The clambake had been under preparation all day and when the wagons stopped on the bluff high above the long shingle of Barren Beach, the delicious smell of driftwood smoke, broiling lobsters and steaming clams rose on the rich salt air. There was a sharp descent down a stony trail from the top of the bluff to the beach, and Seymour, in a private understanding with Dorothy, left her to go down with somebody else while he went to help Mrs. Milburn and carry some of her wraps and rugs. Dorothy would save a place for him at supper.
This was laid on long white canvas cloths spread on the sand, round which the thirty-odd guests sat on cushions and steamer rugs. Seymour found his place and sat down cross-legged beside Dorothy, with John Borden on her other side and Edith Lincoln beyond Borden. Seymour knew that all this had been previously arranged by Dorothy and Edith, her best friend. John Borden was Edith’s special beau and Dorothy needn’t pay much attention to him.
Seymour felt afloat on a tide of happiness. What a day! And though these famous clambakes of old Nezer White’s were a Hare Island tradition, familiar as bread and butter to everybody, they never tasted less delicious, and the appearance of each course, served by a crew of Nezer’s fishermen assistants, was greeted with hungry shouts. First they drank mugs of boiling clam broth and ate alongside huge heaps of steamed clams, dipping them with their fingers in tin dishes full of melted butter. Then followed the lobsters, grilled as nobody but Nezer could do, on driftwood coals, and eaten with giggling apologies for licked fingers and buttery chins which were all part of the fun. Then from the barrels where the clams had steamed in spicy seaweed came halves of little chickens, and from underneath the driftwood coals, black baked potatoes, flaky white inside and permeated with pungent smoky flavor. Then there was a rest, while they watched the clear evening light deepen slowly, and the sea, lazy and good-natured today, roll in gentle breakers on the beach a few yards away. The great bluff at their backs made a perfect windbreak; this shallow cove, old-timers always said, had been designed by Nature to make the perfect setting for beachparties.
“Oh, I’m having such a good time!” The girls picked daintily at chicken bones and shook their heads with little cries of protest as more food was offered.
“Have another! Have two!”
“I couldn’t. I’d burst!”
“I’m going to have some more!”
“Oh, Mary, no.”
“I will too!” Poor Mary, the inevitable fat girl seated between Mr. Milburn and Ronny Cole, who stuttered and wore thick glasses.
“Oh, look! Here comes the corn!” Now their appetites were renewed, and they fell to work on the fat, steaming ears of Country Gentleman corn, shining with butter. Seymour had felt ravenous when the supper began, but a little food had filled up the crevices and he did not want any more. Dorothy had not eaten much either. He tried to join in the laughter and the talk but all he wanted was to sit still and look at Dorothy and wait for her to speak. Her laughing brown eyes and curly hair and short, freckled nose might have been ordinary in anyone else, but in her seemed bewitching. He loved her small wrists and ankles and the quick lightness of her movements. But best of all, he believed, he liked her speaking voice which had a surprising quality of depth and quietness. Most girls spoke in a high, bubbling stream, pretty enough but to Seymour meaningless, while the velvety gentleness of Dorothy’s low-pitched speech stirred him every time she said a word. He could not quite remember when this lovely voice of hers had emerged from the blur of small childhood, for he had known Dorothy ever since they had played, along with most of these friends of theirs, at sandcastles and toy boats while their nurses sat in a row on camp-chairs holding umbrellas over their heads.
“I don’t want any more to eat,” she said.
“Neither do I.” Seymour looked up and down the two long rows of laughing, sunburned faces, with Mr. and Mrs. Milburn at the ends of the party and their son and daughter, Charlie and Grace, on opposite sides in the middle. “Why do you suppose we never have fun like this in the winter?”
“I don’t know. New York parties are stiff. And you don’t seem to—” Dorothy paused, a little embarrassed.
“I know.” It was unnecessary to bring in Mrs. Holt. Seymour had not been sent to dancing-school when everybody else was, and had scarcely ever been allowed to go to parties in town.
“But next winter will be different, won’t it?” Dorothy smiled shyly. “Will you come to my coming-out party?”
“I should think so! After all, I’ll be at college.”
“It will be fun, won’t it?”
