Part 7
“No word from your mother, Eve?”
She glanced up at me. “Not yet,” she said. “But I have no fear, Adam. She is proud and she is stubborn--but they come a month early. No, I have no fear.”
And I looked out to my pine, where the hole was scooped in the ground and the seat was builded against the tree. The hole was filled full with dried leaves and other rubbish, and the seat needed some repairing.
“It behooves me to see to my oven,” I said, “for as it seems to me, we are like to have a clambake soon. And I have a mind to ask Judson--and his wife.” Eve beamed at me for that. “And I may have to get some new stones.”
Eve slipped her hand within my arm. “Do the stones grow cold, Adam?” she asked, softly.
And that made me to remember. I stooped and kissed her. “Truly,” I answered, “the stones have been passing cold and now they grow warm again. But it does not matter about the stones, for we have kept the fire warm upon the hearth--and in our hearts, Eve. And it behooves me to look at my clam beds, too. We may watch the sunset if you will--watch it from the bank.”
She rejoiced at that. “With all my heart, Adam.”
So it befell that we wended, that afternoon, over to our clam beds, along the shore where the water lapped ever. And, as it chanced, the tide was low and would yet be lower; for it was a spring tide. And we walked hand in hand--for there was nobody about--and what if there were? Shall a man not hold his wife’s hand, in going along the shore? And shall he not kiss her if he will--and if she will? Though in such matters we should, no doubt, bow to convention. And, as we went, the Great Painter spread his colors as he was wont to do, and the still waters were covered with all manner of reds and purples. We saw our flats just awash and now and then there broke upon them a wave that ran across in ripples of color, and left the wet sand shining in a coat of shimmering green. For, though the water was calm, the waves yet broke upon the sands. It was a day of promise now well nigh come to an end but yet it held a promise of other days. And such a day maketh the soul of a man to rejoice--if he be in truth a man, and not a mere beast of burden--it maketh the soul of him to rejoice within him and his heart to sing; and of such as rejoice not in such a day, there is little hope.
And Eve and I came to the bank, where the pebbles shone in the sun--save some few that had been washed out in the storms of winter. Eve cried out at that, and set herself to find others, that she make the names whole again. And I looked up at our path, that still showed bravely--with little piles of snow in the deeply shaded spots, the remnants of great drifts--but they were going fast. And the grass showed green on the slope--the tender green of spring. Seeing all this, I sighed and turned me from it to our clam beds.
They were well uncovered by this, and I took my hoe and pottered about and slopped here and there, digging where I would. And now and again I made me straight--for some months past I had not bent my back so steadily--and gazed at the changing colors or at the old sun, which was drawing near to the western hills; then I bent my back again. And the clams that I found I did but restore with care, to bury themselves once more--we had no basket, not wanting clams as yet--and I found many. They seemed good thriving clams, big and lusty, and none the worse for the winter.
At last I was done with my digging and I straightened up and looked for Eve; and there she was, beyond me, in the water, with her skirts tucked up, and she was paddling like any schoolgirl. And the sun shone through the wisps of hair--they straggled, ever, those wisps, and sadly bothered her with their wanderings--the sun shone through the wandering locks and made an aureole about her head. But now she minded them not. And so I gazed long at her, and I saw the colors that she stirred with her paddling, and I saw her standing in their midst. At last she looked up at me.
“Oh, Adam,” she cried, “I am having such a beautiful time. Stop your digging and come out here with me--and paddle. It is great fun. See, I can almost catch that streak of gold! Oh, now it is gone.”
“Truly, Eve,” I said, “I am amazed at you. But I will come--and paddle--although that is what I never thought that I should come to; for I am done with my digging. And soon we must go in, for the sun is almost set. It is not yet summer.”
Then Eve laughed, and I went and stood beside her, and we paddled nobly--until I was laughing, too. And the sun set--he had already passed the tree that was like a spire--I saw it for a moment against his southern edge as he coasted down the slope--and we bade him good-night together, as we had been wont to do. Eve turned to me.
