“Indeed, Eve,” I said softly, “it needs no interpreter.”
And Eve smiled up at me. But the marvels were not yet done; for there came broad sheaves of light that over-spread the bows, but did not hide them. And there, at the centre of the bows, was a tiny sail; and the sail was brighter than aught else, and it was as if the sheaves of light had issued from it. And above were great masses of cloud, roll upon roll, and the sun, in his setting, spread them with all manner of saffron and scarlet and crimson, and with all the delicate shades of pink that are known to man—and with many that man, with all his skill, knows nothing of. But the shadows were blue or lilac or purple. And we gazed long, until the brightness began to fade. Then Eve sighed, saying nothing. The sun had dropped behind the western hills; and the twilight faded swiftly, and the night was come.
There is a restlessness that seizes upon men in certain case. I had felt it before, and had wandered the shores with my basket upon my arm and my hoe in my hand; and I had digged here and there as the fancy took me. But the clams that I digged lay forgotten upon the sands, to bury themselves once more; while I, seated upon a barnacle-covered rock—or even standing—gazed and gazed and saw nothing of what was before me until the tide, lapping about my ankles, brought me to myself. And then, with a heart-breaking sigh, I would shoulder my hoe and again betake me to wandering the shores. Then Eve had been the cause, for I had not got her; but at least I might find my content again at sunset, when I sat upon the bank, where the sod breaks off to the sand, with her beside me. Now, Eve was the cause, too, and my content was fled from me; and though I might sit upon the bank, I sat alone, or with no one but Old Goodwin. And Old Goodwin was well enough, but he was not Eve. And I had no joy in the colors that the Great Painter spread so lavishly, but was ill-tempered and out of sorts, giving short answers to the remarks Old Goodwin made, and never sitting still five minutes. And Old Goodwin but smiled his quiet smile and was very patient with me; he knew well the cause of my sour temper. For Eve had betaken herself to the city, that she might the better make preparation for a certain Event. What Event that was, it is but a dullard that cannot guess; and it was eighty days off, and then it was seventy. Eighty æons—with Eve away. But I diverted myself by counting it in hours, then in minutes. It was a prodigious number of minutes—but I took what comfort I might in it.
Then, one morning, I awoke at dawn, and, as I leaned from my window, I saw the ground all white with frost. Then the east was grown all red, a narrow line of color changing to yellow and a faint green, and on a sudden the sun popped up. And then I got to thinking of that other dawn that Eve and I had seen, and content abode with me no longer. And I drew in my head and dressed in sullen haste and went down to breakfast. It was a good breakfast, but gall and wormwood had been sweeter in my mouth if I could but find again that peace I sought; and, having done, I lighted my pipe and went forth. Sighing, I betook me—not to the shore—I had traveled that until I knew each pebble, and I had not found content; but the woods were gorgeous—I betook me to the woods. Perchance content had taken refuge there.
So all that day I wandered the wood, seeing the red of the dogwood and of the sumach, the reds and yellows of the maples, and the yellow leaves of the birches showing against the white trunks; and here and there a clump of pine, their dark green the darker for the color with which they were surrounded. But I found no beauty in any. Truly content was not there; or, if it were, I found it not. And I saw the seed-pods lifting on their dry stems, and the rotting logs and the dead leaves. I sat me down on a log, and from my pocket I drew forth a bundle of letters. They were Eve’s letters—and one for each day that she had been gone from me—and I read them all through again—for the hundredth time. When I was done the sun was on his downward journey, and I had found some measure of peace—and I bethought me that it was almost time for another letter. I seized my stick and hurried home.
And with days like this one, or, later, with days when I sat moping before my fire, a book in my hand, my tale of days was coming to an end. I had great fireplaces, fitting for the chimneys, and I would gaze deep into the glowing heart of one of them, my book forgotten. I thanked Heaven that I was alone. For I was no less than a fool. I knew it well; but I had no power to do otherwise—the veriest lovesick boy might give me points—and then would come the postman’s knock at the door—I knew that knock, you may be sure, and, as it went clattering through the house,—before its echoes had died away,—I was on my feet, and running. And I would open to him, and he, with a knowing smile, would hand me my letter, and make some foolish remark about the weather. The weather, forsooth! What knew I about the weather? It might be raining great guns, but for me the sun was shining—with that letter. And so I made him some answer—which was as like to be wise as foolish, for I doubt if he ever heard it clearly—I do not remember one of those answers—and I shut the door before he was well turned about, and I hurried back to my fire to read—but not my book.
So at last my tale of days was done, and Eve was come home. And I awoke one morning to see a thin skimming of ice, crisp and crackling, spread over every shallow pool, and it was well into November. And my breakfast was ambrosia and nectar, being the same that had been gall and wormwood before; for Eve was come. And if I did not eat much, why, that lovesick boy that I have mentioned can tell you why it was. Then having done, I hurried off, and on every shallow pool that was skimmed with ice I slid. And the ice rose up before my feet, and broke into a thousand pieces behind them; but I did not wet so much as the sole of my shoe. And I hurried over to my clam beds; for there, I thought, shall I find my lost content.
The sun lay warm upon the bank, where the pebbles shone in the sun, but no Eve was there. And I paced to and fro, fuming with impatience, my head down upon my breast. For I found not content, having been certain that I should find it that had been lost to me for a month and more. And as I paced the shore, to and fro, there came a light touch upon my shoulder. I turned swiftly, and there was Eve, her eyes shining. And I—but I know not what I did—and, if I knew, I would not tell.
“Eve, Eve,” I cried, my voice shaking, “you were gone so long!”