THE CLAMMER

THE CLAMMER

BY
WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1906

COPYRIGHT 1906 BY WILLIAM JOHN HOPKINS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published March, 1906

CONTENTS

I
THE CLAMMER

THE CLAMMER

MANY of my friends—and probably all my neighbors—think me erratic and peculiar, I do not doubt. My friends remonstrate with me mildly, and I usually listen and accept and make no reply. For how can they know? And, they being what they are, how can I help them to a knowledge of things which must be born in a man? My neighbors do not remonstrate, for my neighbors are not of necessity my friends, and I am queer enough not to care to cultivate a man’s acquaintance merely because he lives next me.

There is Goodwin the Rich, who has the palace on the hill, above my favorite clam beds. It is not likely that I shall ever know him, although his automobiles flash past my front gate, covering my hedge with dust, and enveloping my house in nauseous smells. I do not like automobiles. It is not to be imagined that Goodwin finds me peculiar, for he is probably unaware of my existence; but I have some humbler neighbors who stare at me and shake their heads. And I smile and pass on; for I know what I know, and it passeth their understanding. And all this shaking of heads, and all the protesting of my friends, is because I choose to go clamming.

Some of my friends may, at first, have had the idea that my interest in clams was biological; for I received some training in that branch of science, and even taught it—or was supposed to teach it, with other branches—in a school. But I look back upon that school with horror, as, no doubt, my victims regard me, in retrospect. And my neighbors may, very naturally, have assumed that my interest in clams was gastronomic, which is, indeed, nearer the truth. But the evidence on that point was inconclusive. They were not asked to my feasts of steamed clams, if I had any, and they came to look upon me as simply queer.

As an occupation for leisure hours, I commend the pursuit of the clam. Your true clammer is of another age, born after his time. He values not at all the improvements of this age. He reads by candle light or goes to bed at dark. He loves the wandering along the bare shores, hoe in hand, the wading through shallows, the mud pies he may make in the incidental pursuit of his prey, and the sights he sees. For the capture of the clams is less than the search for them, even as the sport of the true fisherman lies as much in fishing as in catching fish.

So it befell that I wandered, one afternoon, toward my chosen hunting ground over the oozy flats. The sun was low in the west, and he spread the still water and the shining mud with all manner of reds and purples and shimmering greens. If I might regulate the matter, low tide should always fall at sunset or at dawn. Either is a fitting time, with the old earth at peace and its waters stilled or just waking. And at either time I may satisfy my soul with the unapproachable coloring of the Great Painter. The hot noon is no time for clamming. Then the water glares in your eyes, the sun beats down upon your back. The mud is just mud that stinketh in the nostrils. But when I have the happiness to go clamming at sunset, I am wont to stand and gaze and muse, forgetting my errand until I am sunken to my ankles in the mud. Then is my regret for my scientific training the keenest, and I know, within my soul, that in the making of a mediocre scientist a good painter has been lost to the world. Strive against it as I may, I cannot see a sunset without converting it into its elements of refraction, with a question of polarization; nor the colors on the muddy puddle under my feet without thoughts of interference. But I am improving, and I hope, in time, to have shaken off all the dry dust of science I was at such pains to acquire. So, that afternoon, I wended on with joy in my heart. For I would dig, or gaze, as the fancy seized me, until the sun was gone and the night was fallen.

Now, that particular piece of flat, to which incline alike my heart and my feet, is my own. I bought the few feet of shore to which the clam beds are attached because I loved it and feared lest, otherwise, the march of progress should take it from me. For Goodwin the Rich lives here, and he is improving the shore—his Water Front. But he shall not improve away my clams. He may dig here and fill there and build his walls, but he shall leave mine untouched. For it is mine, as witnesseth a certain deed recorded with the Register. And as I thought these thoughts, walking over my sand,—there is more sand than mud here, which is perhaps why I like it,—as I thought on these things, anger surged within me and I stamped my foot. And, behold, a little jet of water spurted up beside it.

“Oho,” said I, “so there you are.”

And straightway I stopped and set down my basket and began to dig; but leisurely, and with my face to the west, for I would bid the sun good-night. And that clam was found, and his fellows, and my basket was half full, and I rose to see the sun. And as I stood and saw him, his red disk was half down behind the hill, and I could see it sink. So I raised my hand to salute him, and there came a sweet voice behind me.

