The clammer

by William John Hopkins

III
OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE

OLD GOODWIN’S WIFE

MY friends like me well enough, as I have some reason to suppose; for although I am as peculiar as I ever was, they no longer remonstrate with me as they used to do. Perhaps they think that marriage has cured me of all my queerness—the summer is not yet come to prove the contrary. And I may be sure that, when it does come, I shall roam the shores, as I ever did, and hunt the elusive clam, as I ever did; and dig, or gaze, as ever; and whether the one or the other, depends upon my fancy at the moment. But if I do as I was wont to do, I shall not roam the shores alone. Eve will roam with me; and there will be two clam hoes in my shed, and two pairs of rubber boots reposing in the closet—when they are not in use, which is like to be seldom. And the one pair will be large and clumsy, and well stained with much wading through mud, while the other pair will be small and dainty—yes, even dainty, though they be rubber boots—and—well—not overmuch stained, though she wade even as I. Rubber boots—for clamming—cannot be kept spotless, nor should they be, if they could. But there will be but the one basket, to serve us both. I may be sure of this, I say; but they think, forsooth, that I will have done with such foolishness—now that I am married. Wherefore, they have given over their remonstrating.

But I note that I am more popular than I was. Some of them are always to be found at my house—not the same ones, but one or mayhap two will come in of an evening and sit before my fire. My fire goes not out, ever, nor does it roar; but always there are coals in plenty, so that the logs blaze gently and send out heat. I love it so, quiet and peaceful, for it makes my content the greater—a roaring fire makes me uneasy, even though I have confidence in my chimney. And my content would be enough in any case, with a friend sitting on the one side, and my wife sitting on the other; and I—but I sit in the deep shadow, to watch Eve the better. I love to watch her, and I would not be watched; for thus I can think my thoughts—and not be bothered with knowing that I am showing them too plainly in my face. For I have not been married long—not long enough to show my feelings plainly and not to care what people think.

And if I cleave to candles—as a clammer should—what matter? Five of them give a pretty light, and a candle is long enough for an evening, even though it is winter. A short candle is as good as a clock—better, I think—for serving notice when to go. My friends have learned that, too; and when the candles have become no more than stumps, they are wont to jump up hastily, say their good-nights and be gone. And as I cover the fire, to save coals for the morning wherewith to kindle it afresh, I bethink me of my mighty wood-pile out by my shed—it is mighty even now, and the winter nearly gone—and I smile to myself, so that I am smiling yet as I rise from my task. Eve, seeing that, smiles, too, although she knows not what she is smiling at; but her smile is ever ready—ready and waiting that it break forth, like the gentle sunshine—and she holds her hand to me. And I, having taken it, blow out the candles, and we mount the stairs together.

Yes, my friends like me well enough, as I have some reason to suppose; but my neighbors do not, as I have also some reason to suppose. And if I have no great love for them, the reason therefor is not far to seek. For they ever have seemed to think me one to be laughed at and made game of,—they knew no better, which I suppose I should have remembered,—well knowing that they might make their petty jests with impunity. And sometimes I have wondered whether it were not better to answer fools according to their folly; but my witticisms they would not comprehend, and I have held back from that, although the provocation was often great enough. For they never let slip an opportunity—and there were a plenty—of letting me hear their loud laughter as I passed them by chance; or even making a jest of me in my hearing. So that it has come to pass that I despise them; and I have withdrawn my foot from my neighbor’s house, now these many years, for weary of him I am already. But now I find these same neighbors are well like to become my visitors, which would plague me mightily. And I marveled at it.

I was thinking upon this matter one evening, sitting by my fire. And, for a wonder, no friend was there, but Eve sat by the fire, too, a book in her hand and her sewing basket near. For Eve, not having been brought up to sew,—save embroidery, if that be called sewing,—has developed, suddenly, a great desire for it, so that she always has her basket by her. But this evening, whereof I speak, she was not sewing, nor reading either, though she had a book in her hand; but her hand lay in her lap for the most part, and now and then I caught her glancing at me; and when I did so catch her, she smiled at me. So I smiled, too, and at last I leaned toward her.

“Eve,” I said, “why do you smile?”

And, at that, she did but smile the more. “Why should it be, Adam,” she answered, “except that I am happy?”

And she leaned toward me, too, and our heads were very close, and it happened that the book she had been holding slid from her lap and fell upon the floor; which should have grieved me, for it was one of my favorites and bound in full calf, with hand tooling around the edges. But I scarcely noticed it. I reached forth my hand, and it met hers, which was reaching out for mine; and I looked deep into her eyes—eyes swimming in tenderness—eyes like— No, I will not say it, for it has been said too often—though there is some excuse for the poets. And after some while I spoke.