“I am cold, Adam,” she said. “I confess it.”
Indeed, that water was passing cold, for there were in it all the melting snows of winter. And so we raced along the shore in our rubber boots--Eve’s are less of a burden than mine, so that I was beaten in the race--and climbed the steep path; and in the house our fire burned upon the hearth.
As I sat there before the fire, musing upon many things--with my back feeling tired and comfortable among the cushions--I heard a robin calling sleepily from my pine. It sent a glow through me. Verily, Spring is here.
* * * * *
So the season grew and filled me with joy. And as evening came, I sat before my fire, but I withdrew somewhat from its heat; and I had no interest in the book that I took up, but I must needs lay it down in my lap. For, first, I found myself reading but words and getting no sense from them, that I knew not whether I had read a passage or no. And I would struggle awake and read a line, or mayhap two, and make sense of it; and then I read the same line again, as like as not, and knew not where I was nor what my author would be at. Then I would let the book fall into my lap and care not for my author nor for aught else, and suck at my pipe--it was as like to be out as burning--and doze and dream. And Eve would glance at me and smile and go on with the making of doll’s clothes. For I had been out all day in my garden--with Judson giving me counsel, if I asked it--never, if I did not; and it was borne in upon me that he that withholdeth advice, if it be unasked, is a wise man--I had been all day in the garden, hoeing and digging and planting. When Judson did his planting was a mystery--probably about daylight; but he had got in the way of coming over the wall, and I would no sooner be at work than there would appear Judson at the wall, waving his hand in greeting. I think I shall make a gate there if he does not object. It is hard for an old man to climb walls.
And I wondered at the apparent defection of my friends; for they came seldom, so that Eve made some progress with her doll’s wardrobe. I wondered, I say, until I reflected upon the advice I had given them, myself. No doubt they were busy as well as I; and if they made gardens they went to bed early.
So it was come to be the first of May and all my planting was done except my corn. The birds had become noisy--they sang as though they would split their throats; and, as I planted, I heard the shrill whistle of the meadow-larks--but I could not stop to enjoy it. Only at evening I sat me on my seat under the great pine, with Eve beside me, and drank my fill of music. And the leaves were coming out upon the trees.
I marveled somewhat that Eve had had no word more from her father; but I must plant my corn. And my first planting of corn was done; and as I straightened up from it, sighing with weariness, I heard a low chuckling laugh. I turned quickly, and behold, there was Old Goodwin watching me; and beside him Eve. He was still laughing.
I hurried across my garden, the earth sticking to my boots; and made some apologies for my hands. The hands of a delver in the earth are not fit for contact with the Rich.
But what did Old Goodwin care for that? “It is clean dirt, Adam,” said he, “and honest. The hands that I have to take every day, they are--well--it turns me nearly sick at times, to take them--though they are white enough, and soft.” He looked out over my garden, that showed already unbroken rows of green, where the early peas had come through the earth. “So your planting is all done?” he asked. “I am sorry, for I had hoped to have a hand in it.”
“And so you may,” I answered, “if you will. There are yet some plantings of corn to be put in--but nothing for two weeks.” I hesitated, and blundered on. “And Mrs. Goodwin--she is well?”
“Quite well,” he said, and smiled as he spoke--and so did Eve. “Yes, she is quite well. She came down too. You may get a glimpse of her now and then, I think, about the grounds, for she is restless this spring, and out more than she has been used to be. No doubt,” he added, “it is the weather.”
“No doubt,” I said; but I knew not how to take it, and I glanced at Eve to see. “Yes, no doubt it is the weather.”
Then I went in, for I would change my boots. And Old Goodwin wandered, that meanwhile, about my place with Eve beside him. When I came again I found him on the seat under the pine; and he was gazing at the stones, and then off over my clam beds, where the water danced in the sun and the little waves broke upon the sands. But Eve was not there. I marveled somewhat at it.
