The clammer

by William John Hopkins

“Eve,” I observed, “see now for what you are responsible. For, dining alone, I did but bolt my dinner, for I would not miss a minute of your company. And thereby I risked dyspepsia. And that is not the worst, for the ills that follow hard upon it are these: melancholy and an evil disposition; and backbiting and gossip, and, in short, all the qualities which you see in my neighbors. And”—

But she was laughing. “Is that not enough?” she asked. “I would not be responsible for more, and I promise to give you an hour for your dinner—hereafter. You will have no need to hurry back, for I shall not be here sooner. But this is an exception. We shall not have such another storm, surely, in the next”— Again she stopped. “Look, Adam, can you see the spindle? Is it gone?”

I looked. The tide was risen now, so that only now and then, between the great seas that came, could I catch a glimpse of it; and I saw that it was bent almost even with the rock. It would be useless for its purpose even if it held, and the tide that was coming would be very high. Even now the waves lapped about my feet as I stood upon the sand, and the seaweed washed against the bank, and it lacked an hour of high tide. I feared for the pebbles, that they would no more shine in the sun.

“I see it,” I said. “It is yet fast to the rock—as fast as any oyster. But it is bent flat, so that it is no manner of use. It may as well go as stay. The water covers it already, or it would, if it were smooth.”

And, indeed, the seas broke no longer over the rock, save an occasional one, higher than the rest, and the trough lower. Such a sea did but open an instant, to show the top, dark brown and barnacled, then closed again, roaring, in a whirlpool of foam. And Eve said nothing, but only looked. And as we stood looking, and the rain running off from our clothes in streams, Old Goodwin came down to us, in oilskins and boots and sou’wester. And he said nothing, either, which was not strange, for he was not a man of words. And when he had been there some while, came a mighty sea, and fell upon the rock. I shouted at the sight of that sea; I could do no other. And when it was passed, the water opened once more and there was but the shaft, bent and twisted.

“Gone!” I cried. And Eve looked at me with wide eyes, but Old Goodwin only nodded.

So we three watched for some while, and at last the water was as smooth over the rock as it was elsewhere. And that is not saying that it was smooth at all—even on my clam beds, where it was, in a measure, sheltered, the waves broke high, so that I feared for the bank; but the great seas raced evenly over the rock, and it was as there was none there, for no man could tell its place.

Then, on a sudden, the rain ceased and the wind increased, and it seemed that the whole earth must be torn up by the roots. And up on the hill I heard the crash of a tree, falling, and then another. And the water was level with the bank, and the waves broke over my pebbles. Old Goodwin turned at the sound of the trees, and said something, I know not what. For the noise of the wind and the noise of the water was a great noise, and swallowed up the sound of his voice. And he looked once more out to sea, and there came that into his face that made me to look, too.

Now there had been, a moment before, a veil of rain over the surface of the sea that prevented our seeing more than a little way. But now the veil was withdrawn, and I looked, and rubbed my eyes, and looked again. For there came a yacht—a steam yacht, and she was steaming her best, and with the wind nearly behind her she came at a great pace. Now she was lost in a hollow, so that I saw no more than her stack, belching smoke, and now she rose on a wave, so that I saw her hull. What fool, thought I, would venture from a safe harbor in such weather? If they had left port before this storm,—well, it is but a poor skipper that knows the weather no better,—and they were not like to have been a day’s steaming from some good harbor. And as I thought these things, the yacht was come nearer, and I knew it, and I knew that here was that certain rich man come to plague me. I even saw the man himself, standing forward, and holding on by a stanchion. And as I saw I marveled, for I had supposed the man a coward.

I turned to Eve. “Do you know”— But I did not finish, for she nodded; and her look was troubled. I hated that rich man with a mighty hate. And while I still gazed into her eyes, I saw them open wide with horror.