“Man,” said the sweet voice, “why are you digging there?”

Now I was surprised to hear that voice, but most surprised at its sweetness. But yet I would not turn nor answer until the red sun had winked his last. For, I thought, here is one of the maids from the house of Goodwin the Rich—or perhaps the governess; yes, surely, the governess. The truly Rich may insist upon sweet voices in their governesses. And at last I turned and saw the governess sitting upon the bank, just where the sod broke off to the sand. And the light from the western sky shone upon her, the light from the sky that was all yellows and reds and would soon be turned to violet and green. And as she sat there, in her plain black dress, with that light shining upon her, she seemed very beautiful. Truly, thought I, the Rich may have what they will. But I could not have told what was the color of her hair. In that light it was red and gold. And I stammered in my speech.

“Your pardon, madam,” I said. “I was saying good-night to the old sun.”

She smiled, a smile as sweet as her voice, but with a touch of sadness in it. The life of a governess to the Rich is not all a path of roses.

“Yes,” she said. “I came down to see the sun set, too. But why are you digging?”

“I was digging clams,” I answered gently. For I felt a sorrow for her sadness.

“Oh,” she said, “do you dig clams? Have you some clams in your basket? I should like to see some clams.”

Now, truly, that was an easy matter, that she should see some clams, for there they were in the basket. And the sun was gone, so I lost none of his company if I would please the governess. It did, indeed, strike me as strange that a governess should know so little of clams, but probably she did not teach biology. Governesses to the Rich deal more in appearance and in manners. Still, I hold that in some respects the manners of a clam are worthy of imitation. He is quiet and unobtrusive. I waded out into the water and soused my basket well. Then I brought it to the governess sitting on the bank.

“Now,” she said, a trifle of petulance showing in the sweet voice, “you have got them all wet.”

“Better all wet than all muddy,” I replied, standing before her, and watching the play of light upon her hair. When I see her hair in the plain light of day, I think I shall find it red,—a brilliant red. But it was wonderful. Her head was bent as she looked into my basket, and my opportunity for observation was excellent. One thing my scientific training has done for me is to make me a good observer.

“Oh,” cried the governess, “what is that funny-looking thing they are sticking out? Is it the head?”

“It is called the head,” I answered, “but it is not. Isn’t it strange how often a thing is not what it is called? But I suppose you do not have to teach anything about clams.”

“Teach about clams!” she said, puzzled for an instant. Then she seemed to be amused. “No, I don’t. It’s lucky, isn’t it? For I don’t know anything about them. May I take one of them?”

“It will drip on your dress and spot it,” I said warningly.

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. And she took a clam in her hand, and the water dripped upon her dress, as I had said, and it made a spot. She could not see it then, but I knew how it would look in the morning. She was a most careless, heedless governess.

“Of course it matters,” I said, reproving. “You will see. Surely they don’t give you all the gowns you want, to spot with salt water.”

She was puzzled again. “All the gowns I want?” she asked, wondering. “What do you mean?”

“Up at the great house,” I said, “at Good—Mr. Goodwin’s.”

The governess smiled, a merry smile that filled her eyes with light. For she was looking up at me then. And I looked deep into those eyes until her face was the color of her hair.

“Oh, yes,” she said, looking down,—and I was sorry, for on a sudden it seemed dark,—“oh, yes, they are very good to me—in the matter of gowns. But I will be careful if you think I ought.”

“I know you ought,” I said. “Waste is wicked.”

“Yes,” she answered, musing, “I suppose it is. But I am afraid I haven’t thought about it as much as I might.”

She was looking at me, up and down, from my mud-covered rubber boots to my old battered hat. I was clad as a clammer should be clad, and I was not ashamed.

“You are not wicked, are you?” asked the governess. “You are not wasteful?”

“Not of my clothes,” I answered. “I cannot be. And do you suppose my wife would drip salt water upon her best dress?”

I thought I saw a shadow steal across her face. But the sun had left many shadows behind him.

“It isn’t my”— She hesitated and stopped. “Have you a wife?”

“No,” I answered shamelessly. And she laughed aloud, a sweet laugh and low, like—like nothing else in the wide world.

“Are you a fisherman?” she asked.

I had forgotten how the garb of a clammer would be regarded by a governess to the Rich.

“Sometimes,” I said. “I am but a passable fisherman. I can catch enough for myself, or, if need were, for two.”

