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.
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.