The Convalescence of Jack Hamlin Page #3

"The Convalescence of Jack Hamlin" by Bret Harte is a short story that explores themes of healing, redemption, and the complexities of human relationships. Set in the American West, it follows the character of Jack Hamlin, a former gambler recovering from illness. During his convalescence, he encounters various individuals who challenge his worldview and inspire him to confront his past. Harte's vivid storytelling combines humor and realism, showcasing his signature style while delving into the transformative power of friendship and self-reflection.

• Short story

								

his eyes; he was dreaming certainly--not one of those wild, fantastic
visions that had so miserably filled the past long nights of pain and
suffering, but still a dream! At last, opening one eye stealthily, he
caught the flash of the sunlight upon the crystal and silver articles
of his dressing case, and that flash at once illuminated his memory. He
remembered his long weeks of illness and the devotion of Dr. Duchesne.
He remembered how, when the crisis was past, the doctor had urged a
complete change and absolute rest, and had told him of a secluded rancho
in some remote locality kept by an honest Western pioneer whose family
he had attended. He remembered his own reluctant assent, impelled by
gratitude to the doctor and the helplessness of a sick man. He
now recalled the weary journey thither, his exhaustion and the
semi-consciousness of his arrival in a bewildering wind on a shadowy
hilltop. And this was the place!

He shivered slightly, and ducked his head under the cover again. But the
brightness of the sun and some exhilarating quality in the air tempted
him to have another outlook, avoiding as far as possible the grimly
decorated walls. If they had only left him his faithful servant he
could have relieved himself of that mischievous badinage which always
alternately horrified and delighted that devoted negro. But he was
alone--absolutely alone--in this conventicle!

Presently he saw the door open slowly. It gave admission to the small
round face and yellow ringlets of a little girl, and finally to her
whole figure, clasping a doll nearly as large as herself. For a moment
she stood there, arrested by the display of Mr. Hamlin's dressing case
on the table. Then her glances moved around the room and rested upon the
bed. Her blue eyes and Mr. Hamlin's brown ones met and mingled. Without
a moment's hesitation she moved to the bedside. Taking her doll's hands
in her own, she displayed it before him.

"Isn't it pitty?"

Mr. Hamlin was instantly his old self again. Thrusting his hand
comfortably under the pillow, he lay on his side and gazed at it long
and affectionately. "I never," he said in a faint voice, but with
immovable features, "saw anything so perfectly beautiful. Is it alive?"

"It's a dolly," she returned gravely, smoothing down its frock and
straightening its helpless feet. Then seized with a spontaneous idea,
like a young animal she suddenly presented it to him with both hands and
said,--

"Kiss it."

Mr. Hamlin implanted a chaste salute on its vermilion cheek. "Would you
mind letting me hold it for a little?" he said with extreme diffidence.

The child was delighted, as he expected. Mr. Hamlin placed it in a
sitting posture on the edge of his bed, and put an ostentatious paternal
arm around it.

"But you're alive, ain't you?" he said to the child.

This subtle witticism convulsed her. "I'm a little girl," she gurgled.

"I see; her mother?"

"Ess."

"And who's your mother?"

"Mammy."

"Mrs. Rivers?"

The child nodded until her ringlets were shaken on her cheek. After
a moment she began to laugh bashfully and with repression, yet as
Mr. Hamlin thought a little mischievously. Then as he looked at her
interrogatively she suddenly caught hold of the ruffle of his sleeve.

"Oo's got on mammy's nighty."

Mr. Hamlin started. He saw the child's obvious mistake and actually felt
himself blushing. It was unprecedented--it was the sheerest weakness--it
must have something to do with the confounded air.

"I grieve to say you are deeply mistaken--it is my very own," he
returned with great gravity. Nevertheless, he drew the coverlet close
over his shoulder. But here he was again attracted by another face at
the half-opened door--a freckled one, belonging to a boy apparently a
year or two older than the girl. He was violently telegraphing to her to
come away, although it was evident that he was at the same time deeply
interested in the guest's toilet articles. Yet as his bright gray eyes
and Mr. Hamlin's brown ones met, he succumbed, as the girl had, and
walked directly to the bedside. But he did it bashfully--as the girl had
not. He even attempted a defensive explanation.

"She hadn't oughter come in here, and mar wouldn't let her, and she
knows it," he said with superior virtue.

"But I asked her to come as I'm asking you," said Mr. Hamlin promptly,
"and don't you go back on your sister or you'll never be president of
the United States." With this he laid his hand on the boy's tow head,
and then, lifting himself on his pillow to a half-sitting posture, put
an arm around each of the children, drawing them together, with the doll
occupying the central post of honor. "Now," continued Mr. Hamlin, albeit
in a voice a little faint from the exertion, "now that we're comfortable
together I'll tell you the story of the good little boy who became a
pirate in order to save his grandmother and little sister from being
eaten by a wolf at the door."

But, alas! that interesting record of self-sacrifice never was told. For
it chanced that Melinda Bird, Mrs. Rivers's help, following the trail of
the missing children, came upon the open door and glanced in. There, to
her astonishment, she saw the domestic group already described, and to
her eyes dominated by the "most beautiful and perfectly elegant" young
man she had ever seen. But let not the incautious reader suppose that
she succumbed as weakly as her artless charges to these fascinations.
The character and antecedents of that young man had been already
delivered to her in the kitchen by the other help. With that single
glance she halted; her eyes sought the ceiling in chaste exaltation.
Falling back a step, she called in ladylike hauteur and precision, "Mary
Emmeline and John Wesley."

Mr. Hamlin glanced at the children. "It's Melindy looking for us,"
said John Wesley. But they did not move. At which Mr. Hamlin called out
faintly but cheerfully, "They're here, all right."

Again the voice arose with still more marked and lofty distinctness,
"John Wesley and Mary Em-me-line." It seemed to Mr. Hamlin that human
accents could not convey a more significant and elevated ignoring of
some implied impropriety in his invitation. He was for a moment crushed.

But he only said to his little friends with a smile, "You'd better go
now and we'll have that story later."

"Affer beckus?" suggested Mary Emmeline.

"In the woods," added John Wesley.

Mr. Hamlin nodded blandly. The children trotted to the door. It closed
upon them and Miss Bird's parting admonition, loud enough for Mr. Hamlin
to hear, "No more freedoms, no more intrudings, you hear."

The older culprit, Hamlin, retreated luxuriously under his blankets,
but presently another new sensation came over him--absolutely, hunger.
Perhaps it was the child's allusion to "beckus," but he found himself
wondering when it would be ready. This anxiety was soon relieved by the

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