“And do you use the clams to catch the fish?”

“Some of them.”

“I should like to open this clam. How shall I do it?”

I broke the shell upon a stone, and pulled forth the clam.

“Oh,” cried the governess, “the poor thing! And doesn’t it hurt it?”

“The scientists will tell you that it does not,” I said. “Never having been a clam, I do not know. But I know I cannot use them without breaking the shell.”

“And what do you do with the rest?” she asked.

“The rest?”

“Yes, the rest,—those you do not use to catch fish. Come, tell me. Don’t make me ask so many questions.”

“I like to hear you ask questions,” I said, whereupon she smiled again. And her eyes filled with light as they had before, and I knew that I were safer on the quicksand of the Hole than looking down into those eyes. But I went on.

“The rest are eaten. Some make chowder, which is a mystery; some are steamed in the oven; but the rest are covered with seaweed and baked on hot stones. Did you never see a clambake?”

“Never,” she answered, “although I have heard them mentioned. Are they rare feasts? I should like to see a clambake.”

“I shall have one,” I said, “and you will come. And we shall have clams, fresh digged and weltering; and fish fresh caught; and chicken not too fresh; and lobsters and sweet potatoes and corn and many other things. And there will be a great pan for the shells and the husks, for you will not throw them on the ground, as we common people do. And you will shuck the clams with your fingers, and eat the corn from the cob.”

“Horrible!” she said. And she looked at her hands, and laughed. They were shapely hands, soft and beautiful. I wished—but it does not matter what I wished, for I knew I might not have it.

“Fisherman,” she said, “you amuse me. But I will come to your clambake.”

“Do you find me more amusing than your teaching?” I asked. For one does not enjoy being laughed at by a governess with red hair and beautiful eyes, although to stand there, close before her, and to see her laugh, was a joy.

“Yes,” she answered, “vastly more than my teaching. My teaching is not amusing. I weary of it.”

“Yes,” I cried, “I know it. And do you find the doings at the great house a weariness?”

“I do,” she said. “And that is why I came here.”

“And will you come again?”

“Perhaps. But when shall that wonderful clambake be?”

“That,” I said, “is in the future. There are preparations. And besides, I would have it to look forward to. And how am I to let you know?”

“Why,” she said, “that is a problem. Perhaps—you might leave your invitation under that great stone.”

“And how should I know”—

“Why, again,” she said, “one might find something under the stone if he but looked.”

And she was silent for some while.

“Fisherman,” she said suddenly, “what is your name?”

“Thomas,” I answered; “and what is yours?”

She started, and for an instant she was angry. Then she laughed again, adorably, and blushed. “My name is Eve,” she said.

“Truly,” I said, “I should have known. And I was wrong, for mine is Adam.”

“Now, fisherman,” she cried, “you presume.”

“I must,” I answered, “for it is the nature that God gave me.”

“And, Thomas,” she went on, “you dig in our—in Mr. Goodwin’s clam beds.”

“I do not,” I cried, forgetting, in my anger, “they are m—, they belong to a queer fellow who lives near.”

“Oh,” she said. “And he lets you dig there?”

“He lets me.”

She mused and looked down at the clam beds. But the water was lapping on the flats by this, and the twilight waned.

“I wonder,” she said, and stopped.

“What?”

“I, too, would dig for clams.”

“Well,” I said, “why not? But not in that gown.”

“Would it be a waste, and wicked? But you said it was spotted already.”

“It may be cleaned,” I answered. “I wonder at you.” For I was impatient. What a spendthrift governess!

“There are so many things I do not think of,” she said contritely. “But I must learn. And what gown, then?”

“A short one,” I said, “and an old one, if you have such a thing. I never heard of so extravagant a governess.”

“Oh,” she said, and smiled again. And I saw the light in her eyes, though it was nearly dark. “And have you known many governesses, fisherman?”

“None,” said I. “But my name is Adam.”

“You said Thomas.”

“Eve,” I replied, with firmness, “I said Adam.”

“Well, then, Adam, what else?”

“Boots,” I answered,—“rubber boots. See mine.”

It was not light enough, but she had seen.

“Yes,” she said, “but governesses do not have rubber boots.”

“They should,” said I, “for the grass is wet even now, and it is long. But I will bring you some.”

