The Silent Hour Read Online Free PDF

that did nothing to improve his spirits. Jim had
come with a brief question to ask, but felt now that he could not ask it and see the reaction from round-eyed,
uneasily fluttering Mrs. Henney. So he said, “Is Mrs. Meade at
home?”
    “Why, yes,” said Mrs. Henney, torn between
the ideas of whether one should be sympathetic, or stern, or afraid
in the presence of someone suspected of murder. “She is—I shall—if
you’ll just wait—”
    Mrs. Henney tore herself away and scurried
into the parlor, fortified by a double handful of apron. In a few
seconds Mrs. Meade emerged, the hum and chatter of ladies’ voices
in the snug, warmly lit room rising a little with quickened
interest in her wake. “Jim—good afternoon,” she said simply,
holding out her hand. And then, as his hand was still in hers, she
added, looking straight in his eyes, “I want you to know how very
sorry I was to hear about your grandfather.”
    Jim looked down, and murmured his thanks
almost inaudibly. Then he straightened, trying to lift his chin a
little. “Mrs. Meade, is Frances here? Nan Cooper told me she was
supposed to be here with you this afternoon.”
    “No, she isn’t,” said Mrs. Meade. “She and
Bessie Cooper were going to come over after school today to help
work on the decorations for the church supper, but Bessie only
stopped to say Frances had a headache and had gone home, so we put
it off to another afternoon.”
    They were both keenly aware of the buzz in
the parlor; Jim glanced toward the doorway, trying not to see the
craning necks and the edge of Mrs. Henney’s gray coiffure visible
round the edge of the half-open door. Mrs. Meade, with the
perceptiveness of long-honed instinct, sensed that behind his
uneasiness was a desire to say something more, to find someone to
whom he could unfold the bafflement and trouble she saw in his
eyes.
    “Would you like to come in here for a
moment?” she asked, motioning toward the empty dining-room across
the hall.
    Jim nodded. Without speaking again, Mrs.
Meade turned to lead the way. Jim tried to brush some of the rain
from his coat onto the doormat, and then followed her.
    The dining-room was quiet and gray, with rain
dribbling down the windowpanes, and tall shadows in the corners
beyond the sideboard and china-cupboard. Jim walked partway toward
the windows, then turned around and put his hands on the back of a
chair. “I haven’t seen Frances in days,” he said. “I’ve tried, but
it seems every time, she’s not at home or she’s lying down with a
headache.”
    “Do you know the reason she is avoiding you?”
said Mrs. Meade. At such times as this—in a charged quiet, with
only melancholy raindrops for witness—any pretense at polite
reserve or lack of knowledge falls away.
    Jim thudded the heel of his hand slowly on
the back of the chair. “My grandfather,” he said. He looked
straight at her. “It’s what he did, Mrs. Meade. He’s come between
us worse dead than he ever could have alive. Frances thinks I
believed him.”
    There was a short pause, in which Mrs. Meade
was thinking over what to say, but Jim mistook her silence. “If
you’re thinking what he did, Mrs. Meade, you’re wrong. Frances
isn’t like that. It wasn’t until I told her what Grandfather said
that she changed—she was every bit as happy as I was before.”
    Mrs. Meade smiled a little. “She is very
fortunate,” she said, “to know that you have such a warm opinion of
her, and firm belief in her.”
    “But she doesn’t know it,” said Jim
despairingly. “She refuses to. And she won’t even let me explain
why. You see, Mrs. Meade, I knew my grandfather. He was cynical
right down to the roots. He was suspicious of everyone’s
motives—suspicious of everyone he met in life except me, and that’s
only because I’d been close by him so long, he knew me well enough.
Grandfather could have a splendid time visiting and laughing with
someone, and then as soon as they were gone he’d be