Across the Years
Copyright© 2024 by Eleanor H. Porter
A Summons Home
Mrs. Thaddeus Clayton came softly into the room and looked with apprehensive eyes upon the little old man in the rocking-chair.
“How be ye, dearie? Yer hain’t wanted fer nothin’, now, have ye?” she asked.
“Not a thing, Harriet,” he returned cheerily. “I’m feelin’ real pert, too. Was there lots there? An’ did Parson Drew say a heap o’ fine things?”
Mrs. Clayton dropped into a chair and pulled listlessly at the black strings of her bonnet.
“‘T was a beautiful fun’ral, Thaddeus--a beautiful fun’ral. I--I ‘most wished it was mine.”
“Harriet!”
She gave a shamed-faced laugh.
“Well, I did--then Jehiel and Hannah Jane would ‘a’ come, an’ I could ‘a’ seen ‘em.”
The horrified look on the old man’s face gave way to a broad smile.
“Oh, Harriet--Harriet!” he chuckled, “how could ye seen ‘em if you was dead?”
“Huh? Well, I--Thaddeus,”--her voice rose sharply in the silent room, -- “every single one of them Perkins boys was there, and Annabel, too. Only think what poor Mis’ Perkins would ‘a’ given ter seen ‘em ‘fore she went! But they waited--waited, Thaddeus, jest as everybody does, till their folks is dead.”
“But, Harriet,” demurred the old man, “surely you’d ‘a’ had them boys come ter their own mother’s fun’ral!”
“Come! I’d ‘a’ had ‘em come before, while Ella Perkins could ‘a’ feasted her eyes on ‘em. Thaddeus,”--Mrs. Clayton rose to her feet and stretched out two gaunt hands longingly, --”Thaddeus, I get so hungry sometimes for Jehiel and Hannah Jane, seems as though I jest couldn’t stand it!”
“I know--I know, dearie,” quavered the old man, vigorously polishing his glasses.
“Fifty years ago my first baby came,” resumed the woman in tremulous tones; “then another came, and another, till I’d had six. I loved ‘em, an’ tended ‘em, an’ cared fer ‘em, an’ didn’t have a thought but was fer them babies. Four died,”--her voice broke, then went on with renewed strength, --”but I’ve got Jehiel and Hannah Jane left; at least, I’ve got two bits of paper that comes mebbe once a month, an’ one of ‘em’s signed ‘your dutiful son, Jehiel,’ an’ the other, ‘from your loving daughter, Hannah Jane.’”
“Well, Harriet, they--they’re pretty good ter write letters,” ventured Mr. Clayton.
“Letters!” wailed his wife. “I can’t hug an’ kiss letters, though I try to, sometimes. I want warm flesh an’ blood in my arms, Thaddeus; I want ter look down into Jehiel’s blue eyes an’ hear him call me ‘dear old mumsey!’ as he used to. I wouldn’t ask ‘em ter stay--I ain’t unreasonable, Thaddeus. I know they can’t do that.”
“Well, well, wife, mebbe they’ll come--mebbe they’ll come this summer; who knows?”
She shook her head dismally.
“You’ve said that ev’ry year for the last fifteen summers, an’ they hain’t come yet. Jehiel went West more than twenty years ago, an’ he’s never been home since. Why, Thaddeus, we’ve got a grandson ‘most eighteen, that we hain’t even seen! Hannah Jane’s been home jest once since she was married, but that was nigh on ter sixteen years ago. She’s always writin’ of her Tommy and Nellie, but--I want ter see ‘em, Thaddeus; I want ter see ‘em!”
“Yes, yes; well, we’ll ask ‘em, Harriet, again--we’ll ask ‘em real urgent-like, an’ mebbe that’ll fetch ‘em,” comforted the old man. “We’ll ask ‘em ter be here the Fourth; that’s eight weeks off yet, an’ I shall be real smart by then.”
Two letters that were certainly “urgent-like” left the New England farmhouse the next morning. One was addressed to a thriving Western city, the other to Chattanooga, Tennessee.
In course of time the answers came. Hannah Jane’s appeared first, and was opened with shaking fingers.
Dear Mother [read Mrs. Clayton aloud]: Your letter came two or three days ago, and I have hurried round to answer it, for you seemed to be so anxious to hear. I’m real sorry, but I don’t see how we can get away this summer. Nathan is real busy at the store; and, some way, I can’t seem to get up energy enough to even think of fixing up the children to take them so far. Thank you for the invitation, though, and we should enjoy the visit very much; but I guess we can’t go just yet. Of course if anything serious should come up that made it necessary-- why, that would be different: but I know you are sensible, and will understand how it is with us.
Nathan is well, but business has been pretty brisk, and he is in the store early and late. As long as he’s making money, he don’t mind; but I tell him I think he might rest a little sometimes, and let some one else do the things he does.
Tom is a big boy now, smart in his studies and with a good head for figures. Nellie loves her books, too; and, for a little girl of eleven, does pretty well, we think.
I must close now. We all send love, and hope you are getting along all right. Was glad to hear father was gaining so fast.
Your loving daughter
Hannah Jane
The letter dropped from Mrs. Clayton’s fingers and lay unheeded on the floor. The woman covered her face with her hands and rocked her body back and forth.
“There, there, dearie,” soothed the old man huskily; “mebbe Jehiel’s will be diff’rent. I shouldn’t wonder, now, if Jehiel would come. There, there! don’t take on so, Harriet! don’t! I jest know Jehiel’ll come.”
A week later Mrs. Clayton found another letter in the rural delivery box. She clutched it nervously, peered at the writing with her dim old eyes, and hurried into the house for her glasses.
Yes, it was from Jehiel.
She drew a long breath. Her eager thumb was almost under the flap of the envelope when she hesitated, eyed the letter uncertainly, and thrust it into the pocket of her calico gown. All day it lay there, save at times-- which, indeed, were of frequent occurrence--when she took it from its hiding-place, pressed it to her cheek, or gloried in every curve of the boldly written address.
At night, after the lamp was lighted, she said to her husband in tones so low he could scarcely hear:
“Thaddeus, I--I had a letter from Jehiel to-day.”
“You did--and never told me? Why, Harriet, what--” He paused helplessly.
“I--I haven’t read it, Thaddeus,” she stammered. “I couldn’t bear to, someway. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t. You read it!” She held out the letter with shaking hands.
He took it, giving her a sharp glance from anxious eyes. As he began to read aloud she checked him.
“No; ter yerself, Thaddeus--ter yerself! Then--tell me.”
As he read she watched his face. The light died from her eyes and her chin quivered as she saw the stern lines deepen around his mouth. A minute more, and he had finished the letter and laid it down without a word.
“Thaddeus, ye don’t mean--he didn’t say--”
“Read it--I--I can’t,” choked the old man.
She reached slowly for the sheet of paper and spread it on the table before her.
Dear Mother [Jehiel had written]: Just a word to tell you we are all O. K. and doing finely. Your letter reminded me that it was about time I was writing home to the old folks. I don’t mean to let so many weeks go by without a letter from me, but somehow the time just gets away from me before I know it.
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