The House in the Hedge/Chapter 7
VII
I ACCEPT A CASE
I returned the whistle.
“Is he gone?” asked the voice cautiously from behind the curtains.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Then will you please move about a foot to the left, and tell me where you've been all these weeks?”
“It has been only three days.”
“Possibly, to you. I measure time differently. You promised to come back.”
“So I have.”
“Humph!” It had a very disagreeable sound, and for a moment I forgot that he had the invalid's right to be cross and disagreeable.
“Perhaps,” I said, “I'd better go away and come back when you are in a-when you're more polite.”
“Just as you please,” he answered coldly. I waited a minute but he said nothing more. So I moved over to the corner, where I was pretty certain he couldn't catch more than a glimpse of me, and opened my work. After all, why should I go away just because he didn't want to talk? It was my own tree and my own platform and I was quite comfortable there. But it's so aggravating not to be able to see the person you're talking to! I hadn't taken more than half a dozen stitches, though, when I remembered that the poor man couldn't be blamed for being peevish sometimes. Mercy, if I'd been in his place, I guess I'd have been too disagreeable for words! So, presently, I asked:
“Do you really want me to go?”
“No,” he answered humbly, “I don't. I beg your pardon for being so nasty. The fact is, it's been a beast of a day in here, and I'm a bit out of sorts. Of course that's no reason for being impolite to you. I'm sorry I spoke like that, Miss Pryde.”
“And I'm sorry I spoke like that,” I said. “You may be just as impolite as you want to.”
“I don't want to. It's just contrariness. I—I get that way sometimes. I devil poor Tully until it's a wonder he doesn't pack up and leave, and don't mean a word of it. It's strange how wrecking your body can change the disposition. I used to be fairly good-natured, I believe. Now I'm—I'm like a bear with a sore head.”
“What a number of things you are,” I said lightly. “Only the other day you were Ptolemy. By the way, I looked him up in the library and you were right. It was Ptolemy the Fifth that married Cleopatra.”
“Was it? Thanks. If I'm quite forgiven, would you mind moving back where I can see more of you than your hands and some two square inches of that diluted sunshine which you probably call hair?”
“I don't think your disposition is entirely ruined,” I laughed, “if you can pay compliments like that. It may look like diluted sunshine at a distance, but it's really very ugly hair. Larry says it looks like ginger ale without the sparkle.
“Who's Larry?” he demanded.
“Larry's my brother. His real name is Laurence, of course.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, brothers are notably uncomplimentary—to their own sisters. I never was a brother myself, but I've made observations.”
“I guess they are,” I said, “but they're terribly nice. I wouldn't give up Larry for anything, spoiled as he is.”
“He would probably say the same.”
I laughed and shook my head.
“No, he might think it, but I can't imagine Larry saying a thing like that.”
“Meanwhile, haven't we lost sight of the question?”
“Have we?”
“Yes, the question was whether you were going to do me the kindness of moving into sight again. Won't you?”
“N—no, I don't think so. You see, it gives you an advantage. You can see me, but I can't see you.”
“Thank Heaven for that!” he said fervently.
“I don't see why. Anyway, it's very unsatisfactory. For all I know, you may be laughing at me or making faces.
“Yes, it is unsatisfactory,” he said. “That's why I made the request.”
“Oh! Well” I moved and bent busily over my embroidery. Presently he asked:
“What have you in your hands? It's not a book, is it? I can't make it out. Those darn—those miserable curtains are dreadfully in the way. It's like looking through a fog.”
“It's a piece of linen.” I held it up. “It's going to be a card-case when it's finished. I'm working it with forget-me-nots. Can you see?”
“Yes. Who is it for?”
“I don't know yet,” I laughed. “Would you like it?”
“Immensely. I like the sentiment expressed in the flowers. May I have it?”
“Perhaps, if you're very good and get well. I never heard, though, of a man using an embroidered linen card-case.”
“I'd like to set the fashion,” he answered with a little laugh. “Or perhaps it would do for a tobacco pouch.”
“The idea!” I exclaimed. “If that's what you're going to use it for”
“But I'm not really! I wouldn't think of such a thing. I shall never use it for anything but cards.”
“In that case, perhaps you may have it. Shall I put your initials in the corner?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very well. What are they?”
He didn't answer at once, and I remembered.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” I cried. “I didn't mean to ask, really.”
“Why shouldn't you? I see that Tully has been talking. How much has he told you?”
“I—I'm afraid he told me a good deal,” I faltered “But not your-your name. I hope you won't be angry with him. I made him do it, really.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I echoed.