“Oh,” she began, and stopped. And I knew she blushed, though I could not see.

“And I wonder,” she went on, “if that queer fellow would let me dig, too.”

“He would.”

“You seem very sure, fisherman.”

“Adam,” I corrected.

“Well, then, Adam.”

“I am sure,” I said; “and besides, I shall not tell him.”

“It is very dark,” she observed. “The twilight is quite gone.”

“Not quite gone. See the west.” Indeed, there was a light streak in the west, and the bearded hill was marked against it.

“I must go in,” she said; but she did not rise.

“Not yet,” I urged.

“I must go in,” she repeated, “or they will send for me.” And this time she rose.

“I will go with you,” I insisted.

“No,” she said, “you will stay. Good-night, fisherman.”

“Adam,” I corrected. “Governesses should have better memories.”

She laughed. I loved to hear her laugh, and I would have seen her eyes.

“Good-night, Adam.”

“Good-night, Eve. To-morrow”—

But she was gone, swiftly, and I stayed, as I was commanded. And my heart was beating as no clammer’s should. For a heart-beat of above seventy a minute is not fitting for a clammer. I sat, that night, with my book in my lap, staring into the dark shadows, and my candle sputtered and went out. Will this new light go out of my life, too?

I sat upon the edge of the bank, just where the sod breaks off to the sand, and I stared at the red sun, and he stared back at me. I sat close beside the place where the governess had sat,—very close,—but that place was vacant. For perhaps, I thought, perhaps— And the old sun spread his colors lavishly over the still water and upon the wet sand; his purples and his reds and his dainty shades of pink and blue and green. If I could mix my colors like that—or are they mixed? My scientific training does not help me much. It does not tell me why the colors are now brighter than they were yesterday, and now sombre. There is more than one kind of reflection, and science knows them not. And, as I stared and wondered—for these things are marvels—came a sweet voice behind me, and my heart leaped up into my throat and choked me. And I did not stop to reflect that it was not my heart at all, but some ganglion or plexus or what not. What cared I for ganglion or plexus?

“Fisherman,” said the sweet voice, “you are early.”

“Eve,” said I,—and my voice was steady,—“may a man come too early to Paradise? The woman comes after—though I have all my ribs.”

“Fisherman,” she said, “you are a strange man.”

“So I have heard,” I answered. “But you forget. A governess should have a better memory. I wonder that you can teach.”

“I am but a passable teacher, Adam. I cannot even teach well enough for one.”

“Well enough for two, if we be the two. For I am learning.”

“Adam,” she said, “I might speak seriously to you. I ought to be angry with you”—

“But you are not. It is strange how seldom we are what we should be. I should call you ‘lady,’ as though I were a car conductor, and be most respectful, as befitteth a fisherman”—

“But you are not. Why, Adam?”

“How should I know? It is the nature that God gave me. And those who stand nearest to nature—well, I am learning. Come and sit here, Eve, where I can see you.”

“Now, Adam, really—you must learn. Even a fisherman should not need to be told to stand”—

“Your pardon, madam,” I cried, standing. “You are right, and as I said, I am but a passable fisherman. Did the first man stand, in Paradise? Probably he ran. But I do not, for I can see you well as we are—and that light on your hair, Eve”—

She stamped her foot. “Fisherman,” she cried, “it is too much. I will not stay. Remember that”—

“I am a fisherman. I will,” I said. “And you are a governess.”

Then she laughed, which was what I wanted. I was missing the sun’s good-night, but what of that? For I might see his marvels half the days in the year; but this marvel that I saw—how many days? I wished,—but my wishes are vain. Still, there was I, looking up, and there was she, looking down and smiling yet, and the glory of the west was in her eyes and on her hair.

“Turn, fisherman,” she said, “or you will miss your good-night to the sun.”

“What I see pleases me better,” I said. “But stand beside me, and we will bid him good-night together.”

So she stood beside me, which was a marvel, and the sun rested his red rim on the bearded hill, and we saw him sink. And as the last thin line of red vanished behind the hill, I saluted, and so did she. And then she laughed. I love a ready laugh,—mine is not ready, but has to be pumped out, with a great noise,—and such an one as hers—

“Now, Adam,” she said, “we must dig. We have wasted time.”

“No,” I answered, “for the beds are but now uncovered. See the colors, Eve. What would you give to paint like that? There is but one Painter.”

