The Home-Coming of Jim Wilkes Page #2

"The Home-Coming of Jim Wilkes" is a short story by Bret Harte that captures the essence of the American West through the lens of post-Civil War life. The narrative follows Jim Wilkes, a man returning to his hometown after years spent away. As he reunites with the community, the story explores themes of identity, social dynamics, and the complexities of homecoming. Harte's characteristic humor and keen observation of human nature shine through, revealing both the nostalgia and challenges faced by those seeking redemption and reconnection in an evolving landscape.

• Short story

								


"Yes,--you see that's just WHY I did it. You see, I reckoned my chances
would be better to see him along with a cheerful, chipper fellow
like you. I didn't, of course, kalkilate on this," he added, pointing
dejectedly to the ruins.

The editor gasped; then a sudden conception of the unrivaled absurdity
of the situation flashed upon him,--of his passively following the
amiable idiot at his side in order to contemplate, by the falling rain
and lonely night, a heap of sodden ruins, while the coach was speeding
to Summit Springs and shelter, and, above all, the reason WHY he was
invited,--until, putting down his bag, he leaned upon his stick, and
laughed until the tears came to his eyes.

At which his companion visibly brightened. "I told you so," he said
cheerfully; "I knew you'd be able to take it--and the old man--in THAT
WAY, and that would have fetched him round."

"For Heaven's sake! don't talk any more," said the editor, wiping his
eyes, "but try to remember if you ever had any neighbors about here
where we can stay tonight. We can't walk to Summit Springs, and we can't
camp out on these ruins."

"There didn't use to be anybody nearer than the Springs."

"But that was five years ago, you say," said the editor impatiently;
"and although your father probably moved away after the house burned
down, the country's been thickly settled since then. That field has been
lately planted. There must be another house beyond. Let's follow the
trail a little farther."

They tramped along in silence, this time the editor leading. Presently
he stopped. "There's a house--in there--among the trees," he said,
pointing. "Whose is it?"

The stranger shook his head dubiously. Although apparently unaffected by
any sentimental consideration of his father's misfortune, the spectacle
of the blackened ruins of the homestead had evidently shaken his
preconceived plans. "It wasn't there in MY time," he said musingly.

"But it IS there in OUR time," responded the editor briskly, "and I
propose to go there. From what you have told me of your father--even if
his house were still standing--our chances of getting supper and a bed
from him would be doubtful! I suppose," he continued as they moved on
together, "you left him in anger--five years ago?"

"Ye-es."

"Did he say anything as you left?"

"I don't remember anything particular that he SAID."

"Well, what did he DO?"

"Shot at me from the window!"

"Ah!" said the young editor softly. Nevertheless they walked on for some
time in silence. Gradually a white picket fence came into view at right
angles with the trail, and a man appeared walking leisurely along what
seemed to be the regularly traveled road, beside it. The editor, who had
taken matters in his own hands, without speaking to his companion, ran
quickly forward and accosted the stranger, briefly stating that he had
left the stage-coach with a companion, because it was stopped by high
water, and asked, without entering into further details, to be directed
to some place where they could pass the night. The man quite as briefly
directed him to the house among the trees, which he said was his own,
and then leisurely pursued his way along the road. The young editor
ran back to his companion, who had halted in the dripping shadow of a
sycamore, and recounted his good fortune.

"I didn't," he added, "say anything about your father. You can make
inquiries yourself later."

"I reckon there won't be much need of that," returned his companion.
"You didn't take much note o' that man, did you?"

"Not much," said the editor.

"Well, THAT'S MY FATHER, and I reckon that new house must be his."

II.

The young editor was a little startled. The man he had just quitted
certainly was not dangerous looking, and yet, remembering what his
son had said, there WERE homicidal possibilities. "Look here," he said
quickly, "he's not there NOW. Why don't you seize the opportunity to
slip into the house, make peace with your mother and sisters, and get
them to intercede with your father when he returns?"

"Thar ain't any mother; she died afore I left. My sister Almiry's a
little girl--though that's four years ago and mebbee she's growed.
My brothers and me didn't pull together much. But I was thinkin' that
mebbee YOU might go in thar for me first, and see how the land lays;
then sorter tell 'em 'bout me in your takin', chipper, easy way;
make 'em laugh, and when you've squared 'em--I'll be hangin' round
outside--you kin call ME in. Don't you see?"

The young editor DID see. Ridiculous as the proposal would have seemed
to him an hour ago, it now appeared practical, and even commended itself
to his taste. His name was well known in the county and his mediation
might be effective. Perhaps his vanity was slightly flattered by his
companion's faith in him; perhaps he was not free from a certain human
curiosity to know the rest; perhaps he was more interested than he cared
to confess in the helpless home-seeker beside him.

"But you must tell me something more of yourself, and your fortune and
prospects. They'll be sure to ask questions."

"Mebbee they won't. But you can say I've done well--made my pile over
in Australia, and ain't comin' on THEM. Remember--say I 'ain't comin' on
them'!"

The editor nodded, and then, as if fearful of letting his present
impulse cool, ran off towards the house.

It was large and respectable looking, and augured well for the present
fortunes of the Wilkes's. The editor had determined to attack the
citadel on its weaker, feminine side, and when the front door was opened
to his knock, asked to see Miss Almira Wilkes. The Irish servant showed
him into a comfortable looking sitting-room, and in another moment with
a quick rustle of skirts in the passage a very pretty girl impulsively
entered. From the first flash of her keen blue eyes the editor--a fair
student of the sex--conceived the idea that she had expected somebody
else; from the second that she was an arrant flirt, and did not intend
to be disappointed. This much was in his favor.

Spurred by her provoking eyes and the novel situation, he stated his
business with an airy lightness and humor that seemed to justify
his late companion's estimate of his powers. But even in his cynical
attitude he was unprepared for the girl's reception of his news. He had
expected some indignation or even harshness towards this man whom he was
beginning to consider as a kind of detrimental outcast or prodigal, but
he was astounded at the complete and utter indifference--the frank and
heartless unconcern--with which she heard of his return. When she had
followed the narrator rather than his story to the end, she languidly
called her brothers from the adjoining room. "This gentleman, Mr. Grey,
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