“Yes. Why did you want to know about me?”
“Well, wouldn't you have wanted to know about me—or anyone—if I was ill and helpless? And lived next door to you? And”
“Of course; it was quite natural.” After a moment he went on: “I suppose he told you that I didn't want folks to know who I was?”
“Yes.”
“Well, does that seem strange to you?”
“N-no, I don't believe so. Besides, it's no one's business who you are. I do think, though, that you are wrong to keep yourself from your friends and those who care about you.”
“Those who care about me!” he repeated. “My dear young lady, there aren't any such persons. I have no relations, except a few very distant ones who scarcely recall my existence. As for friends, my friends are of the fair-weather sort. Not one of them cared two cents about me when I was well and strong. A jolly lot they'd care now when I'm down and out, laid on the shelf for good and all.”
“But it isn't for good and all,” I protested. “Mr. Tully says that the doctors say”
“I know. Cheering lies to keep my nerve up. But they don't fool me. Even if they could work a miracle and get me on my feet again, what good would it do? Do you think I want to hobble around the world for the rest of my life on crutches? Not for a moment. If I do let them operate, it will be just so that I can get rid of them all, and be master of my own acts again. Then we'll see how long”
“But you don't know,” I said. “Perhaps you will be all right afterwards. What do they tell you?”
“Oh, they say so. It's easy enough to say things. Burton—he's the one who will operate, if it's done—Burton says there may be a slight limp, but nothing more. But I know what that means. Doctors think nothing of lying to you for your own good, as they call it, All they think about is sustaining life; they don't care what kind of a hell the life may be. Oh, it's all right from their point of view, but there are times when the truth is what's needed; only they won't see it that way.”
“But maybe they are telling the truth!”
“Not they. I can read them. Their profession teaches them that, so long as there's a flicker of life left, it's their duty to keep it going. And they'll use any means to the end. I know them.”
“You talk horridly,” I sighed. “You ought to want to get well. It isn't nice to have a limp, I know, but surely it's better than being helpless, as you are now, isn't it?”
“Of course. I guess I could worry along with a limp, were that all. But I don't believe there's any chance of getting off so easily.”
“But you don't know,” I persisted, “You must be hopeful and get as well as possible, so that when they-operate”
“I'll do whatever you say, Miss Pryde. Will you take the case?”
“You promise to obey me? And do just what I say?”
“Of course.”
“Very well, then, I'll take it. The first thing you must do is to get out of doors all you possibly can. Doesn't the—the other doctor want you to do that?”
“I believe he does, but”
“Then that is settled. You must get a wheel chair or—or something, and Mr. Tully must wheel you out into the sunlight every day.”
“Item. And then?”
“You must stop thinking that your case is hopeless and try to want to get well again.”
“Item. What else?”
“Please stop saying 'item'; I don't know what it means. Then you might try to be a little more patient with Mr. Tully. You ought not to swear at him, you know.”
I heard him chuckle.
“Tully doesn't mind that, Miss Pryde. Besides, he swears back at me.”
“Mr. Tully? I'll never believe that!”
“It's true, though. Only the other day he said 'darn' when I wouldn't let him shave me.”
“Why wouldn't you let him shave you?” I asked severely.
“Oh, I don't know. What's the good of being shaved every day? I never see any one.”
“That's your own fault, isn't it?”
“I suppose so. I dare say there are a few chaps who would call if I asked them to—if they weren't too busy.”
“When you're out of doors”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you were going to say something, Miss Pryde. I wonder if it was what I—what I hope it was.”
“Probably not—at least, I don't know what you hope it was, Mister—Mister Invalid.”
“Great Scott, don't call me that!”
“Then tell me something I may call you. You've no idea how difficult it is to talk to someone when there isn't anything you can call them.”
“I suppose it is.” He was silent a moment. Then, “Suppose you call me Mr. Smith. It's an easy name to remember.”
“Very well, Mr. Smith.”
“Ugh! No matter. I was saying”
“You were going to say that you were tired and wanted to stop talking.”
“Nothing of the sort! I was wondering whether you were going to say that when I was out you'd come over and see me some time. Was that it, Miss Pryde?”
“Y-yes, it was. But I didn't think. I forgot that you don't want to see people.”
“Oh! Well, in your case it's different, isn't it? If you're going to take charge of me”
“Oh, I can manage quite as well from here.”
“But if I were to tell you that perhaps the kindest thing you could ever do would be to come and see me sometimes and cheer me up? Don't you think then, that you'd be willing to come?”