“She is gone to see her mother,” he said, answering the thought unspoken. “She will be back presently. And how are the clams, Adam?”
I laughed, it was so exactly what I expected of him. “Pretty well, I thank you,” I replied; “or they were, two weeks ago. I have not seen them lately, for I have been busy. You may dig whenever you will. They thrive, I think.”
He smiled again--his thanks. “And the stones--you have put some fresh ones in, I see--they are all ready?”
“They are all ready,” I answered, “and the weed lies in heaps along the shore. But I find that my appetite for baked clams is not yet ripe”--
But he interrupted. “Ah, Adam,” he said, “but you have this with you all the year.” He waved his hand about. “That is much to be thankful for. But I--the memory of those baked clams is all that has carried me over many a hard place. For I realize--sometimes--that I am an old man; but when I am here”--
“You are not,” I finished for him. “And that is reason enough for staying. You have a roof over your head--such as it is--and a crust of bread--with a chop or two when there is need. No man, however poor, can ask more--and no man, however rich, can get more. So I foretell”--
Old Goodwin was roaring with laughter. “Yes,” he said, as soon as he could speak, “I have a roof over my head--such as it is--and the tiles upon it may last through a winter; and I shall have--no doubt--a crust of bread--with a chop or two when there is need. And so you would have me give up my house in town. Well, well, there is something to be said for it. We shall see. We shall see.”
“Your house in town would be but a burden,” I said then. “No man can live in two houses--two at once--having but one body. And you might well give up--it is time to retire, having enough of means. And these fields and this water and the woods are a never-ending delight. You need not fear your nerves. For look at me. Am I nervous? And I have retired--retired these many years--retired before my career was well begun. I find amusement--and I am like to live long. And you should know Judson--you must know him. He has lived long and will yet live some while. He should have been here this morning.”
Old Goodwin looked at me, questioning. “Your neighbor?” he asked. “I should like it much. But I thought you did not care for neighbors, Adam.”
I was ashamed. “I did not,” I answered, “but Eve has shown me--I was wrong.” Old Goodwin smiled at that, his quiet smile of peace. And I went on. “But you”--
“I will consider,” he said; and I remembered me of a time when Eve had said those very words. But she said more. There was “good fisherman” if I remembered me aright. “I will consider the matter,” said Old Goodwin. “And I must consult”--
“Ah!” I cried, “I had forgot.” And I smiled, more broadly than I meant to; but it mattered not, for Old Goodwin was smiling too.
“There comes Eve,” he said. And indeed, I knew it well. Was I not looking for her every minute that she was gone from me?
And that evening we sat before my fire, as we were wont to do, Eve and I; but beside us sat Old Goodwin. It occurred to me to think that Mrs. Goodwin was likely to be lonely--if she depended at all upon her husband for company--and if he continued as he had begun. If it were Eve and I, there would be a compromise--or a surrender--in short order. But, I reflected, all married people are not as Eve and I; and we have been married but a few months--although it will be the same when the months are become years, I do believe. And Eve and her mother are two very different persons. So, as we sat, Eve sewed upon her doll’s dresses, unabashed; and Old Goodwin, if he noted it, and saw upon what her fingers were busy, gave no sign of his surprise--it is not easy to surprise him--but he seemed to find pleasure in the sight. And, indeed, it was a pleasant sight to see Eve sewing there--pleasant for a prospective father and for a prospective grandfather it was as pleasant, as I judged. I doubt me much that Mrs. Goodwin sewed, ever, of an evening; or ever had sewed, even when sewing was to be done for Eve’s coming. The clothes that she had made for her baby were of the finest and the softest and the richest no doubt--but she had them made; and can even the finest and the softest and the richest, made by the hand of another, mean as much as these, with love sewed under every stitch of them? I do not think so. And the one thing she could not evade if she would;--but she had but the one child, and I think that was a sorrow to Old Goodwin. So we sat, and talked little or not at all; and the candles burned low, that they were but stumps. Noting that, Old Goodwin took his leave. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
Then followed other days; and, first of all, Old Goodwin must betake him to the digging of clams and I must help him at it. And, having digged many clams, we must needs have a clambake, for I would not destroy good clams to no purpose; but it was a sorry clambake, lacking the corn and the sweet potatoes and the lobster. And, though I sacrificed a chicken to it, the sacrifice went to my heart, for early in May is no time to kill chickens. I asked Judson to our clambake, and though he came, his appetite for clams was no more ripe than mine. But Judson and Old Goodwin met and enjoyed the meeting mightily; and sat upon their boxes and talked until I thought they would never have done. So Eve and I left them there, sitting upon their boxes. And presently they rose and wandered over into Judson’s place and I saw Old Goodwin no more that day.
