Literary Love Letters and Other Stories by Robert Herrick

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They got into the habit of planning their life all differently--so that it
might not be limited and futile. _If_ they had a few thousand dollars!
That was a bad sign, and she knew it, and struggled against it. _If_ she
could only do something to keep the pot boiling while he worked at his
music for fame and success! But she could reduce expenses; so the one
servant went, and the house-bills grew tinier and tinier. However, they
didn't "make connections," and--something was wrong--she wondered what.

As the second summer came in they used to stroll out of their stuffy
street of an evening, up St. Nicholas Avenue, to the Park, or to the
Riverside Drive. There they would sit speechless, she in a faded blue
serge skirt with a crisp, washed-out shirtwaist, and an old sailor hat--
dark and pretty, in spite of her troubled face; he in a ready-made black
serge suit, yet very much the gentleman--pale and listless. Their eyes
would seek out any steamer in the river below, or anything else that
reminded them of other conditions. He would hum a bit from an opera. They
needed no words; their faces were evident, though mute, indications of the
tragedy. Then they would return at bed-time into the sultry streets, where
from the open windows of the flats came the hammered music of the city.
Such discordant efforts for harmony! Her heart would fill over him,
yearning like a mother to cherish him in all the pleasant ways of life,
but impotent, impotent!

She never suggested greater effort. Conditions were hard, she said over
and over; if there were only a little money to give him a start in another
direction. She admired his pride in never referring to old Oliphant. Her
uncle was often in her mind, but she felt that even if she could bring
herself to petition him, her husband would indignantly refuse to consider
the matter.

Still, she thought about it, and especially this summer, for she knew he
was then at Quogue. Moreover, she expected her first child. That worried
her daily; she saw how hopeless another complication would make their
fate. She cried over it at night when the room was too hot to sleep. And
then she reproached herself; God would punish her for not wanting her
baby.

One day she had gone down town to get some materials for the preparations
she must make. She liked to shop, for sometimes she met old friends; this
time in a large shop she happened upon a woman she had known at Quogue,
the efficient wife of a successful minister in Brooklyn. This Mrs.
Leicester invited her to lunch at the cafe at the top of the building, and
she had yielded, after a little urging, with real relief. They sat down at
a table near the window--it was so high up there was not much noise--and
the streets suddenly seemed interesting to Mrs. Edwards. The quiet table,
the pleasant lunch, and the energetic Mrs. Leicester were all refreshing.

"And how is your husband?" Mrs. Leicester inquired, keenly. As a
minister's wife she was compelled to interest herself in sentimental
complications that inwardly bored her. It was a part of her professional
duties. She had taken in this situation at once--she had seen that kind of
thing before; it made her impatient. But she liked the pretty little woman
before her, and was sorry she hadn't managed better.

"Pretty well," Mrs. Edwards replied, consciously. "The heat drags one down
so!"

Mrs. Leicester sent another quick glance across the table. "You haven't
been to Quogue much of late, have you? You know how poorly your uncle is."

"No! _You_ must know that Uncle James doesn't see us."

"Well," Mrs. Leicester went on, hastily, "he's been quite ill and feeble,
and they say he's growing queer. He never goes away now, and sees nobody.
Most of the servants have gone. I don't believe he will last long."

Then her worldliness struggled with her conventional position, and she
relapsed into innuendo. "He ought to have someone look after him, to see
him die decently, for he can't live beyond the autumn, and the only person
who can get in is that fat, greasy Dr. Shapless, who is after his money
for the Methodist missions. He goes down every week. I wonder where Mr.
Oliphant's son can be?"

Mrs. Edwards took in every word avidly while she ate. But she let the
conversation drift off to Quogue, their acquaintances, and the difficulty
of shopping in the summer. "Well, I must be going to get the train,"
exclaimed Mrs. Leicester at last. With a sigh the young wife rose, looked
regretfully down at the remains of their liberal luncheon, and then walked
silently to the elevator. They didn't mention Oliphant again, but there
was something understood between them. Mrs. Leicester hailed a cab; just
as she gathered her parcels to make a dive, she seemed illuminated with an
idea. "Why don't you come down some Sunday--visit us? Mr. Leicester would
be delighted."

Mrs. Edwards was taken unawares, but her instincts came to her rescue.

