”

“Oh, you have your doubts?” she asked. “And why do you doubt his wisdom?”

“For the best reason in the world,” I answered; and I laughed as I spoke. “And I hold that I am wiser than he--as I have said before. For he had seven hundred wives while I have one--but that one, Eve”--

But Eve had stopped my mouth. “Now, Adam,” she said, “I have missed some pretty speech of yours--and I love your pretty speeches--but you may make another for me when I am done. For I have a purpose. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was sure that you had. You generally have a purpose--which you invariably accomplish. So ask, and I will answer; and if my answers are not what are expected of me it will be but my misfortune. My intentions are of the best.”

And, at that, she laughed. “Well, then,” she said, “was not Solomon a wise man?”

“He had that reputation,” I replied meekly; “and I believe that he has it still--though it is a marvel to me that a dead man can have anything in this world. Yes, I think there can be no doubt that he was the wisest man in the world.”

“That will do--nicely, on the whole,” said Eve, having weighed my answer carefully, “although it leaves something to be desired. Now,--do you know what Solomon said about despising your neighbors?”

She was looking down--and trembling at her boldness, I made no doubt--and so she did not see the look of grieved astonishment that came into my face. I was silent for some while, trying to recall just what Solomon did say about despising one’s neighbors. He said such a vast number of things. And, at last, Eve looked up,--and I saw that she had not been trembling at her boldness, for she was quite at her ease, and smiling at me.

“Eve,” I said, and I tried to be severe--but failed lamentably, for I smiled, too; and there is some excuse for me, for how could any one, meeting that smile of hers, remember such a purpose? “Eve,” I said, “I did not think it of you, that you would thus put your own husband to shame. For I do remember, and would you imply that I am void of wisdom? I have no doubt that I, myself, could write proverbs well enough”--

But Eve interrupted me. “Do you remember,” she asked, “the Welsh giant?”

Now what had the Welsh giant to do with it? “I was about to say,” I continued, “when you interrupted me, that I had no doubt that I, myself, could write proverbs,--quite passable proverbs,--if Solomon had not covered the field completely, some thousands of years ago.”

And I looked at Eve--but she was leaning back in her chair, looking at me and smiling still; and she made me no answer. So I resumed.

“Out of my own mouth,” I said, “have you convicted me. But there is yet more, Eve. Do you remember what it is?”

And, on a sudden, she had left her chair and was on the arm of mine; and when she had made an end of rumpling my hair, she spoke.

“So you think, Adam,” she said, “that you have proved yourself a man of understanding? Well, then, perhaps you have. But you may have these same neighbors to visit with you, for I find much good in them. And now,” she added, with a blush that well became her, “I must sew.”

So again she sat her in her chair and she took her basket from the table; and, with another glance at me--a glance half shy and wholly sweet--she drew forth, from some secret place, her sewing. And I sat watching her, a tender smile upon my face--or what passed for that--Eve seemed to like it--and I thought my thoughts. They were pleasant thoughts. And Eve’s sewing--it was as if she were dressing a doll. As I watched her fingers moving skillfully, but with no haste, I marveled that she sewed so well; and as I watched her face I marveled yet again. For her face was filled with love--a love that was not for me--filled with love and a great yearning. And all that love she seemed to sew into the little thing within her hands. But ever she had more, that each stitch was done with it and yet it grew with every stitch she took. And again Eve glanced up at me. I did but smile the more, until I grinned like any Cheshire cat.

“Eve,” I said, “how do you know that they will fit”--I considered, and saw nothing else for it--“how do you know that they will fit it?”

But I was wrong. “_It!_” she cried. “_It!_ Adam, I take shame to myself that you would so call your first-born. _Him_, sir. I am sure of it.” She put her sewing down, tenderly, and came to me. And her arms were around my neck and her face was hidden on my shoulder. “Adam, Adam,” she whispered, “my love for him is become so big, it hurts. How can I bear to wait all the long months until I see him--my son? How can I, Adam?”

And I--what could I do--or say? What but comfort her as best I might? And God knows I had the best will in the world to it, but the fashion of it was poor enough.

“In the fullness of time, Eve,” I whispered. “In the fullness of time.”