“One could never learn,” she said, “there is so much to learn.”

“But we are learning every day.”

“And what have you learned to-day, Adam?”

“Many things.”

“From the sun?”

“From the sun,” I answered, “and from you.”

“From me!” she cried. “What have you learned from me, fisherman?”

“Some day I will tell you, governess,” I said.

“What day, fisherman?”

“When we dig for clams at dawn.”

“And when will that day be?”

“In more than one week, and less than two.”

“And why not any day, Adam,—when I will?”

“The tide, Eve. Even a woman must wait for the tide. See, it has made us late to-night.”

“Come, fisherman,” she said, “let us dig quickly, or it will be too late.”

So I drew the boots from my basket, and she took them.

“Fisherman,” she said, “these are new. Where did you get them?”

“I had them,” I replied; which was true. I had had them since the morning.

She sat behind a tree and put them on, and I heard her laughing to herself. Then she came forth.

“They are too large,” she said, “but it does not matter.”

I might have known it. But what know I of women’s boots?

“My stock is small,” I answered. “I had no other size.” And that was true, too.

So I showed her how to dig, and when her hoe broke through a shell, she almost wept. But she dug six.

“I am tired,” she said then. “I will dig no more to-night. Does your back get tired, too?”

“Not now,” said I, “but it did at first.”

Then she sat behind the tree and changed the boots, and we hung them in the tree against another time. And then we sat upon the bank, for the colors had not faded. And Eve sat silent, gazing at the water and the western sky; and I sat silent and gazed up at her.

“Eve,” said I.

She turned and looked at me, but did not speak.

“I think many things,” I said, “and some of them I would say.”

“No,” she answered, “do not say them. Watch the sky and the water while the colors last. See, it is almost dark.”

“The water and the sky are from everlasting to everlasting, Eve, so far as I am concerned. But you—no, I must make the most of what I have.”

“Fisherman,” she said, “you must not speak so to me.”

“And why not, governess? Does it displease you? May a fisherman not say his say to a governess? If I were a—what must I be, to rank with a governess? Would my speech offend you then?”

“Adam,” she answered, “I came here to dig for clams.”

“Truly,” said I, “we did, and to see the sun go down.”

“And the sun is gone, and the clams are digged, and I must go.”

“Eve,” I observed, “you are a logician.”

“I am not,” she replied. “I am a woman.”

“Heaven be praised for that!” I cried. “A perfect work!”

“Adam,” she said, and she was half laughing as she spoke, “I ought to be angry with you.”

“You ought not,” I answered, “for it heats the blood and causes vapors in the brain. Or so the ancient writers tell us. Besides, I do not like it.”

“Like a woman’s postscript,” said she. “You are a strange fisherman.”

“Truly,” I said, “I am. But see the water and the sky, Eve. What peace and tranquillity! Can you feel anger when you look upon that? And what am I? The grass of the field, and to-morrow I shall be cast into the oven. For to-morrow it will be hot.”

“You speak much nonsense, Adam.”

“Nonsense is the savor of life, Eve.”

She said nothing, but sat there, with her hands clasped about her knees, and I gazed up at her and was content. And the twilight faded and was gone.

“Now I must go,” she said at last.

She rose, regretfully, I thought, and the thought gave me joy. And that was marvel, too; for what was this governess to me—this governess whom I had seen but twice? But that unruly ganglion of mine—

“Adam,” she said, smiling down at me, “you have not scolded me. My gown”—

“Your gown is well enough,” I answered; “too good for clamming, but I suppose it is the worst you could do. If I said more of it, it would be that you look adorable in that gown—or any other. But I must not say it, or you will be angry.”

“No,” she said, “you must not say that, for anger heats the blood and causes vapors in the brain, and I have enough already. It is the oldest gown I have—and the shortest.”

“It is”—

“Never mind. If it is wasteful and wicked, I cannot help it. Will it do for digging clams to-morrow?”

“We may not dig clams to-morrow.”

“And why not, Adam,—if I will?”

“The tide. It will be too late. But the sun will go down.”

“Good-night, Adam. You may have the clams I dug.”

“If I could press them, Eve, like flowers! Good-night.”

And again I sat through an evening too long for a clammer; and, though my book was in my hand, and my candle burned bright and clear, I did not read, but I stared into the dark shadows. And from those shadows there shone out that wonderful hair with the light upon it from the western sky; and those wonderful eyes, with the light in them from the soul within. Oh, Eve, Eve! And I have seen you only twice.

