The House in the Hedge/Chapter 4
IV
I TALK WITH THE INVALID
I was more interested than ever in the House in the Hedge, after my meeting with the serious Mr. Tully. In the first place, there was a mystery there, and I've always been fond of mysteries.
Who was the invalid?
That was the chief mystery. It was evident enough that his identity was being closely hidden. Mr. Tully had been on the point of speaking his name and had caught himself up. Then, too, although the invalid was doubtless the one who had leased the cottage, among the tradesfolks and throughout the village generally, the place was understood to be rented by Mr. Tully. And that brought me to another problem:
Who was Mr. Tully?
He had arrived a day later than the invalid and within an hour of his appearance, a woman, presumably a nurse, had taken her departure. It seemed, then, as though Mr. Tully was a nurse or attendant, and yet he didn't look like one nor act like one. He seemed too much of a gentleman and much too well bred. Not that an attendant might not be a gentleman, but the few I had seen had not been. On the other hand, if Mr. Tully were merely a friend of the invalid's, the latter would have called him by his first name, in all probability. It had occurred to me that he might be a doctor, but, although I can't give any reasons, I was certain he wasn't. So, of course, as he wasn't a friend nor a doctor, he must be an attendant. I had read somewhere of lady attendants; why not a gentleman attendant? If the invalid was really at all inclined to be violent, then Mr. Tully was just the man, for he was big and very strong looking. And that brought me back to the invalid.
Was he merely an invalid or was he an insane patient? I believed the latter, because his voice had been just as strong as Mr. Tully's, and surely an invalid's voice is always weak. Of course, if it was merely a broken leg or arm that he was suffering with, I suppose his voice wouldn't be affected much, but a broken leg or arm is a matter of a month or so only, and wouldn't necessitate the patient's being moved around the country on a stretcher. No, I was pretty certain that he was really insane, and very anxious to accept Mr. Tully's statement that he was not violent.
One thing I had discovered about the invalid, and that was that he was a young man. His voice had told me that. I should have guessed that his age was about thirty. Of course I invented a great many highly improbable stories about the occupants of the House in the Hedge, for life at Two Acres was still very quiet and I had lots of time on my hands. Almost every afternoon I took my book to the platform in the elm tree and read or thought. I suppose you'll think I really went up there merely to spy on the cottage, but that isn't so, for although I did see whatever went on across the hedge, yet I would have gone into the platform even had it been on the other side of our grounds. You must really believe me, for this is to be an entirely truthful story, as I've said before somewhere.
A week or so after my meeting with Mr. Tully, I was sitting in the tree reading a novel, when Mr. Tully left the cottage and went out at the gate. He didn't look toward me. I don't believe that he knew then of the existence of the platform. I watched, and presently I saw him beyond the hedge going toward the village. I wondered how his gardening was getting on and whether any of his seeds had come up. And I sort of wished he had looked up and seen me so that I might have asked him. Then I went back to my book, and had become quite interested again, when I heard my name spoken.
I was startled and looked around quickly, but no one was in sight. I wondered if I had dreamed it, when I heard it again.
“Miss Pryde!”
Then I recognized the voice, which, I think, was rather clever of me. It was the insane man speaking! I was a little bit scared as I looked across the hedge and down at the open window. Of course I could see nothing, as the muslin curtains were drawn.
“Yes” I answered, my heart beating a little faster than usual, you may be sure.
“Can you hear me quite distinctly?” asked the voice from beyond the curtains.
“Yes,” I answered again.
“That's good. I beg your pardon for speaking to you, but I've been watching you for some time, and—and I thought that perhaps, under the circumstances, you'd forgive me. The circumstances are these, Miss Pryde: I am lying flat on my back, where I've been lying for a month, and where I shall probably lie for a month more. That makes me an invalid, doesn't it? And invalids have privileges that others don't. Have I made out a good case? I've been preparing my brief for a good ten minutes.”
“Oh, yes,” I replied. “Please don't apologize. If it will give you any pleasure to talk to me, please do.”
“Thanks. I've been telling myself all along that you were kind and would forgive a poor devil for hurdling the conventions. But, just the same, it's taken me five days to get my courage up to the sticking point.”
“Five days! Do you mean that you've—been watching me”
“Yes. Was it mean? Perhaps it was. I had Tully fix my bed this way so I could see you better. He doesn't know yet what it was for. And I shan't tell him. He knows so much now that another grain of knowledge might be too much for him. Please forgive me for spying on you, Miss Pryde. If you only knew what a pleasure it has been for me to see some one besides Tully, someone young and alive, you would. Life isn't very exciting in here.”
“Indeed, I don't mind, really,” I answered him. “Only it it's rather a—a jolt” I stopped in confusion.
“Yes,” said the voice, “rather a jolt, I fancy.”
“I didn't mean to say that,” I said contritely “You see, I have a brother and I catch those awful expressions from him. Aunt Myra is forever calling me—that is, rebuking me.” I thought I heard a low laugh from beyond those blank white curtains. I laughed too. “I really do try,” I went on, “but I'm always forgetting. I know it isn't nice for girls to use slang.”