But she seemed to take some comfort from my words--or mayhap the intent. So she lay as she was, but in some while she went back to her sewing again. She held it up, for me to see; and I could but wonder that any piece of humanity should be such a morsel as to go into that garment. I said as much. But Eve only smiled and fell to sewing--her eyes very bright.

As Eve sewed, I fell to musing on what she said about my neighbors. For she was right, as she was ever, and I had not seen the good that was in them--I had not been at the pains to see it, though I knew it was there; and I had flattered myself that I had held my peace, and thereby had proved me a man of understanding. And I saw plainly--I might as well have stood upon the corner of the street and cried aloud unto Heaven, giving thanks that I was not as other men--until the bubble of my conceit had been pricked by Eve--and how gently! And presently the candles were burned low, and Eve, glancing at them, put her sewing by, and I knew that the time was come for me to cover the fire.

That done, I took the hand that Eve held out and I blew out the candles, and I was moved to kiss the hand I held.

“For you have shown me, Eve,” I said, “that I have been in the wrong. I will not withhold good from them to whom it is due. And I bless God for my wife.”

For I felt very humble. And what answer I got to that I shall not tell; but it satisfied me, and we mounted the stairs together.

I opened my window wide. There was the steady drip of melting snow, and the air held a hint of spring, but the stars were bright. And, gazing at them, I thought upon my son that was to be--or haply a daughter, it mattered not which--and I remembered the time when I first knew it. There had been the start of surprise, the impulse at rejoicing--then the dread of it--the fear for Eve. And she had seen them all. She hung upon my neck, weeping with the joy of it.

“Never fear for me, dear,” she cried, “never fear for me. But rejoice exceedingly.”

And so I did. And I gazed at a faint star--a little one, just showing to the naked eye--and as I gazed, I thought that I saw the eyes of my son looking at me with an infinite knowledge and compassion--and an infinite love. And as I gazed, behold, the eyes were the eyes of Eve. And if my son shall have the spirit that his mother has I shall be well content. So thinking, I turned from the window and got me into bed; and having drawn the covers close, I slept.

* * * * *

One may guess that my friends did not desert me--so long as Eve was there; and she was like to be there long. For if it had not been well with Eve, this story had never been written. There is grief enough in the world without my adding to the sum of it--and I doubt much if I should have the heart to write it down. So I kept my friends, and they came as they had been wont and sat them by my fire; but I noted that they sat not still, but they were apt to rise and stroll about the room, and then they sat only to rise again. For the season got on towards spring; and spring ever breeds a restless fire in the bones of man that grows and glows until he can get him out-of-doors again. Then he finds that peace that seemed like to escape him. I doubted if my friends knew what ailed them--even knew that they were restless; but I knew well. And I advised with them and counseled that they turn their thoughts to gardening--and their restless bodies, too. For a man must needs do his digging for himself. What is a hired gardener but an abomination? Let a man dig, if he would find peace. It has taken refuge in the earth; and he that seeks shall find it.

So I watched the snow melt on my garden and the ground soften; and it was come to the first week in April. But the ground was too wet for working--I tried it, every day, with my hoe, and the earth clung to the hoe; for it was but mud, and the frost went deep. But at last came a day when the earth clung no longer, but came away and left the hoe clean. And I knew that the spring had come. And, having made the test, I hurried to the house.

“Eve,” I shouted--I must needs shout, with the spring rioting in my veins. “Eve, the spring is here!”

And Eve laughed--and came out a door at my elbow. “Why do you shout it so, Adam? Have I not known it this last month? For the song sparrows came long since, and the bluebirds, and it is weeks since I saw the first robin. And now the birds are coming fast. Why shout it? As well come in and shout that the sun is shining.”

“Truly that would be well done, too,” I answered, “for the sun shines as it has not shone these many months. And a song sparrow does not make a spring,--he comes while it is yet winter, and so do the bluebirds. And I must dig, Eve, or I shall burst.” And, with that, I seized her about the waist and whirled her until we both were dizzy; and, with a kiss, I released her, and she leaned against the door, laughing again.

