University of Virginia Library

8. VIII.
UNCLE JIM'S EVENING CALL.

Again that Sunday evening old man Dracutt and his
wife sat together by their lonely kitchen fire, but with no
Clinton now to come in and break the awful silence and
monotony of their lives. The lamp had not been lighted;
only the moonlight lay upon the floor, and the still whiteness
of the winter's night filled the room with its pallid
reflection.

The old man sat in his chair erect, but looking more
crushed together in the neck and jaws than ever, while his
wife appeared bent by an added load of trouble. There
was utter silence, except that now and then a soft, low sob
was heard; the old lady was thinking of that night two
weeks ago, and weeping. Then, ever and anon, from without
came a deep, muffled, reverberating roar or groan, as
if Nature herself sympathized with their woe. If it had
been summer, you would have said it thundered. But it
was the pond complaining, the thick-ribbed ice shuddering
and moaning under the cold, starry night. Every sudden,
prolonged peal reached the ears of the lonely old
couple in the bereaved house, reminding them of their
loss.

They had not spoken to each other yet, nor had there
been much need that they should speak, so well had they
learned in all those years to understand each other without
words. But they had shown in many ways that they
felt more kindly toward each other since this great affliction
came upon them. And now, old lady Dracutt sitting
there, weeping, in the gloom, longed to speak once more
to her husband, and to hear his voice.

She was ready to say, “Forgive me, Jonathan,” but was
afraid to utter the words. How strangely they would sound,
breaking the unnatural silence that had kept them dumb to
each other for twelve years! Again and again she tried
to speak, but could not bring her tongue to shape the
syllables; it seemed paralyzed; she began to feel a strange,
benumbing fear that she would never have power to break
that silence, that it had been taken from her as a punishment
for her long sin of wilfulness and hard-heartedness
toward him.

While she was thus struggling ineffectually with herself,
suddenly another voice broke the spell which she could
not, — to her terror and joy, her husband's voice.

“I have been thinking, Jane —” said he, and stopped.

“O Jonathan! you have spoken!” she cried out, with
a wild sob. “God bless you, God bless you, Jonathan!”

“Jane, I thought I had better speak,” said the old man
in a trembling voice. “I have been wantin' to for many
days. I think I have been wrong, Jane.”

“Don't say it, don't say it, Jonathan,” said the old lady,
sinking to the floor, and throwing her clasped hands across
his knees. “I should have asked your forgiveness. I have
tried to. I was trying to now, when you spoke. O Jonathan,
Jonathan!”

“God forgive us! I think we have both been wrong, but
I have been most in the wrong,” said the old man. Then
a long silence followed, broken by sighs and sobs, and the
moaning peals of the pond.

“I 've been thinkin',” resumed the old man, — she was
at last seated by his side once more, and her hand was in
his, — “that I can't, somehow, bear to have Clinton's memory
passed over in this way. I think we ought to have
funeral sarvices for him, even without —”

“Yes,” said she, “I have felt so, too. It will be some
satisfaction. I said as much to Cousin James.”

“He told me you did. He told me, too, what you said
about my blaming myself so much on account of the boy.
And it touched me, it touched me; I did n't desarve that
you should feel and speak so kindly.”

“But, Jonathan,” replied Jane, wiping her eyes, “you
said nothin' to him that night that it was n't your duty to
say. I felt that, though I hated to have him hurt.”

“I don't know, I don't know. If I had been different,
he might have been different. No wonder he was cross
sometimes. It 's the hardest thing for me to reconcile myself
to the fact that my last word to him was unkind.
He would n't have gone off on the pond so the next mornin'
without speakin' to us, if it had n't been for that. I thought
't was my duty to reprimand him, and maybe it was. But
my first duty was to set him an example of cheerfulness
and good temper. What could we expect of him as long
as we two were at enmity?” And the old man ended with
a groan.

While they were talking, there came a rap at the door.
The old man said, “Walk in,” while the old lady made
haste to light a lamp.

“It 's nobody but me; don't light up for me,” said a
familiar voice, as the tall form of a hale old man appeared
in the doorway.

“Cousin James!” said the old lady, still opening the
wick with the lighted match.

“At this time o' night, and with a knock!” said old
man Dracutt, pushing a chair toward the visitor.