"Why, we don't go anywhere; it's awfully kind, and I should be delighted;
I am afraid Mr. Edwards can't."

"Well," sighed Mrs. Leicester, smiling back, unappeased, "come if you can;
come alone." The cab drove off, and the young wife felt her cheeks burn.

* * * * *

The Edwardses had never talked over Oliphant or his money explicitly. They
shrank from it; it would be a confession of defeat. There was something
abhorrently vulgar in thus lowering the pitch of their life. They had come
pretty near it often this last summer. But each feared what the other
might think. Edwards especially was nervous about the impression it might
make on his wife, if he should discuss the matter. Mrs. Leicester's talk,
however, had opened possibilities for the imagination. So little of Uncle
James's money, she mused, would make them ideally happy--would put her
husband on the road to fame. She had almost made up her mind on a course
of action, and she debated the propriety of undertaking the affair without
her husband's knowledge. She knew that his pride would revolt from her
plan. She could pocket her own pride, but she was tender of his
conscience, of his comfort, of his sensibilities. It would be best to act
at once by herself--perhaps she would fail, anyway--and to shield him from
the disagreeable and useless knowledge and complicity. She couldn't resist
throwing out some feelers, however, at supper that night. He had come in
tired and soiled after a day's tramp collecting bills that wouldn't
collect this droughty season. She had fussed over him and coaxed a smile
out, and now they were at their simple tea.

She recounted the day's events as indifferently as possible, but her face
trembled as she described the luncheon, the talk, the news of her uncle,
and at last Mrs. Leicester's invitation. Edwards had started at the first
mention of Quogue.

"It's been in his mind," she thought, half-relieved, and his nervous
movements of assumed indifference made it easier for her to go on.

"It was kind of her, wasn't it?" she ended.

"Yes," Edwards replied, impressively. "Of course you declined."

"Oh, yes; but she seemed to expect us all the same." Edwards frowned, but
he kept an expectant silence. So she remarked, tentatively:

"It would be so pleasant to see dear old Quogue again." Her hypocrisy made
her flush. Edwards rose abruptly from the table and wandered about the
room. At length he said, in measured tones, his face averted from her:

"_Of course_, under the circumstances, we cannot visit Quogue while your
uncle lives--unless he should send for us." Thus he had put himself
plainly on record. His wife suddenly saw the folly and meanness of her
little plans.

It was hardly a disappointment; her mind felt suddenly relieved from an
unpleasant responsibility. She went to her husband, who was nervously
playing at the piano, and kissed him, almost reverently. It had been a
temptation from which he had saved her. They talked that evening a good
deal, planning what they would do if they could get over to Europe for a
year, calculating how cheaply they could go. It was an old subject.
Sometimes it kept off the blues; sometimes it indicated how blue they
were. Mrs. Edwards forgot the disturbance of the day until she was lying
wide awake in her hot bed. Then the old longings came in once more; she
saw the commonplace present growing each month more dreary; her husband
drudging away, with his hopes sinking. Suddenly he spoke:

"What made Mrs. Leicester ask us, do you suppose?" So he was thinking of
it again.

"I don't know!" she replied, vaguely. Soon his voice came again:

"You understand, Nell, that I distinctly disapprove of our making any
effort _that way_." She didn't think that her husband was a hypocrite. She
did not generalize when she felt deeply. But she knew that her husband
didn't want the responsibility of making any effort. Somehow she felt that
he would be glad if she should make the effort and take the responsibility
on her own shoulders.

Why had he lugged it into plain light again if he hadn't expected her to
do something? How could she accomplish it without making it unpleasant for
him? Before daylight she had it planned, and she turned once and kissed
her husband, protectingly.

* * * * *

That August morning, as she walked up the dusty road, fringed with
blossoming golden-rod, toward the little cottage of the Leicesters, she
was content, in spite of her tumultuous mind. It was all so heavenly
quiet! the thin, drooping elms, with their pendent vines, like the
waterfalls of a maiden lady; the dusty snarls of blackberry bushes; the
midsummer contented repose of the air, and that distantly murmuring sea--
it was all as she remembered it in her childhood. A gap of disturbed years
closed up, and peace once more! The old man slowly dying up beyond in that
deserted, gambrel-roofed house would Forget and forgive.