And, again, we went to the woods, and saw them breaking forth into leaf. For the leafing of the woods is a little later than the leafing of a tree which grows in the open. And I saw the seed-pods lifting on their dry stems, but they were few and the pods were empty; for the stems were brittle, that the weight of snow had broken them down, for the most part, and the birds had gleaned the seeds. But the dead leaves were fading into mould, out of which peeped a seedling, here and there; and the rotting logs were fast being covered with a coat of green--moss and the creeping vines were doing that. And I saw the birches, their tiny leaves like so many little green spangles--or so they looked until I came near. And the pines, too, had burst the buds, that every tip was a lighter green, with clusters of little needles that, here and there, still bore their caps of brown; but the oak buds were just bursting.
I spoke to Old Goodwin. “There is much for a man to see here,” said I, “when he is retired--even in winter.”
He laughed and made me no reply.
And, yet again, there grow before my house--but within my hedge--two hawthorn trees. They are very mountains of trees, for hawthorns, and their tops are above the eaves of my house. I would not miss the time of blossoming of those two trees for aught; and one of them has white blossoms and the other has pink. And the time came for them to blossom, and so they did, for they are well behaved trees as any could wish; and on the one side of my front walk was a mass of white blossoms, and on the other side a mass of pink. Solid banks of blossoms they were, with a green leaf showing through here and there, even to the tips of the trees. I found Old Goodwin viewing them from the road. And it was come to be the last week in May. And, though I found him gazing at my trees--I have a pride in them, which may be pardoned--I said not much.
“There is much for a man to see, here and there,” I said, “when he is retired.”
And once more he laughed, but he made me a reply to this. “True enough, Adam,” he answered, “true enough. There is enough for a man to see--and I think there is enough for him to do.”
So June was come. It was in June that my appetite for clams was become ripe; and we digged in my clam beds more than ever, and put some heart into the digging. It was Old Goodwin and I that did the digging, for the most part--he loved it--while Eve sat on the bank and watched us. Sometimes she would dig, but more often she did but watch, cheering us, the while, with observations; and, now and then, I would go and sit beside her and leave Old Goodwin. But he did not mind--did not appear to notice. Every evening, after supper, we came, Eve and I, to the bank. And Old Goodwin joined us there and we stayed until the sun was set and we had said our good-nights to him. And it befell, on an evening that was thick with fog--it is apt to be a thick fog toward the last of June--out at sea the fog lies all day, rolling in over the land by the end of the afternoon--it befell, on this evening, that I had been watching the fog. It sent its skirmishers ahead and covered the shore, only to uncover it; for the skirmisher must move fast--and it is not large, being but a skirmisher. And then would come another and hide another piece of shore--haply my point with the pine upon it; and I could see the top of the pine sticking up out of it, like a sentinel. But always the main body of the fog followed fast after, dark and dim and gray. And as it enveloped us at last, something--I know not what it was--made me turn about; and there, in the path, up under the trees, stood Eve’s mother. No doubt she thought she was safe there and would not be seen. And I saw there, for a moment, a mighty pride that struggled for its life, and grief and longing that were yet mightier. Ghost-like I saw it--but I saw it. Then it, too, was blotted out. I thought that I heard a faint cry in the fog.