There she leaned until she had got back her breath. “I suppose you will have me to see your digging,” she said then, “and there is no help for it.” But she smiled as she spoke, that I knew she was minded to it as well as I. “Well, then, I will get my things on, and come.”

So I had what I wanted, and I betook me to my digging. And soon came Eve, in her coat; for she did no digging, and the air held some faint chill, though the sun shone warm. And, with our digging and our planning, we were busy for some while; but at last I straightened up, and there was Judson, leaning upon his fence and watching us.

Now Judson lives next me, on the side where lies my garden, so that he may have a good view of it whenever he will; but never before have I found him watching me. And although he and I have been next door neighbors these many years, never have I exchanged a dozen words with him. Not that I had any fault to find with him--he is an old man now, spending long days in his garden, grubbing the weeds or pottering about--it is a brave weed that will sprout in his garden, but he can always hoe and dig--not that I could find any fault with Judson, but I classed him with those others, with whom I held no communion; and, after all, they, too--well,--I doubt if I care to learn their opinion of me. For Judson was born where he lives--and the others, likewise, for the most part--while I have held my land a scant ten years; and he has held his peace, though he might well think me but an interloper. He has more wisdom than I, and it grows with his years. And again I was glad of my wife, that she had opened my eyes. And, thinking such thoughts as these, I hailed him standing there.

“Good morning, Mr. Judson,” I called to him. “It is a fine spring morning.”

He did but smile and wave his hand for greeting. And I heard Eve’s voice beside me. “Adam,” she said, and in her voice was wonder at what she had noted, “Mr. Judson is very deaf. Did you not know it?”

I took shame to myself that I did not know it--much shame; for here was I that had been his neighbor so long, and the thing about him that was most obvious I had not observed. I marveled somewhat that Eve should know it.

“Eve,” I answered, “I am ashamed. Come, let us talk with him.”

“With all my heart,” she said; “for he is a good man, Adam, and a wise, and--and”--

I laughed. “And it will do me good,” I finished for her. “Why hesitate, Eve? For you are beyond me in wisdom, and so is Judson, I do not doubt. Why hesitate?”

And she, uncertain whether to laugh or not, looked up at me to see. For my conversion was but recent, and I was yet somewhat sore with it. But, having looked at me, she smiled and slipped her hand within my arm--which soothed my ruffled temper to a marvel, and I smiled down at her. And so we were come to the wall--the fence was a stone fence--where stood Judson, smiling, too.

Once there, we talked long of things appropriate to the season; of what to plant, and when, and peas and beans and what not; and he wondered that I had no rhubarb and no asparagus--grass, he called it. So I asked him over the wall--for the first time in ten years--and he came, most willing; and we wandered about my garden, discussing, and finally we sat us down on a bench, that was before my shed, in the sun. Then Eve, noting the pipe that he held in his worn fingers, bade him fill and light it. Which he did, with some apology, but to his great content. And there we sat, basking, until, at last, Judson arose, excusing himself for staying so long. Eve asked him to come again, often.

“And,” she said, “I would like it much if I might run in to see Mrs. Judson.”

The old man was pleased at that. “So do,” he said; “so do. She’ll be glad to see ye.”

And we watched his bent figure crossing the garden; and, having got over the wall again, and on his own side, he paused a moment to wave his hand and to smile at us as we still sat. I felt a glow at my heart that warmed it mightily, even as the sun warmed my body. It was worth while being friends with Judson--and that I might have been ten years ago had I but known. But a fool in his folly--

“Eve,” I said, “again I have to thank you. But you should have appeared to me ten years ago. Where were you, Eve?”

“I was but a child, Adam,” she replied, “or scarcely more.” And as she spoke she smiled at me and sat closer; for she well knew that I was sore hurt in my self-esteem. She well knew, too, how to heal the hurt so that it leave but a scar--for she would not have me forget again.

And presently she drew a letter from the pocket of her coat. “See,” she said. “I have a letter from my father. They will come down soon--in two weeks. It is a full month before their time.”

I drew the letter forth. It was characteristic of Old Goodwin--only two lines, in his rapid writing, telling of their coming, and sending love to her and Adam. Eve had had a letter like this one--about as long--twice a month; he had no time for writing more. I had seen them all; and I had noted what was missing--missing from them all.