Mrs. Leicester received her effusively, anxious now not to meddle
dangerously in what promised to be a ticklish business. Mrs. Edwards must
stay as long as she would. The Sundays were especially lonely, for Mr.
Leicester did not think she should bear the heat of the city so soon, and
left her alone when he returned to Brooklyn for his Sunday sermon. Of
course, stay as long as Mr. Edwards could spare her--a month; if possible.

At the mention of Mr. Edwards the young wife had a twinge of remorse for
the manner in which she had evaded him--her first deceit for his sake. She
had talked vaguely about visiting a friend at Moriches, and her husband
had fallen in with the idea. New York was like a finely divided furnace,
radiating heat from every tube-like street. So she was to go for a week or
ten days. Perhaps the matter would arrange itself before that time was up;
if not, she would write him what she had done. But ten days seemed so long
that she put uncomfortable thoughts out of her head.

Mrs. Leicester showed her to her room, a pretty little box, into which the
woodbine peeped and nodded, and where from one window she could get a
glimpse of the green marshes, with the sea beyond. After chatting awhile,
her hostess went out, protesting that her guest must be too tired to come
down. Mrs. Edwards gladly accepted the excuse, ate the luncheon the maid
brought, in two bites, and then prepared to sally forth.

She knew the path between the lush meadow-grass so well! Soon she was at
the entrance to the "Oliphant place." It was more run down than two years
ago; the lower rooms were shut up tight in massive green blinds that
reached to the warped boards of the veranda. It looked old, neglected,
sad, and weary; and she felt almost justified in her mission. She could
bring comfort and light to the dying man.

In a few minutes she was smothering the hysterical enthusiasm of her old
friend, Dinah. It was as she had expected: Oliphant had grown more
suspicious and difficult for the last two years, and had refused to see a
doctor, or, in fact, anyone but the Rev. Dr. Shapless and a country lawyer
whom he used when absolutely necessary. He hadn't left his room for a
month; Dinah had carried him the little he had seen fit to eat. She was
evidently relieved to see her old mistress once more at hand. She asked no
questions, and Mrs. Edwards knew that she would obey her absolutely.

They were sitting in Oliphant's office, a small closet off the more
pretentious library, and Mrs. Edwards could see the disorder into which
the old man's papers had fallen. The confusion preceding death had already
set in.

After laying aside her hat, she went up, unannounced, to her uncle's room,
determined not to give him an opportunity to dismiss her out of hand. He
was lying with his eyes closed, so she busied herself in putting the room
to rights, in order to quiet her nerves. The air was heavily languorous,
and soon in the quiet country afternoon her self-consciousness fell
asleep, and she went dreaming over the irresponsible past, the quiet
summers, and the strange, stern old man. Suddenly she knew that he was
awake and watching her closely. She started, but, as he said nothing, she
went on with her dusting, her hand shaking.

He made no comment while she brought him his supper and arranged the bed.
Evidently he would accept her services. Her spirit leapt up with the joy
of success. That was the first step. She deemed it best to send for her
meagre satchel, and to take possession of her old room. In that way she
could be more completely mistress of the situation and of him. She had had
no very definite ideas of action before that afternoon; her one desire had
been to be on the field of battle, to see what could be done, perhaps to
use a few tears to soften the implacable heart. But now her field opened
out. She must keep the old man to herself, within her own care--not that
she knew specifically what good that would do, but it was the tangible
nine points of the law.

The next morning Oliphant showed more life, and while she was helping him
into his dressing-gown, he vouchsafed a few grunts, followed by a piercing
inquiry:

"Is _he_ dead yet?"

The young wife flushed with indignant protest.

"Broke, perhaps?"

"Well, we haven't starved yet." But she was cowed by his cynical
examination. He relapsed into silence; his old, bristly face assumed a
sardonic peace whenever his eyes fell upon her. She speculated about that
wicked beatitude; it made her uncomfortable. He was still, however--never
a word from morning till night.

The routine of little duties about the sickroom she performed
punctiliously. In that way she thought to put her conscience to rights, to
regard herself in the kind role of ministering angel. That illusion was
hard to attain in the presence of the sardonic comment the old man seemed
to add. After all, it was a vulgar grab after the candied fruits of this
life.