“Isn't it?” he asked. “It's so long since I've talked with a girl that I wouldn't mind if you talked Hottentot!”
“I'm afraid I don't know that,” I said for want of anything else. It is rather embarrassing talking to a perfect stranger that you can't even see!
“Neither do I. I hope you don't mind my having watched you, though. You see, I watch everything in sight. There's a pair of orioles that live up there somewhere above your head and I've been watching them for a week or two. They're interesting little beggars, although I must say that they treat each other rather peevishly sometimes. I'm afraid they're not very happily married.”
“I can see the nest from here,” I answered. “I think there are eggs in it.”
“I wish I could see it. Do you think you could persuade them to move their residence?”
“I'm afraid not,” I laughed. “It looks as though it were put there to stay.”
“You might get someone to cut off the limb that the nest is on and splice it to that one you have your hand on. How would that do?”
“Oh, I'm afraid that would worry them a lot!”
“I don't believe they'd ever notice the difference. However, maybe we'd better not try it. There's one thing, though” He hesitated. “There's one favor you could do for me if you would?”
“Yes?” I asked cautiously.
“You might move about six inches to the left.”
“Six inches” I began. Then I remembered that his brain was affected. I had quite forgotten it, he had been talking so sensibly. Of course, I ought to humor him, so I asked:
“To the left?”
“To the left, please. That's enough. Thank you. You see, before that branch kept waving in front of you, cutting off the upper part of your face most annoyingly. That's ever so much better. Thanks.”
“Oh!” I said. There was a moment's silence, during which I watched the oriole's nest. Then:
“Of course,” he said, “it was my place to move, but as I couldn't, I thought I'd ask you to.”
“Do you mean that you can't move at all?” I asked.
“I can move portions of me. From my shoulders down, I'm quite helpless, but my arms work fairly well, and I can turn my head from one side to the other. But that's about all. From my waist to my neck, I am done up in plaster of paris and bandages, just like a disreputable old Egyptian mummy. This morning when I saw myself in the mirror—Tully allows me that privilege every day, when he shaves me—I thought I could see quite a resemblance to old Ptolemy. I'm not certain just which one, but I think number five, the one who married Cleopatra. I wonder why she married him.. I'll wager it wasn't on account of his good looks. Still I suppose, being a mummy for a few thousand years rather detracts from one's personal attractiveness. I dare say that in another month or two, I shall have lost all my manly beauty.”
He was talking quite crazily now and I tried to change the directions of his thoughts.
“Oh, I'm sure you'll be much better soon. You're being taken such good care of.”
“Well, that's so,” he answered. “It's got to be one thing or the other pretty soon.”
“Are you—is there any pain?” I asked.
He didn't answer for a moment. Then:
“Not now,” he said. “At first it hurt a bit.”
“Was anything broken?”
“No, worse luck! It's a fracture. If it had been decently broken”—he paused for a moment—“I wouldn't have had the pleasure of seeing you.”
“Oh! You mean” I stopped.
“Something of that sort,” he answered cheerfully. “You see, it's my spine, and spines are bad things to damage, they tell me.”
“Have you been ill long? How did it happen? But perhaps you'd rather not talk about it,” I added contritely.
“Don't you believe it! Did you ever find an invalid who wasn't tickled to death to tell you all about his troubles? It happened about a month ago and was due to an altercation with a tree.”
“A tree?” I faltered.
“Yes, a large, stout, healthy tree. It was my fault, I suppose. The tree was attending strictly to its own affairs when I came along. I was coming—hurriedly, I might say, precipitately. I waved the tree out of the way, but it didn't budge. Of course, I should have either stopped then or altered my course I didn't, however. Instead, I tried to—ah—thrust the tree out of the way.”
He was off again! I waited, but as he didn't go on, I said sympathetically:
“I'm sorry. It was very wrong of the tree.”
“Thank you. That's the way I felt about it—afterwards. At the moment I experienced no emotions. Nor, in fact, for several hours. Then I found they had me in a hospital, nicely tucked away in bed. That's where I've been ever since—in bed, I mean. I didn't stay in the hospital long, because I wasn't expected to live and I decided I'd rather die at home, comfortably.”
“Oh, please don't talk that way,” I begged. with a shudder.
“I beg your pardon. Excuse the flippancy, but the whole thing has been a good deal of bother, and I've found that if I don't laugh about it I'm sure to swear; and I didn't want you to hear me do that. You don't see Tully coming, do you?”
I looked up the road, but he was not in sight.
“I suppose it's too early yet,” he went on. “He's gone after a hammer and saw, I believe. He's building some sort of a thing in the garden.”
“A trellis for the sweet peas?” I asked.
“I think so. He's crazy about flowers and doesn't know one from another, I guess.
He said nothing more for a full minute and I thought that, perhaps he had gone to sleep, for his voice had been growing lower. I took up my book, thinking I'd go down quietly so as not to disturb him. But he wasn't asleep.
“I hope I haven't bored you,” he said, rather tiredly. “It's been mighty kind of you to listen to my ravings. You've no idea what a pleasure it has been to talk nonsense for a while. Tully is sadly deficient in humor, you see Perhaps you noticed that, though? He said he had seen you the other day.”