There is a restlessness that seizes upon men in certain case. I have seen it often, and wondered at the poor fools who turned from this to that, then tried the other thing, and found no satisfaction in any. And I have laughed at them and counseled them to turn to clamming. And there is a cure for that malady, too; a simple cure, as simple as the fount of eternal youth. It is only to find it and the thing is done. And some find the fount, and some do not. And those who find it, why, eternal youth is theirs, and joy and peace are in their abiding places forever. And those who find it not, why, Heaven help them! For there is no peace for them nor rest on earth.

So it befell that I rose before the dawn, and went forth. And there, without, was a fog as thick as cheese. But though I could not see ten fathoms, yet I looked out toward my clam beds. And then I thought: You poor fool, shall she come down in this thickness, at four in the morning, looking for clams? And yet again, I took my basket and wandered in that fog like a lost soul. And the more fool I, for the tide was not half down, and no dawn to see. And as I wandered along the shore, angry and out of sorts, striking with my hoe in the sand, I met one of my neighbors; and as he passed behind me, I heard him laughing in the fog.

And my breakfast was no better. My fresh-gathered eggs were bitter in my mouth, and they tasted of sulphur; and my coffee was gray that should have been a rich red-brown like the copper beech; and my rolls were lead or cotton, I knew not which. I lighted my pipe and went out.

The hot sun was burning off the fog. I stood at the foot of my garden, where I have a seat against the trunk of an old pine, and I watched the fog writhing and twisting in the anguish of defeat and dissolution, vanishing into the hot air above in little jets and shreds, rolling away over the water to the ocean, a far gray bank. And the waters of the bay danced in the sun, and dazzled my eyes. So, for some while I paced there, back and forth. Then I heaved a sigh and sat me upon my seat, and the great pine whispered softly above me; but I fidgeted upon the seat and found no peace.

So, all day, I wandered the shores, and I dug no clams, but found myself picking shells and pebbles of bright colors. And in the early afternoon I stood by our clam beds—Eve’s and mine—and looked up through all the greenery toward the great house, and saw the gleam of dresses. And I left my basket by the bank and turned and ran,—like the fool I was. Why did I run? For as the sun was low, and my pulse high, I wandered once more over to that place. And as I came near, behold there on the bank sat Eve. And at the sight, that ganglion which serves me for a heart began its rioting so that I nearly choked. But I came nearer yet, and sat me down beside her, and she smiled at me. And then I found that peace I had sought all day.

“Fisherman,” she said, “you are not early to-night.”

“I am not,” I said, “and yet I am. For I have haunted this place all day, and yet I feared to come too soon.”

She did not ask me why, but pointed to my basket. “Are these your gatherings?”

I nodded.

“Why, Adam? They are not clams—nor fish.”

“I do not know, Eve. I have done strange things to-day.”

“Are they for me?”

“What shall a governess do with pebbles?”

“They might be useful in my teaching, Adam. Are they for me?”

“If you will. Anything I have is yours”—

“Fisherman, remember”—

“Eve, Eve, how shall I remember, with you sitting beside me, and your eyes smiling, and that light upon your hair?”

“Then I will not smile nor sit beside you. And so I must go”—

“No, no,” I cried. “Stay, for the pity of man. I will remember,—or I will try. I cannot promise more. A fisherman and a governess! So I may not give you the pebbles, Eve, but I will bargain with you.”

“For what?”

“For that rose you wear.” For she wore a great red rose upon her bosom.

She considered. “It is a fair bargain,” she said at last, “and I agree. A rose for your pebbles.”

So she took her rose and fastened it upon my coat. And I did not speak nor thank her, for I could not. What foolish thing should I have said? It was hard enough not to kiss the hand so near my lips. And we sat there a long while in silence, she looking at the west, and I gazing up at her or idly sticking the little pebbles in the sod. And when the sun was gone and she rose to go, she saw the pebbles, and they made two words, ADAM and EVE. I thought she would have stamped upon them, but she did not. She only smiled and bade me good-night.

And so for days I lived in purgatory and in paradise, wandering the shore, without purpose save to pass the endless day till sunset; and at evening I sat with Eve upon the bank until the twilight faded, and she left me. And the weeds sprang in my garden, and my neighbors laughed at me more than ever. For I went clamming at high tide. And upon my mantel, between two plates of glass that were cunningly bound about the edges, was a red rose.

