FullReads

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.