“I hope so. Of course that’s not why I’m going there.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant me—coming out.”
“Will you like it so much?” Seymour spoke uneasily. “Will you—” he paused.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.” How could he say he hoped she would not like it too much, not allow herself to be distracted by too many beaux. He wanted to feel he had first place and could be sure of keeping it. Dorothy laughed. He supposed she knew what he meant.
After a time, when the food was finished, the canvas cloths were rolled up and the fire down the beach was renewed with great beams and chunks of driftwood. The party moved to settle themselves in a broad semicircle round the landward side of the fire. The late summer dusk was deepening to a beautiful starry night. They sat and watched the sea and the sky turn darker until the horizon disappeared in cobalt velvet, the sea marked by its eternal voice and the sky by its jewels, as if their casket had been flung open and the diamonds inside strewn high and wide with wildest extravagance. Everybody here had seen this sight innumerable times, but they exclaimed and marvelled as they watched it, for this was one of the ancient wonders which had the magic to seem always new.
Someone started a song and soon by threes and fours the others joined in, until the whole party was singing. They all knew the repertoire; the songs, like the hay-wagons and the menu and old Nezer and the sounds and smells, were all part of the tradition. Some could harmonize and some could just sing and some could barely carry a tune, but they all chimed together. They sang “After the Ball” and “Sweet Rosie O’Grady”; “Sweet Adeline” and “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.” But Seymour’s favorite of all was “Juanita”:
“Nita, Juanita,
Ask thyself if we must part… .”
Dorothy’s low voice rang in his ear, the soft contralto he loved to hear. He stopped singing to listen to her. His eyes were fixed on the sparks and the leaping blue and orange flames of the great fire against the magnificent sky.
“Ask thyself if we must part… .” Without turning his head Seymour moved his right hand quietly across the steamer-rug on which they were sitting, and took Dorothy’s small left hand and hid it, holding it tight, in a fold of the rug. He found his breath short, he felt choked. Those words echoed through his head and his throat and gave him courage to grip Dorothy’s hand, feeling its small bones and its delicate warm skin. He wanted to draw her closer, but that he could not do; the air seemed to speak of the feelings like his own which throbbed through all these girls and young men and held them pulsating against the barriers of convention and good taste. How easy it would be, he thought, to move only a little, to draw Dorothy only a bit closer, until he could slide his right arm round her waist as he longed almost painfully to do. But never, except on the few occasions when he had danced with her this summer, had he so much as touched her hand before; and now that he had grasped it he must be content. He wondered what she felt; he waited, pressing her hand and moving his thumb across its smooth palm, for some response from her. And when it came, when her small fingers closed hard for a moment on his, he could only stare more fixedly at the fire, swallowing, not trusting himself to look at her.
He wanted the party never to end; he had kept his grasp of Dorothy’s hand, and in spite of his reticence, moved as close to her as he dared, before the hour of singing by the driftwood fire had spun itself out. It was time to start home. Ther
e were sighs, here and there a giggle as some girl was swung to her feet, calls of “Where’s my sweater?” and “Let me help you,” and “I’ll carry that,” as they moved slowly and regretfully up the beach to the path where kerosene lanterns had been placed to light the way. They climbed up the bluff and got into the haywagons again and settled down for the ride back. The moon had risen and was high now, startling white, and the sandy road looked like a trail of cream poured out between the dull dry green of the dunes on either side. Seymour settled Dorothy in the wagon and then contrived, with boldness of which he himself was afraid, to let his arm fall behind her and around her shoulders as he took his place beside her. He held his breath, he was unsure of himself and now anxious lest she take offense and in trying to draw away make them both conspicuous, the last thing he wished to bring about. But she did nothing. She sat quietly with her hands in her lap, and under cover of the bustle made by the others climbing into the wagon, Seymour breathed more easily. He leaned back, and when he summoned the courage to look at her she smiled, with gentle uncertainty.