“He seemed—rather serious, I thought.”
“He is. He's a good sort, old Tully, but the Lord filled him so full of brains that the humor got crowded out. That's why I'm going to ask you to say nothing about our talk in case you see him again. He wouldn't approve of it, I suppose. It's awful to have a keeper who is deficient in humor, Miss Pryde.”
“I suppose it is,” I replied. “But I'm sure he must be very careful of you if you're to get well again. And he is careful, isn't he??
“Much too careful,” he answered grimly, with a short laugh.
“Oh, he couldn't be that, could he?” I asked cheerfully. “I do hope you'll get better very quickly. And please—please don't think about the tree any more than you can help.”
“The tree?” he asked, as though he didn't understand.
Yes, the one you had the—the discussion with.”
“Oh!” It sounded as though he was puzzled. I suppose he had forgotten all about it by that time. So, as I didn't want to bring about a return of his hallucinations, I added:
“Or any tree. Just try and not think about trees or—or Ptolemy. ”
“Why, certainly, if you say so. But I don't quite understand, I'm afraid. Trees or Ptolemy; hum, I wonder if it's a joke; I can't see your face where you're standing now. Maybe Tully's affliction is catching and I'm losing my sense of humor. I hope not, for the Lord only knows what I'd do without it. Please, Miss Pryde, is it a joke?”
A—a sort of a one,” I stammered. “I must go now. I think you ought to go to sleep. Good-bye.”
“Not good-bye, please! Don't say you won't come to the tree any more! I won't speak a word to you if you'd rather I didn't.”
“Of course, I shall come,” I answered. “And you may speak whenever you like, as long as it doesn't do you any harm.”
He muttered something I couldn't hear. Then:
“It's the best thing that's happened to me in months,” he said earnestly. “You will come back again?”
“Yes, indeed I will.”
“And you'll explain that joke to me? About Ptolemy and the trees, I mean? I shall study on it until I see you again and maybe I'll get it. But if I shouldn't”
“You mustn't think about it,” I said. You mustn't worry your mind about anything. It isn't good for you.”
“Oh Lord! Don't talk that way, please! It sounds just like Tully. He's forever saying: 'Don't think; relax your brain; rest.' Rest! If there's one thing I can do to the King's taste, it's rest. Good-afternoon, Miss Pryde. And a thousand thanks.”
His voice trailed off into silence. I took my book and went down the steps cautiously. Half-way down, I looked toward the window. To my relief it was not in sight. You see, you naturally climb stairs more circumspectly when you know someone is looking and I had feared that, perhaps, the steps were in view of the window. I was pretty certain that there had been times when I had raced up those steps without considering appearances.
For the rest of that day, I thought a good deal about the invalid. It seemed awfully sad that, with all his other troubles, he should be affected in his mind. I resolved to put myself in Mr. Tully's way and find out more about him—about the invalid, I mean. He had certainly talked quite sensibly at times, and he had a splendid voice, deep and musical, although it sounds kind of strange to speak of a man's voice as being musical. And he had seemed so cheerful all the time, not a bit grumpy and fretful as most invalids are. I didn't tell Aunt Myra about it, for I didn't think she would approve, and as it was already done and couldn't be helped, what was the use of worrying her? But at dinner that evening I asked her a good deal about insane folks; whether they were ever cured, and how long it took, and things like that. She didn't seem to know a great deal about the subject, however, and kept asking me why I was so interested. I told her I was thinking about the poor man in the House in the Hedge, and she sniffed, and said she guessed anyone so crazy as not to like good currant jelly, wasn't likely to ever get over it. I said maybe he'd been brought up on the kind of currant jelly you buy in stores, the cheap kind, and she seemed a little mollified.
“If being looked after has anything to do with it,” she said, “I guess he will recover. Peter says that the doctor comes two or three times a week.”
“He does,” I agreed thoughtlessly.
“And how do you know? I'm sure I've never set eyes on the man.”
“Oh, you can see him from the front gate, auntie, sometimes.” Which was quite true, even if I had never done it.
“Elise says the cook over there is about sixty years old and never sets her foot outside the house,” said Aunt Myra.
“How does she know her age, then?”
“She saw her at the window yesterday. It's a very funny affair, all around. That's what I think. No one knows the sick man's name, nor where he comes from, nor—nor anything about him. I think the authorities or someone should look into it.”
“I suppose they think it's no one's business, auntie. If he ever should get well, think how much nicer it would be for him if folks didn't know that he had ever been—out of his head.”
“Humph! At least he needn't be so snippy when a body tries to be neighborly.”
“Oh, that, I am sure, was Mr. Tully.”
“Whoever it was, they might have accepted the jelly and been polite. They needn't have eaten it if they hadn't wanted to.”
The next morning I picked some roses and sent them over by Peter, and he came back and said the sick gentleman was very much obliged; that Mr. Tully had said so. After that I sent flowers over every other day regularly. It seemed to me that that was the least I could do to make the poor man's life endurable.
I didn't go up into the tree that day, because—well, I don't know just why. But I didn't.