Part 8

Paternity has its responsibilities, so I am told by all who have the good fortune to be fathers--and from those who have not, I hear no less of it--more, perhaps. But, though I squared my shoulders, the load is light as yet, so that they bear it passing well. For who could feel the load heavy, for a mite that lies by his mother, as yet, and turns to the world but a red and wrinkled face, serious and thoughtful and unsmiling? For he has not yet smiled; and I doubt whether I am right in calling his face thoughtful. He is bent upon two things; and to those two things he directs all his attention, with a concentration that is commendable. And no sooner is his hunger satisfied then he composes him to sleep, graciously permitting Eve to hold his little red fist--if it is quite comfortable for himself. He regards me with a grave contemplation, on occasion, as if I were some unknown animal--which, of course, I am--no doubt he would look upon a hippopotamus or upon a bear with as little fear and as much affection--and, on occasion, he gives way to his feelings and laments, loudly. Then I disappear, and he stops crying, instantly. And I--I have not ventured to touch him yet--I regard him with an awe which grows as I regard him. For here is he--my son--that was not; and within these few days there has been born a new soul. It is the one great mystery, and I marvel; but a mystery I am content to leave it.

I remember well enough--it is not so long ago that I should forget it--I remember well that night--I had waited since midnight--and the morning that followed. I could not eat and I but paced to and fro, still waiting. And at last came the nurse, smiling, and said that I could soon go in to Eve.

So presently, after some further waiting, I went in. And there lay Eve, very white but very happy; and she smiled to see me come. And, having received my greeting, she turned back the covers and showed me my son. Only for an instant I saw him, then he was covered again. I was impelled to be respectful. But I must go, for Eve would rest her. Again I kissed her, and again she smiled.

“I am so happy, Adam,” she said.

And I went down the stairs, and I nearly forgot my breakfast, in my joy. But, having eaten hastily, I went out, my heart glad within me. I took a turn up and down the yard, and paused under the pine to look along the shore. There was Mrs. Goodwin, and she was almost at the path. I waved my hat to her.

“You have a grandson, Mrs. Goodwin,” I called to her, “and Eve is doing well.”

I know not what she did then--I did not care what she did; for I was still waving my hat. Soon I should be shouting aloud. That would not do, for Eve; and I hurried out at my gate and almost ran Old Goodwin down.

“You have a grandson,” I cried, for the second time; “and Eve is doing well.”

And he made no reply, but smiled and smiled; and I shook him by the hand until he made a face and took his hand away and looked at it. And I did but laugh and push by him.

“Go in,” I said, “go in. Eve is sleeping, and I--I must walk.”

So he went in, and I went on, down the road. At the next corner I met Burdon; and, though I had not spoken to him for years--I have forgot what was the cause of it--I rushed up and took him by the hand. He seemed astonished, as well he might.

“Congratulate me,” I cried; “for I have a son.”

At that he grinned. “Mother doing well?” he asked. “I am glad--very glad.” And he shook my hand with heartiness. I left him, looking after me, and grinning still.

But I went on swiftly, until the houses were all behind me, and before me were the woods and the everlasting hills. Yet a little while I waited--until the woods had shut me in--then I could wait no longer. I waved my hands and shouted to the echoing woods.

“Why hop ye so,” I cried, “ye high hills?” And the hills sent me back my question again. And--well, I am glad that there was no one there to see what I did--they would surely have thought me gone out of my wits. And when I was, in a measure, quieted, I turned me about and went soberly back again; though I was ready enough to laugh if there had been any to laugh with me.

And now my son has grown apace, and no longer shows to the world a red and wrinkled face, but one that is fair, with some pink color in his cheeks, where it should be. And his hair--he has a quantity of hair, which, as I understand, is not the habit of new-born infants--his hair is not black, as it was at first, but shows yellow at the ends. Indeed, I marveled somewhat at the blackness of his hair, for my hair is not black, and certainly Eve’s is not. But, when I mentioned the matter, the nurse did but smile at my ignorance and say that it would be light enough in time. And my son has smiled at last--he does little else now,--save when he is laughing. And I--I am become his slave, being no longer a strange animal, and when he wills I bend my head and let him twine his fingers in my hair and pull. He pulls well, and laughs the while, and crows mightily with the joy of it.