“Of course, I would. I'll come gladly if you'll let me, Mr.—oh, I don't like that name!”
“Neither do I,” he laughed “Let's change it to—to—let me see—how would Reed do?”
“That's much nicer. If you want me to come and see you now and then, and if Mr. Tully is willing, I'll come.”
“Tully will do as I tell him,” he said grimly. “Besides, I dare say he'd be tickled enough. He'd have more time for his idiotic writing.”
“His idiotic what?”
“Writing. Didn't you know? Tully's a real author; his latest book was quite the last word on the distribution of wealth. Just at present he is dashing off a little trifle called 'A First Book of Political Economy for the Use of Schools and Colleges.' Before he gets through, Tully is going to make the late Henry George look like a piker.”
Really? Isn't that wonderful? But what is a piker, Mr. Reed?”
“Well,” he laughed, “it's something no one wants to look like. You'll have to ask your brother to explain. It's beyond the efforts of an invalid. The worst part of it is, Miss Pryde, that Tully reads me the book as he goes along. Still, I usually sleep through it pretty well. Take my advice, though, and don't mention the subject of political economy to Tully or you may never get away from him.”
“He must be very clever.”
“He is. I wish I knew half as much. Only I'd like my knowledge assorted. The trouble with Tully is that he hasn't any mind for anything else.”
“I like him. Hasn't he any other name than just Tully?”
“Rather! His full title is Windsor James Jefferson Tully, A.M., Ph.D.”
“But why, if he is so clever, is he here?”
“Playing nurse to a cranky brute like me? Well, I think it is largely because Tully is weak enough to entertain a sneaking liking for me; and partly because I offered him a good deal of money and he hasn't very much of that. You see, works on political economy are never listed among the Six Best Sellers, Miss Pryde. That's why he's doing this pot boiler he's on now; it will make money for him probably. He has a good deal of time for writing here. He leaves me every night at half-past nine or ten, and then sits up and writes until two in the morning. Poor old Tully, he deserves better than he's getting!”
I think he's splendid! But won't he make himself sick working so hard and getting so little sleep?”
“Oh, Tully scorns sleep. He hates it. He has figured it out, I believe, that if one can accustom himself to four hours' sleep, instead of eight, one can accomplish twice as much in a lifetime. It's something like that, anyway. I've heard him tell about it. No, I don't believe you need worry about Tully's health. He has always done this way; even in college he never slept more than four or five hours, he says.”
“It was nice of you to give him this position,” I said.
“Nice? It was quite selfish. I always liked old Tully; he was so restful and even-tempered. So I simply bullied and bribed him into coming with me. I fancy he didn't want to.”
“I'm not so sure about that, Mr. Reed. He told me that if he could have afforded it, he would have done it gladly without pay.”
“Did Tully tell you that? I won't swear at him for a week, Miss Pryde.”
“Well, don't be too good or he may think you're worse, and be worried,” I replied laughingly.
“My, but I like to hear you laugh,” he said. “When I'm out of doors, will you come and sit by me and laugh?”
“I must have something to laugh at.”
“You'll have me,” he said. “My appearance would make even Tully laugh, if he weren't used to seeing me.”
“I don't think I shall find anything in your appearance to laugh at,” I said gravely.
“I'd rather you found me humorous than—disgusting. I think I'd better warn you now My face looks like a drowned squirrel's and my body is just a shapeless hulk, a bundle of casts and bandages. I guess after you've laid eyes on me once, you'll have had enough I shan't blame you, either. That's why I dread having you see me. Now it's different. You can't see me and you don't mind.”
“Please don't talk that way,” I begged. “How you look has nothing to do with it. If I can help you any, I'm eager to do it. I dare say, though, that I'll just tire you and bore you with my chatter. If I do, you must send me away, shoo me back into my own premises as Mr. Tully shoos Fairfax.”
“When you tire me I will,” he answered dryly. Then he laughed softly. “But if the shooing doesn't have any more effect than it does with Fairfax, it won't do much good.”
“I think Mr. Tully is coming back,” I said. “Good-bye.”
“Will you come to-morrow?” he asked softly. I nodded at the curtained window.
“I think so. Perhaps.”
“Please promise, Miss Pryde! If you don't I—I won't let Tully shave me and I'll swear a streak at him.”
“Poor Mr. Tully!” I laughed. “Then I'll promise. And remember your orders, Mr. Reed.”
I flew down the steps just as Mr. Tully came into sight at the gate.