MR. Whitman had reached the limit of endurance when the artists bid him and Camden adieu, while Mrs. Davis, with the constant demands upon her time and strength, the condition of the house, unlimited entertaining and lengthened working hours, had completely succumbed. Another thing that had been to their disadvantage was the extreme heat, for it had been and still was an extremely hot summer—a Jersey summer. Each was prostrated, and for awhile rest and relaxation alone could be thought of. A short lull that followed the recent turmoil, however, and succeeding cool weather, did much towards their recuperation; but unfortunately sick-headaches, which had been occasional with Mrs. Davis, now became persistent; her vitality was gone, and her courage was on the wane. In fact she never fully recovered, nor did she ever forget "that awful summer of 1887."
But while she was so miserable and ill she was not forgotten by her old friends, who rallied at once to her assistance, and it was through their thoughtfulness and kind attentions that a general and final collapse was avoided. None of them had been willing to give her up altogether when she moved into the Mickle Street house. She for her part had never willingly neglected them; one or another, understanding this, had run in the back way at odd times, and if by chance they had found the kitchen in her undisputed possession, had gladly remained to lend her a helping hand.
Nor with her multiplicity of new duties and in her new surroundings had she been unmindful of her habit of protectiveness, and this house became, as her own had been, the temporary shelter for some orphan girl or boy, some friendless woman or stranded young man. Crowded as it was, the little Whitman home could make room for an emergency case.
As the owner was just now confined for some weeks to his sleeping apartment, Mrs. Davis could lie upon the kitchen lounge when the kind ministrations of her friends relieved her of immediate household duties; then in turn rouse herself, drag herself upstairs and attend to the wants of the sick man there. Her helpers were glad to prove their friendship for her, but it didn't reach the extent of waiting upon the disabled poet; this rested with her alone. Not that they were afraid of him, or that he had ever been rude or impolite to them, but not one of them was exactly at ease in his presence.
By good fortune, at this opportune time a gentleman and his wife invited Mrs. Davis to accompany them upon an excursion to Southern California. At first she declined the invitation; the distance seemed so great, and Mr. Whitman was so poorly, there was no telling what might happen during her absence. But she was still pressed to go, and unknown to her the project was broached to Mr. Whitman, who highly approved of it. Finally she accepted the proffered kindness; her friends assisted her in her preparations, and she set off with pleasurable anticipations. This journey was the one great delight of her life, and she returned much benefited. But how about the good little woman who had strongly urged her going, who had added her earnest persuasions to those of the others, and who had offered her own and her daughter's services in place of hers? Poor little woman, she did her best willingly and uncomplainingly; but she did openly avow at the expiration of the three weeks that had Mary stayed another day, she would have gone insane.
During his housekeeper's brief absence, Mr. Whitman had found how truly his home was not home without her. He frankly told her this, and acknowledged to her that no one living could fill her place to him; that others around him irritated him—unconsciously, he knew—while she instinctively soothed and quieted him, overwrought and impatient as he might sometimes feel. Furthermore, he presented her with a nice gold ring.
Soon after her return, Walt, who was quite himself once more, paid another visit to the Staffords, and getting him ready for this trip was her first work on reaching home. "Timber Creek" was his favorite resort, a haunt he so thoroughly enjoyed that it flashed across the mind of a friend while sauntering about with him there, that it would be a capital idea to raise a "Walt Whitman Cottage Fund," and build him a little summer home there. On cautiously sounding Walt upon the subject, he eagerly responded: "Oh, how often I have thought of it!"
So it was decided to build a cottage here, or by the seaside somewhere, where he could spend part of the year with nature and away from the noise and turmoil of the city. Eight hundred dollars were quickly raised towards the fund; the site for building, tiles for the chimney and plan by the architect were donated; but alas, it was seen that it was too late in his life for the scheme to be feasible, and the money was cheerfully given to him by the contributors to be used as he thought best.
On this particular occasion Mrs. Davis was more than glad to be alone. The parlors were much as the artists had left them, and a general housecleaning was instituted. And such a cleaning! Everything had to be handled and looked over, discarded or packed away. It was a disheartening task. Dried paint and plaster were on every side and resisted all attempts at removal, as though they had learned the lesson of persistency from the late sitter; besides, some repairs had to be made against the coming winter, and the stove had rusted in the cellar.
In good time all was accomplished and order again restored. Mr. Whitman returned refreshed, and oh, so glad to get back to his own home once more. But as a matter of course he acted as though beside himself for awhile, and the old act of hunting for lost or missing articles was repeated. Mrs. Davis, however, who had taken more than one lesson from him, passed his perturbation by without apparent notice. She knew the time was not far in the future when rapidly failing health would altogether prevent his leaving home; he would probably be confined to the upper part of the house, perhaps to his bed; and she thought it wise to be in readiness for whatever was in store.