Then, one evening, I waited there upon the bank and no Eve came. And I fretted and fumed and mourned until I bethought me of the great stone. Without hope, I looked beneath; and, wonder of wonders, there was a scrap of paper with its message. “They will not let me come to-night.” And I acted like the fool I was, and kissed the dainty thing, and thrust it in my pocket, and pulled it out again a dozen times. Never having seen her writing, I should know it, it was so like her. And I tore a corner, though I hated to,—I had no other paper,—and wrote, “We miss you, the sun and I. Eve, Eve, do not fail to-morrow. Do not shut the gates upon me yet.” And I put it beneath the stone and went away.

And in the morning the sky was gray, with low-hanging clouds, heavy and wet. And by afternoon there was a driving drizzle, and my heart sank. But I went. I would not fail, though I had no hope. And there, leaning against a tree, stood Eve, the water dripping from her wide felt hat, and shining upon her long coat. And she smiled at me as I came, and I could not speak; but I looked at her until the slow flush mounted to her forehead.

“Eve,” I said at last, “how shall a fisherman remember, when you stand so, before him,—and on such a day?”

“Why, fisherman,” she said lightly, “it is a good day. I find this weather as good as any other,—in fair measure.”

“It pleases me,” I said, “although this morning it did not.”

Then, deliberately, I went to the great stone and turned it up, and my paper was gone. And Eve watched me, and again the slow flush mounted to her forehead, but she said nothing. And as we stood together under the tree, there was a constraint upon us both. The things that I would say I might not, and for the light things that I might say, I had no heart.

And the next day, too, it rained, but I cared not. And again we stood together under the tree, Eve and I, and as we stood there, the clouds parted and showed the sun sinking in splendor. And I saw a greater glory than I had seen. And when the sun was gone, there was the young moon following.

“Peace on earth,” I said; but she did not speak.

So for some while we stood silent, and I saw the gold and the red fade from the clouds, and the clouds themselves were gone, deep banks of indigo, into the east. Then the western sky was grown violet and a green like the curl of a wave, till, overhead, it became the night. And I looked at Eve, and her look smote upon my heart, for it was troubled. But I might not say the thing I would; for shall a fisherman so speak to a governess to the Rich? Even a governess to the Rich may have her woes, it seems, and it is no fisherman’s part—

“Eve,” I said. And she started, as though her thoughts were wandering.

“Eve,” I said again, “would you dig for clams at dawn? For the beds will be uncovered by dawn to-morrow.”

“Oh,” she answered, “will they? And is it a joy to see the dawn?”

“Did you never see a dawn, Eve?”

“Never. Have I missed much?”

“If you see one, Eve, you will know how much.”

“I would like to see a dawn,” she said. And then she was silent, and I thought her near to tears, and a great fear came upon me.

“Now, Adam,” she said, at last, “I must go. Good-night.”

Then she turned and listened. “They are coming for me now. Run, Adam.”

“Run!” I cried. “Run, when I stand upon my own? Why should I run? No, I will stay. And they shall do nothing to you against your will.”

I had forgotten that I was a fisherman, but Eve did not note it. “Run, Adam,” she cried, beseeching. “If you care for my peace, run.”

And so I ran, like any poacher. And that night, sitting staring into the shadows, I wondered.

My clam beds—mine and Eve’s—have many virtues. From them I can see both east and west; from that point neither dawn nor sunset escapes me. And another virtue they had had for me, that was more than dawn or sunset. And what that was, any man who has been in such case as mine will know without the telling. So, though I loved the dawn, it was more than that that brought me stealing through the early gray of morning to the bank, just where the sod breaks off to the sand.

There I sat and waited, alone, and I watched the gray brighten in the east, and hoped that Eve would not be too late. And just as the gray became a tender blue, and hope was leaving me, there was the light step behind me, and I rose and stood, as a fisherman should stand before a governess. And Eve did not speak to me, for she saw the east.

“Oh!” she cried softly.