“You are sweet,” he whispered, and doubted if she heard him. The wagon was starting in a chorus of cheers and then there was the long, pleasantly jolting ride in the brilliant moonlight, with everybody else, he knew, feeling just as he and Dorothy did; and finally the arrival back at the post-office square. The clock under the white steeple of the church across the way said twenty minutes past eleven. Seymour’s heart sank. This was a dreadful blow. There was no possibility that he could walk to her house with Dorothy and himself get home inside of ten minutes. He scowled and bit his lip. Dorothy said, “You’d better not try.” It made the ignominy all the worse for her to know his dilemma. “I can walk home with John and Edith,” she said. The Lincoln cottage was next door to the Bayliss’s.
Seymour felt his face burning; he swallowed and turned his head sharply, defiant and decided. “Nonsense,” he said. “Of course I’m going to take you home.”
She did not say anything. He jumped down from the wagon, held up his arms to help her jump, and felt as if the whole party must hear his pounding heart as she swung for an instant in his arms. They went over to thank Mr. and Mrs. Milburn and say good night, and Seymour turned to walk home with Dorothy.
“Your bicycle,” she said, laughing.
“By golly, that’s right.” He was crestfallen. He did not want to push the bicycle alongside while he walked with her, but there was nothing else to do. He dared not take the extra time to run back to the postoffice for it, doubling on his tracks in the direction away from home. He muttered something that Dorothy was not intended to hear, but she laughed softly and said, “Oh, come along.”
They took a footpath across the stretch of dunes that lay between the post-office and the broad harbor ringed with cottages where their homes lay perhaps a third of a mile apart. The colony of houses was scattered all along their way, and as they walked slowly, their friends in groups and couples moved before and behind them, turning off with calls of “Good night!” “Good night!” until Seymour found himself almost alone with Dorothy, since the Bayliss house was farthest out towards the edge of the harbor. Edith Lincoln and John Borden disappeared inside the door of her house. Seymour knew that Mrs. Bayliss would be waiting for Dorothy. His moment of magic was so limited that as they moved past a clump of bay shrubs he stopped in their shadow, laid down his bicycle, and stood looking at Dorothy in the moonlight. She seemed surprised. Her lips were parted and her eyebrows raised as if to ask a question. But it was Seymour who spoke and when he did he felt a fool. He only said, “Dorothy.”
She was silent. He took her hand slowly between his two and held it for a moment and said, “You see …” Then he had nothing more to say.
“I’ve had a lovely time,” she said.
“So have I.” He wanted to draw her closer and he felt the nerveless yielding of her hand and arm, but he had not the courage.
“Don’t make yourself late, Seymour,” she whispered. Now instead of shame that she should know the mortifications of his existence, he felt a plunging relief. He wanted her to understand, and she did.
“It—” he spoke with hesitation and then blurted, “It won’t always be like this, Dorothy.”
“Of course not.”
“And sometimes I want to ask you—ask—”
“What?”
“If you—you don’t mind—well, waiting. I know I can’t be much fun the way things are. But some day—”
“I know.”
“Yes, but in the meantime, you’re going to be meeting lots of new people and you know how much trouble I have in New York. It’s hard enough here, but in the winter, well—”
“But, Seymour,” she said, and her low voice throbbed in his ears. “The others, the new ones, they wouldn’t—” He stared at her small delicate features etched in the moonlight and saw the deep blush which swept over them while she hesitated. “They wouldn’t matter,” she whispered.
He stood clinging to her hand, surprised to find that he was trembling. For a moment he could not speak. Then he swallowed and said, “Dorothy—you mean that I do?”
She bent her head and if she answered he could not hear.
“Oh,” he said softly, “I didn’t dare hope. Because I feel, I’ve felt for such a long time—” he paused and something made him say, “You didn’t think me silly? Did you just—understand?”
Again she nodded shyly without speaking. Seymour’s hands held her forearms, and drew her back into the shadow of the shrubbery. They stood close together, Seymour so much taller that he bent down to see her face, and to look into her eyes which for the first time looked straight into his, wide and tender with what she had not the words to say. “Oh,” he said, “Dorothy. Do you mean you would, do you think some day … all that waiting … you wouldn’t mind?”
She shook her head slowly, looking at him. Then she raised her face and Seymour touched her lips with his own. His arms moved to go round her and for an instant he could feel her, warm and trembling a little, as he held her. But she drew away, whispering, “We must go, Mother’s waiting for me, too.”