She had felt it necessary to explain her continued absence to her husband.
Mrs. Leicester, who did not appear to regard her actions as unexpected,
had undertaken that delicate business. Evidently, she had handled it
tactfully, for Mrs. Edwards soon received a hurried note. He felt that she
was performing her most obvious duty; he could not but be pleased that the
breach caused by him had been thus tardily healed. As long as her uncle
continued in his present extremity, she must remain. He would run down to
the Leicesters over Sundays, etc. Mrs. Edwards was relieved; it was nice
of him--more than that, delicate--not to be stuffy over her action.

The uppermost question these days of monotonous speculation was how long
would this ebb-tide of a tenacious life flow. She took a guilty interest
in her uncle's condition, and yet she more than half wished him to live.
Sometimes he would rally. Something unfulfilled troubled his mind, and
once he even crawled downstairs. She found him shakily puttering over the
papers in his huge davenport. He asked her to make a fire in the grate,
and then, gathering up an armful of papers, he knelt down on the brick
hearth, but suddenly drew back. His deep eyes gleamed hatefully at her.
Holding out several stiff papers, he motioned to her to burn them. Usually
she would have obeyed docilely enough, but this deviltry of merriment she
resented. While she delayed, standing erect before the smouldering sticks,
she noticed that a look of terror crept across the sick face. A spasm
shook him, and he fainted. After that his weakness kept him in bed. She
wondered what he had been so anxious to burn.

From this time her thoughts grew more specific. Just how should she attain
her ends? Had he made a will? Could he not now do something for them, or
would it be safer to bide their time? Indeed, for a few moments she
resolved to decide all by one straightforward prayer. She began, and the
old man seemed so contentedly prepared for the scene that she remained
dumb.

In this extremity of doubt she longed to get aid from her husband. Yet
under the circumstances she dared to admit so little. One Saturday
afternoon he called at the house; she was compelled to share some of her
perplexities.

"He seems so very feeble," she remarked. They were sitting on the veranda
some distance from Oliphant's room, yet their conversation was furtive.
"Perhaps he should see a doctor or a minister."

"No, I don't think so," Edwards replied, assuringly. "You see, he doesn't
believe in either, and such things should be left to the person himself,
as long as he's in his right mind."

"And a lawyer?" Mrs. Edwards continued, probingly.

"Has he asked for one?"

"No, but he seems to find it hard to talk."

"I guess it's best not to meddle. Who's that?"

A little, fat man in baggy black trousers and a seersucker coat was
panting up the gentle hill to the gate. He had a puggy nose and a heavy,
thinly bearded face incased about the eyes in broad steel spectacles.

"That must be Dr. Shapless," she said, in a flutter.

"What of it?" Edwards replied.

"He mustn't come in," she cried, with sudden energy. "You must see him,
and send him away! He wants to see Uncle Oliphant. Tell him he's too
sick--to come another day." Edwards went down the path to meet him.
Through the window she could hear a low conversation, and then crunched
gravel. Meantime Oliphant seemed restlessly alert, expectant of something,
and with suspicious eyes intent on her.

Her heart thumped with relief when the gate clicked. Edwards had been
effective that time. Oliphant was trying to say something, but the hot
August day had been too much for him--it all ended in a mumble. Then she
pulled in the blinds, settled the pillows nervously, and left the room in
sheer fright.

The fight had begun--and grimly.

* * * * *

"I wonder what the old cove wanted?" Edwards said the next day; "he was
dead set on seeing your uncle; said he had an engagement with him, and
looked me up and down. I stood him off, but he'll be down again."

"Don't you know about that new fund the Methodists are raising? Uncle
Oliphant has always helped the Methodists, and I suppose Dr. Shapless
wanted to see him about some contributions." Edwards asked no more
questions, and, in fact, got back to town on a pretext of business that
afternoon. He was clearly of no use in Quogue. His wife sent for a
physician that week. It was tardy justice to propriety, but it was safe
then, for Oliphant had given up all attempts to talk.

The doctor came, looked at the old man, and uttered a few remarks. He
would come again. Mrs. Edwards did not need to be told that the end was
near. The question was, how soon?

That week had another scare. Somehow old Slocum, the local lawyer Oliphant
used, had been summoned, and one morning she ran across him in the hall.
She knew the man well of old. He was surprised and pleased to see her, and
it was not difficult to get him out of the house without arousing his
suspicions. But he would talk so boisterously; she felt her uncle's eyes
aflame in anger.