And, now, though it is come to the last of November, the fall is kind to us, and Eve walks beside the coach as the nurse wheels it. Where they go when I am not with them I do not know--but I suspect. For Mrs. Goodwin sent, every day, a maid to get the news of Eve. She would not come herself, though she was near it twenty times, and had well nigh set her foot to the steep path; but, always, her stubborn pride prevented. But Old Goodwin is his grandson’s shadow. I shall yet be jealous of him. And so it was come time that we speak of a certain weighty matter.

“Eve,” said I, one day, “I suppose that you will have him christened.” For whenever we say “him” we mean our son; and no doubt I should have said baptized--I did not know about such things.

And Eve was smiling. “Yes,” she answered, “I should like it--and soon, Adam, if we may.”

“And what is his name to be?” I asked. “For that is a trifle that must be settled first, I suppose.”

“I suppose it must,” she said. “And I--what would you name him, Adam?”

“I had thought of giving him your father’s name,” I answered, “but”-- And I stammered and hesitated and grew red. But come it must. “That rich man, Eve”--

She laughed aloud, with joy, I thought; and she seized me about the neck and kissed me. “Oh,” she cried, “I _hoped_ you would. And I will write to him, for he must be godfather.”

And so she did write to him, and he came--laden with peace-offerings. And as I met him at my gate he took my hand and gripped it.

“Adam,” he said--and this time, too, I doubted if he knew what he called me--but I did not care. “Adam, it was good of you to think of me--it was kind.” His voice was not steady; but Eve was close behind me, and he must say his greetings to her. So I did not find out whether my voice was any steadier than his.

He spread his gifts before my son; and it befell that my son passed them all by, with no more than a grunt of approval, until he came to the silver cup. It was huge, more like a tankard than a cup, and Eve and I had laughed at it as a gift for a baby--but let it pass--at least it had no sharp corners. And when my son, in his inspection, had come to that cup, he gave a crow of delight and grasped it by the two handles, one on either side, and lifted it. I had not thought it possible, for it was heavy; but he had his heart set upon it, and he did it--and I was proud and let my pride show. And he managed to get the cup well nigh over his face, and then he roared into it; and the cup roared back at him again. He was astonished--he slipped the cup aside to see how we took it--then, seeing us laughing, he laughed, too, and roared again. Now he lies and plays by the hour with that cup, roaring into it, and making all manner of queer noises, and listens to it. And that Rich man sits beside him, and they play together.

Eve had the christening--or baptizing--in our little country church. I had left the whole to her, to manage as she saw fit; and when, in the church, I looked about, and saw those that she had bid to the feast, I was somewhat surprised--until I remembered. There were Old Goodwin and that Rich man, of course, and my friends; but there, too, were Judson and Burdon and my other neighbors. And there was Mrs. Goodwin, looking--but I did not look at her, after the first, so I know not how she looked. And when it was all done, I lingered, for a reason of my own, and walked with Judson, and Burdon walked with us. An old man walks but slowly. So it came to pass that we were the last. And, having entered my own house, I found Eve and Old Goodwin and that other Rich man sitting in a half circle; and, at the centre of that circle, with my son in her arms, sat Mrs. Goodwin.

I walked up to her quickly. “Mrs. Goodwin,” I said, “I rejoice that you are here,--at last.”

So speaking, I held out my hand. And she took it, and would have spoken, too, but she could not. She hid her face on the shoulder of him that was but just baptized; and he, thinking, no doubt, that he had had enough of water for one day, set up a wail. And I turned me about and went forth and left them.

The Riverside Press _Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. Cambridge, Mass., U.S.A._

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.