“I knocked because I — I rather thought ye had company,”
said James, glancing his eye about the room as he
sat down.

“You heard talkin', I s'pose,” said old man Dracutt.

“Ye need n't be surprised at it. 'T was nobody but Jane
and me.”

“Praise the Lord!” exclaimed Uncle Jim (for we like
best the name the young folks called him by). “Bless ye,
Jonathan; bless ye, Jane. I hoped this sorrow would bring
you closer together, and I see it has.”

“It has, it has!” said Jane.

“God's ways are not our ways,” said Uncle Jim, with
deep emotion. “He has done it. He meant it all for your
good.”

“I believe so,” replied Jane. “We have had comfort in
each other to-night, such as we have n't had for twenty
year. But, O James! at what a cost! I 've been thinkin'
the sunshine could n't melt us, and so God sent his lightnin'.
If we had n't been so hard-hearted, then our boy
might have been spared to us.”

“But you will soon become reconciled to his loss,” said
Unlce Jim, philosophically — so very philosophically, indeed,
that old man Dracutt looked at him with reproachful
surprise.

“That can never be, James. There 's only one thing now
that can be any satisfaction to us. This week the ice will
be cut over all that part of the pond. He may be found,
froze into it. If not, then we must have funeral sarvices,
jest the same as if he was. What ails ye, James? Ye
don't listen to me. I thought ye approved of the idee of a
funeral.”

“So I do — that is, so I should — hem!” coughed Uncle
Jim, using his handkerchief, fidgeting in his chair, and
behaving strangely in other ways. “But I would n't hurry
about it. There 's no knowin', ye know — he may be found
yet — and — hem! — the fact is, there 's no sartinty — no
positive sartinty — that he 's drownded, ye know, Jonathan.”

“I wish I did know it,” said Jonathan, somewhat
startled. “If I could think there was a particle of hope!
James,” he went on, with increasing agitation, “what have
you come here for this time o' the evenin'? You don't act
your nat'ral self. There 's somethin' —”

“Yes, there is somethin',” Uncle Jim replied, “and I
want you to be prepared for 't.”

“For Heaven's sake, James!” said the old lady, “what is
it? Have they found the poor boy's body?”

“Not — not exactly that. I tell ye,” Uncle Jim cleared
his throat again, “there 's no positive sartinty about his
bein' drownded. The men said he was on the ice jest a few
seconds before it broke up; but, don't you see, men can't
have much recollection with regard to time, after such an
accident? What seemed to them a few seconds, when they
thought on 't afterwards, might have been a few minutes;
in fact, might have been five, ten minutes. Have ye
thought of that?”

“Yes, yes. But all the sarcumstances, James, — they
are agin the supposition. Where could the poor boy be,
if not there? He could n't have gone off. He had no
money about him. Then, agin, the hammers, James!”

“The hammers! — hem! — yes, Jonathan,” said Uncle
Jim, in the awkwardest manner, and with the strangest
blending of cheerfulness and anxiety in his kind old face,
“about the hammers. Something has come to light with
regard to them; and that 's one thing I 've come to tell you.
Whatever has become of Clinton, they have n't gone to the
bottom of the pond, that 's a sartin case.”

“How do you know?” cried old man Dracutt, almost
fiercely.

“I was told so, on good authority, this very evenin'. I
know jest where them hammers are. They are lyin' in a
corner of the fence, a few rods beyond the tool-house.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 729EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man sitting at a desk. He is turned looking at the doorway, where three people are standing. There is a man with his arms around a woman, his hat in his hand. Another man with a long beard is behind the couple. ]

The very hammers, I know it. The snow prevented 'em
from bein' discovered before.”

“Clinton! Clinton! then he may be alive!” broke
forth the old lady, with sudden and wild hope.

“It is more than probable. In fact, a — person — has
been heard from, up in New Hampshire, who answers his
description. A young man come to town this evenin' and
brought the news. He 'll be here in a few minutes. Be
calm, Jane, I — I believe he is comin' now!” (Footsteps in
the creaking snow outside.) “So, do be composed, Jonathan!
You know now who it is!” as the door opened.

“Clinton!” shrieked the old lady, tottering forward,
and falling on the new-comer's neck, with hysterical sobs.

It was Clinton, sure enough, and Phil Kermer with him.