"Be sure and send for me when he rallies, quick," Slocum whispered loudly
in the hall. "Perhaps we can do a little something for some folks." And
with a wink he went out.

Had she done the clever thing, after all, in shooing old Slocum out? Her
mind went over the possibilities in tense anxiety. If there were no will,
James, Jr., would get the whole, she thought. If there was a will already
in the house, in that old davenport, what then? Would Shapless get the
money? She grew keen in speculation. To leave her in the lurch, to give it
all to that greasy Shapless, would be the most natural trick in the world
for an incisive old fellow like Oliphant.

It was too much! She cried a little, and she began to hate the helpless
man upstairs. It occurred to her to poke about in the papers in the
adjoining room. She must do it at once, for she expected Edwards every
moment.

First she ran upstairs to see if her uncle was all right. As soon as she
entered, he glared at her bitterly and would have spoken. She noted the
effort and failure, elated. He could not betray her now, unless he rallied
wonderfully. So leaving the door ajar, she walked firmly downstairs. Now
she could satisfy her desire.

If the money were _all_ left to Shapless? She might secure the will, and
bargain with the old parasite for a few thousands of dollars. Her mind was
full of wild schemes. If she only knew a little more about affairs! She
had heard of wills, and read many novels that turned upon wills lost or
stolen. They had always seemed to her improbable, mere novels. Necessity
was stranger than fiction.

It did not take long to find the very articles she was after; evidently
Oliphant had been overhauling them on that last excursion from his room.
The package lay where he had dropped it when he fainted. There were two
documents. She unfolded them on the top of the mussy desk. They were hard
reading in all their legal dress, and her head was filled with fears lest
her husband should walk in. She could make out, however, that Oliphant was
much richer than she had ever vaguely supposed, and that since her
departure he had relented toward his son. For by the first will in date
she was the principal heir, a lot of queer charities coming in besides. In
the second, James, Jr., received something. Her name did not appear.
Several clauses had been added from time to time, each one giving more
money and lands to the Methodists. Probably Shapless was after another
codicil when he called.

It had taken her into the twilight to gain even a meagre idea of all this.
She was preparing to fold the documents up in their common wrapper, when
she felt the door open behind her. All she could see in the terror of the
moment was the gaunt white arm of her uncle, and the two angry eyes in the
shaking head. She shrieked, from pure nervousness, and at her cry the old
man fell in a heap.

The accident steeled her nerves. Dinah came in in a panic, and as they
were lifting the bony frame from the floor Edwards arrived. With his
assistance they got the sick man to bed.

That was clearly the last gasp. Yet Mrs. Edwards shook in dread every time
she entered the room. The look seemed conscious still, intensified
malignity and despair creeping in. She was afraid and guilty and unstrung.
Perhaps, with some sudden revival of his forces, he would kill her. He was
lying there, too still for defeat. His life had been an expression of
hates; the last one might be dreadful.

Yet she stood to her post in the sick-room, afraid, as she knew, to trust
herself with her husband. Her mind was soiled with seething thoughts, and,
in contrast, his seemed so fresh and pure! If she could keep him
unsuspicious of her, all would be well in the end. But the task she had
set herself for him was hard, so hard!

That night when all was still she crept downstairs and groped about in the
davenport for the papers. They had been lying there unopened where they
had fallen earlier in the evening. She struck a match, caught up the
fresher document, and hugged it to her as she toiled upstairs. When she
had tucked it away in her satchel the end seemed near. They must wait now.

She put her husband out of her mind. Outside, the warm summer days died
away over the sea, one by one, and the grass beyond the gates grew heavier
with dust. Life was tense in its monotony.

* * * * *

That had happened on a Saturday; Monday Dr. Shapless came again, his shoes
dusty from his long walk from the station. He looked oiled as ever, but
more determined. Mrs. Edwards daringly permitted him to see the dying
man--he had been lying in a stupor--for she was afraid that the reverend
doctor's loud tones in the hall might exasperate Oliphant to some wild
act. Dr. Shapless shut her from the room when he went in, but he did not
stay long. A restless despair had settled down on her uncle's face, there
to remain for the last few hours.

Her heart sank; she longed to cry out to the poor old man on the bed that
_she_ did not want his money. She remained with him all night, yet she did
not dare to approach his bed. She would disturb him.

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