And she said no word more, but there we stood together. And we saw the blue brighten and become suffused with pink, and there in the eastern sky lay a great rose that stretched its petals to the zenith. And in the heart of that rose was a little cloud like a flame, with one long finger pointed straight at Eve and me. And all those soft tints of blue and pink, with the flame of the little cloud, were spread upon the water that was but just stirring in its sleep, and dimpling here and there. Then was the little flame-cloud edged with gold upon its lower side, and shot through with orange lights, and the pink rose turned to saffron and then to orange, and the rim of the sea was luminous, like molten gold. And on a sudden the gold and orange fled from the little cloud, and a great blazing fire showed above the sea.

“The sun, Eve,” I whispered; and as I spoke, a little breeze flashed across the water and darkened it like a breath upon a mirror. And there was the great disk of the sun half risen, and we might no longer look him in the face.

And at that Eve fetched a great sigh, and turned, and the chorus of the birds broke forth in the trees behind us. They had been calling back and forth before, but now they sang madly. The old earth had waked once more, and it was day.

“Adam,” said Eve, “I thank you.”

Then she sat upon the bank, where the colored pebbles still marked the names, and I sat there beside her; and for some while we spoke not, but listened to the mad music of the birds. Then Eve would dig for clams.

“What matter, Eve?” I asked. “The clams will be the bigger for waiting. We have seen the dawn, and we may see the day grow.”

“Yes,” she said, “we have seen the dawn. I did not dream it could be like that. There are no words, Adam. And I would see the day grow. But for my conscience’ sake I must dig.”

“Eve,” I said, “a conscience is a most distressing comrade. Does a governess have a conscience—a governess to the Rich?”

“Does not a fisherman?” she asked.

“He cannot afford it,” I replied. “It is a luxury not for the poor nor for the very rich.”

“But a governess is not very rich. And if she were, she yet might have a conscience. I have.”

“And does it plague you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Come, let us dig, and I will tell you.”

I, too, had somewhat that I would tell, and presently we were digging. And Eve dug in silence, and gently, for she would not harm the clams.

“Well, Eve?” I said, when I was wearied of the silence.

She was so long in speaking that I feared she never would. “Adam,” she asked, at last, “are you a wise man?”

“Very,” I answered; “wiser than Solomon. He had seven hundred wives, and I have none.”

“And is that wise,—to have none?”

“Eve, Eve,” I cried, “you do not help me. I jest because I fear to speak in earnest.”

“You are good, Adam,” she said. “And if you are wise, you may tell me what to do.”

“If you would do what I tell you!”

She was bending very low over her digging, and her face was turned away, which did not please me. I like to see her face.

“I fear that I may lose my place,” she said.

I straightened up at that, but she bent lower yet.

“Lose your place!” I cried. “And why?”

“Why—they—it is not easy to tell you, Adam.”

“I will not urge you, Eve, but”—

“You need not. I wish to tell you, for I—a governess may not always stand alone. She is a woman, after all.”

“Yes,” I said, “thank God!”

“They—they would”— She began to laugh, a nervous laugh and with no mirth in it,—“they would marry me, Adam.”

“What!” I cried. “They would—who would marry you? Not old Goodwin!”

“No,” she said; and laughed the more, and seemed really merry at it. “Now I feel better. Not old Goodwin. He has a wife.”

I was puzzled.

“Who, then, Eve? Who would marry you? I doubt not there are many who would, for I know”—

“It is old Goodwin’s wife,” she said, breaking me off short, and just in time.

Then she stood straight. “Now, Adam,” she went on, “I am not so nervous as I was, but I may laugh or I may cry with no reason. I will sit upon the bank and tell you, for truly I am in straits. And do you bear with me, for you are honest, and I may trust you. And indeed I know no other I may trust—but one.”

“A governess advised in matrimony by a fisherman!” I said. “And who is that one, Eve?”

“You shall hear. And do not jest, Adam, or my laughter may turn to tears. They are near enough. And now for the story, which is a short one. Old Goodwin’s wife would marry me to a certain rich man,—for my worldly good, as she says.”

“A certain rich man,” I said, musing. “And will he enter the Kingdom of Heaven?”

“That he will not.”

“Then why doubt? And do you love him, Eve?”

“I do not.”

“Then why doubt?”

“If I do not,” she said, “I shall lose my place. And that is much to me, Adam, for what shall I do then? The man whom I may trust is old Goodwin, but he is not so much my friend as to hold against his wife.”

“And what said you to the man?”

“I said no, but still he came. And now I know not what I shall say next.”