And Eve turned toward me, startled. “What was that, Adam?” she asked. “I thought I heard some one cry out.”
“In a fog, Eve,” I answered, “one hears many strange sounds.” Old Goodwin turned and smiled at me, a smile of comprehension.
So June came to an end, and July was come. And, now and then, I came again upon Mrs. Goodwin at our bank, and twice I found her on the shore near the steep path that led up to my pine. But each time, she swiftly turned, and fled so fast that I should have some trouble in catching her, save in a foot-race. And that, I thought, seemed to lack dignity. Racing along the beach after Mrs. Goodwin, as if she had been some trespasser! I laughed--which was the wrong thing to do. For she but went the faster as she heard my laugh--was well nigh running. Poor lady! To be laughed at by her son-in-law! But I was not laughing at her. I saw her shoulders shake as she were sobbing, and she put her hands up quickly to her eyes.
The terns were come, long since. And, one morning, I was watching them, lazily, from my bank. I was alone, that morning, lying stretched out on the sand, my head against the bank; and I saw the terns, in regular procession, flying swiftly down the wind, along the shore, and beating slowly up against it. Now and then a tern would stop, and hover for an instant; then again take up his slow beating, his beak pointing to the water and moving restlessly from side to side. Or, if he dove, it was too far for me to see whether his strike succeeded; for the fish that they catch are very small and hard to see. But over my clam beds--just before me--was a favored spot. Here, each tern hovered for some while, and dove; dove once or twice or thrice, it might be,--until he had succeeded in his fishing--then began, once more, his beat to windward. For their fishing was successful, here; and, with a rapid flutter of the wings, they gobbled their victim down, whole--and, I suppose, alive. Poor little fish! Alive in a living tomb! And, as I thought these thoughts, I heard a sound behind me, on the bank. I raised my head--and there was Mrs. Goodwin. She was leaning against a tree--Eve’s tree--and she was gazing at the terns, too, but mournfully. And, with all her gazing, I doubt whether she saw aught of the sight that was before her eyes.
Slowly, I got upon my feet, for I would not startle her. But she was startled none the less. She showed it in her eyes as they met mine.
“Mrs. Goodwin,” I said softly, “Mrs. Goodwin”--
What more I would have said I do not know, for she broke in upon my speech.
“You!” she said. “You!” And she said no more, but rose quickly; and gathered her skirts about her and fled up the path and was gone from me.
I hesitated for a moment, gazing after her; then I sat me down again. And I fell to musing and I watched the terns. They had scattered, with screams of anger, as I rose, but were, by this, once more busied with their fishing. What could I do? I doubted not that I had done the wrong thing, rising up before her--but, it seemed, I had a talent for the wrong thing--else aught that I might do would seem wrong--in her eyes. Eve went to see her every day, but I--I sighed, and put the matter from me. I had done my best--and would do my best, whatever befell. And I saw the terns at their fishing, and I bethought me that I was hungry, for it must be dinner time. I glanced up at the sun--I carry no watch--what should a clammer do with a watch? And I saw that he had passed the noon-point a half-hour since, and something more. It should be nearly one o’clock. So I took my way homeward, along the shore.
So the summer passed. And we--Old Goodwin and Eve and I, with some one of my friends or of my neighbors, as it chanced--scarce gave the stones time to cool before we had them hot again. I had some fear that my clam beds would give out. Mrs. Goodwin I saw as I had seen her; on the shore or on the bank--but always at a distance--and she fled, ever, at the sight of me. So I took no notice of her; and that seemed to be the wrong thing, too. It did not matter what I did. And the summer was come to an end--a happy summer for me, and for Old Goodwin, too, I think--and I had had my fill of clams. It was October; and in my house was a nurse, white-capped and white aproned--it gave me the horrors, making my house seem a hospital--and she was waiting.
* * * * *