“I know. I—oh, Dorothy, do you really mean it?”
Once more he felt her lips, delicate, shy, velvety as he imagined a butterfly’s wing must be. She turned her head and Seymour, though he longed to embrace her with all the strength which suddenly flared through him, gently let her go. They stepped quickly round the shrubs onto the path leading to the house and as they hurried up the steps, the door was opened by Mrs. Bayliss who stood there smiling.
“Did you have a good time?” she asked, as Dorothy kissed her.
“Lovely! It was just wonderful.”
“A grand party,” said Seymour.
“Quite a day for you,” said Dorothy’s mother. “Mr. Bayliss says you handled your boat splendidly in the race, Seymour. You’re sure to win the Season Cup.”
“Oh, thank you. It’s nothing, really.”
“Of course it is! I’m not going to ask you in, it’s getting late. But we’ll see you soon.”
“Good night,” said Dorothy softly.
“Good night, Dorothy. Good night, Mrs. Bayliss.”
“Thank you for bringing Dorothy home. Good night.”
The door closed. Seymour sprang down the steps, seized his bicycle and pedalled home furiously, not only because he was so late, but because his blood was racing and driving him along and he felt from sheer excitement almost as if he had the power to fly. He could not really believe it yet; he did not realize what he had said or Dorothy had said; but she was his girl, he had kissed her, she liked him better than anybody else, and she expected to keep on doing so and to like him more as time went on. He had dreamed of this without imagining that it could happen, and now it had. It was too good to be true, but it was true, and with this to live for a chap could endure even the maddening troubles of his existence.
He let himself in at the side door which had been left unlocked for him, and tiptoed acro
ss the hall and the sitting-room to the fireplace. The moonlight was so brilliant that it was unnecessary to light a candle. Seymour stood looking at the mantel clock, listening to its reproachful ticking while he also listened with all the acuteness of his years of practice for any other sound in the house. There was none, and the clock said fourteen minutes past twelve. Seymour opened the glass face of the clock and took the pendulum in his fingers and stopped it. Then he stood there hesitating. More sharply than before he listened for a sound in the house. He bent down suddenly and took off his sneakers and moved in his stocking feet to the bottom of the stairs and stood listening there. The house had the hollow but penetrating quiet which told him that everybody upstairs was sound asleep. He went back to the clock and stood and looked at it. For a matter of forty-four minutes he might find tomorrow morning that some crushing chastisement had fallen on him, some catastrophe whose extent he could not, or dared not, imagine. Never before had he done what he weighed doing now, but never before had the necessity arisen. He had, however, thought of this; there was very little in the realm of self-preservation which had not already occurred to Seymour. Deceit was a risk and he disliked it thoroughly, but he had to weigh it now against far more urgent dangers. Still listening with ears sharpened by anxiety, he put out his hand, trying to ignore the pounding of his own pulse, and slowly set the stopped clock back. When, with his mechanical fingers he had placed both hands of the clock, they said two minutes past eleven-thirty. Seymour closed the clock face, took his sneakers in his hand, and sure that he was not making a sound, crept up to his room.
When he came down to breakfast on the required stroke of eight, his grandmother and Randall were already seated at the table. Mrs. Holt in her usual black sat behind the silver coffee pot at the head of the table, facing the door. Above her high collar her jowled, frowning face, instead of looking at Seymour, was slightly bent over the bowl of porridge which she ate every morning. Seymour walked to his chair and, standing behind it, inclined his head and said “Good morning, Grandmama.” This salutation had been substituted, as a mark of his superior age, for the morning kiss which he had dreaded all his life; Randall was still expected to kiss the old woman every morning and privately expressed his opinion about that to Seymour. Randall, who detested porridge and for whom breakfast was therefore a daily ordeal, gave Seymour now a sidelong look of such meaning that Seymour reacted with instant alarm: there was trouble. His grandmother had not answered his greeting, so Seymour took his place and stared at his own oatmeal with loathing. How could he choke down such stuff when he was already strangling with uneasiness? At that moment he heard his mother’s light steps running down the stairs and into the dining-room. She came in crying, “Good morning, Mother Holt. Good morning, boys.”
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