The Convalescence of Jack Hamlin Page #6

"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

								

ez a text; they picked out hymns to fit ye! And always a drefful example
and a visitation. And the rest o' the tune it was all gabble, gabble by
the brothers and sisters about you. I reckon, Mr. Hamlin, that they know
everything you ever did since you were knee-high to a grasshopper, and a
good deal more than you ever thought of doin'. The women is all dead set
on convertin' ye and savin' ye by their own precious selves, and the men
is ekally dead set on gettin' rid o' ye on that account."

"And what did Seth and Mrs. Rivers say?" asked Hamlin composedly, but
with kindling eyes.

"They stuck up for ye ez far ez they could. But ye see the parson
hez got a holt upon Seth, havin' caught him kissin' a convert at camp
meeting; and Deacon Turner knows suthin about Mrs. Rivers's sister, who
kicked over the pail and jumped the fence years ago, and she's afeard a'
him. But what I wanted to tell ye was that they're all comin' up here to
take a look at ye--some on 'em to-night. You ain't afeard, are ye?" she
added, with a loud laugh.

"Well, it looks rather desperate, doesn't it?" returned Jack, with
dancing eyes.

"I'll trust ye for all that," said Melinda. "And now I reckon I'll trot
along to the rancho. Ye needn't offer ter see me home," she added,
as Jack made a movement to accompany her. "Everybody up here ain't as
fair-minded ez Silas and you, and Melinda Bird hez a character to
lose! So long!" With this she cantered away, a little heavily, perhaps,
adjusting her yellow hat with both hands as she clattered down the steep
hill.

That afternoon Mr. Hamlin drew largely on his convalescence to mount a
half-broken mustang, and in spite of the rising afternoon wind to gallop
along the highroad in quite as mischievous and breezy a fashion. He was
wont to allow his mustang's nose to hang over the hind rails of wagons
and buggies containing young couples, and to dash ahead of sober
carryalls that held elderly "members in good standing."

An accomplished rider, he picked up and brought back the flying parasol
of Mrs. Deacon Stubbs without dismounting. He finally came home a little
blown, but dangerously composed.

There was the usual Sunday evening gathering at Windy Hill
Rancho--neighbors and their wives, deacons and the pastor--but their
curiosity was not satisfied by the sight of Mr. Hamlin, who kept his own
room and his own counsel. There was some desultory conversation, chiefly
on church topics, for it was vaguely felt that a discussion of the
advisability or getting rid of the guest of their host was somewhat
difficult under this host's roof, with the guest impending at any
moment. Then a diversion was created by some of the church choir
practicing the harmonium with the singing of certain more or less
lugubrious anthems. Mrs. Rivers presently joined in, and in a somewhat
faded soprano, which, however, still retained considerable musical taste
and expression, sang, "Come, ye disconsolate." The wind moaned over the
deep-throated chimney in a weird harmony with the melancholy of that
human appeal as Mrs. Rivers sang the first verse:--

     "Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish,
       Come to the Mercy Seat, fervently kneel;
     Here bring your wounded hearts--here tell your anguish,
       Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal!"

A pause followed, and the long-drawn, half-human sigh of the mountain
wind over the chimney seemed to mingle with the wail of the harmonium.
And then, to their thrilled astonishment, a tenor voice, high, clear,
but tenderly passionate, broke like a skylark over their heads in the
lines of the second verse:--

     "Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
       Hope of the penitent--fadeless and pure;
     Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying,
       Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure!"

The hymn was old and familiar enough, Heaven knows. It had been
quite popular at funerals, and some who sat there had had its strange
melancholy borne upon them in time of loss and tribulations, but
never had they felt its full power before. Accustomed as they were to
emotional appeal and to respond to it, as the singer's voice died away
above them, their very tears flowed and fell with that voice. A few
sobbed aloud, and then a voice asked tremulously,--

"Who is it?"

"It's Mr. Hamlin," said Seth quietly. "I've heard him often hummin'
things before."

There was another silence, and the voice of Deacon Stubbs broke in
harshly,--

"It's rank blasphemy."

"If it's rank blasphemy to sing the praise o' God, not only better than
some folks in the choir, but like an angel o' light, I wish you'd do a
little o' that blaspheming on Sundays, Mr. Stubbs."

The speaker was Mrs. Stubbs, and as Deacon Stubbs was a notoriously bad
singer the shot told.

"If he's sincere, why does he stand aloof? Why does he not join us?"
asked the parson.

"He hasn't been asked," said Seth quietly. "If I ain't mistaken this yer
gathering this evening was specially to see how to get rid of him."

There was a quick murmur of protest at this. The parson exchanged
glances with the deacon and saw that they were hopelessly in the
minority.

"I will ask him myself," said Mrs. Rivers suddenly.

"So do, Sister Rivers; so do," was the unmistakable response.

Mrs. Rivers left the room and returned in a few moments with a handsome
young man, pale, elegant, composed, even to a grave indifference.
What his eyes might have said was another thing; the long lashes were
scarcely raised.

"I don't mind playing a little," he said quietly to Mrs. Rivers, as if
continuing a conversation, "but you'll have to let me trust my memory."

"Then you--er--play the harmonium?" said the parson, with an attempt at
formal courtesy.

"I was for a year or two the organist in the choir of Dr. Todd's church
at Sacramento," returned Mr. Hamlin quietly.

The blank amazement on the faces of Deacons Stubbs and Turner and the
parson was followed by wreathed smiles from the other auditors and
especially from the ladies. Mr. Hamlin sat down to the instrument,
and in another moment took possession of it as it had never been held
before. He played from memory as he had implied, but it was the memory
of a musician. He began with one or two familiar anthems, in which they
all joined. A fragment of a mass and a Latin chant followed. An "Ave
Maria" from an opera was his first secular departure, but his delighted
audience did not detect it. Then he hurried them along in unfamiliar
language to "O mio Fernando" and "Spiritu gentil," which they fondly
imagined were hymns, until, with crowning audacity, after a few
preliminary chords of the "Miserere," he landed them broken-hearted in
the Trovatore's donjon tower with "Non te scordar de mi."

Amidst the applause he heard the preacher suavely explain that those
Popish masses were always in the Latin language, and rose from the

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