The House in the Hedge/Chapter 8

that we talked almost every afternoon. Looking back at it now, it doesn't seem quite the thing to have done, but at the time it didn't occur to me that it was the least bit indelicate. And I don't think so yet. His being an invalid made it very different, as I pointed out to Aunt Myra, when I 'fessed up. Even Aunt Myra could see that. She said I had been silly and ill-advised, but as I hadn't been advised at all, I don't see that the latter term was very pat. However, she took it very nicely, and was so much interested in what I told her about Mr. Reed that she scolded hardly at all. You see, it was necessary to tell her about the conversations through the window, because the wheel-couch came and I wouldn't have thought of going to see the invalid without her permission. Although she didn't say so, I'm pretty sure that Aunt Myra was tickled that we had fooled Mr. Tully. She held Mr. Tully accountable for the refusal of her currant jelly and had never forgiven him for it. Of course I didn't tell her that I wanted to go over to the House in the Hedge and call on the invalid. I was waiting for an invitation from Mr. Tully, for Mr. Reed and I had arranged a conspiracy.

It was almost the last of June now, and the weather had settled down to be nice and warm. I love warm weather. I love to be able to wear thin white things and stay out of doors. One summer I persuaded the family that it would be nice to have luncheon served out of doors on the side veranda. Larry and I liked it immensely, but it didn't make a hit with Aunt Myra nor the Major. Little green bugs kept getting into auntie's food and the Major objected to having his soup cold. So we had to give it up. When I have a house of my own, I shall have all my meals served out of doors, even breakfasts. Think of eating breakfast under the trees, while the dew is still sparkling on the grass and the sunlight is bathing everything with gold! Fancy how pretty the table would look with its fresh white cloth, its vase of wild roses, and its bowl of crimson strawberries! And there ought to be robins or thrushes in the branches to make music; and every now and then a little salty breeze from the ocean to stir the leaves overhead. I said something like this to Aunt Myra once, and she said it would be very silly to sit down to breakfast with your feet in the wet grass; that you'd be certain to catch a cold. Aunt Myra is deficient in romance, as well as humor, I'm afraid.

One perfect forenoon I was sitting on the front veranda, with Fairfax in my lap, just looking across the garden, and the road, and the distant fields, and not thinking of anything in particular. The nasturtiums were ablaze all along the top of the wall and the beds beside the driveway were a mass of scarlet and white and green. I wish I could say that the morning air was redolent with the perfume of flowers, but the truth is, that the breeze was from the west and they had oiled the road the day before. Sometimes I think I'd rather have the dust than that horrid smell of petroleum. I had had a nice long ride on Whirligig at seven o'clock and had eaten an enormous breakfast afterwards; strawberries and omelet and a whole lot of toast and two glasses of milk; and I was sitting there in the shade of the clematis vine, just being lazy and dreaming, and Fairfax was purring at a great rate, when Mr. Tully appeared. Of course I would have been much more surprised if I hadn't expected him. He entered the gate and came up the driveway, with the determined air of a person who has a distasteful mission to perform, and means to perform it or perish miserably in the attempt. I felt a little bit sorry for him. He looked so big and broad-shouldered and nice as he took off his hat to me. I hadn't seen him, save to bow to, since I had kidnapped him that afternoon. I made him come up and sit down on the porch, which he seemed very glad to do. Fairfax rubbed up against his legs and then jumped onto his knees and settled down, blinking contentedly. Mr. Tully stroked him gravely and seemed pleased.

“You've quite won Fairfax,” I said. “I believe he spends more time with you than he does at home.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Tully.

“Please put him down if he bothers you.”

“Not at all, Miss Pryde.” He began to search for something in his pockets.

“Yes, please do,” I said.

“Do?” he questioned.

“Smoke. Weren't you reaching for your pipe or something?”

“Only my handkerchief,” he answered, bringing it forth and patting his forehead with it. “It—it's quite warm this morning.”

“Deliciously warm. Don't you smoke, Mr. Tully?”

“Not often. Sometimes I smoke a pipe in the evening.”

“When you write?”

He looked surprised, as he had reason to, and I realized that, like the hero of the book by Richard Harding Davis I was reading then, I had talked too much; and I didn't have to have any large green parrot tell me so.

“You know, then” began Mr. Tully eagerly, his face reddening with pleasure.

“Let us say suspect, I fibbed glibly. “You are the Mr. Tully who writes the wonderful books about political economy, aren't you?”

Mr. Tully smiled. I liked his smile. It made little bunches of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his short bristly mustache went up at the ends, and he looked quite human and boyish. And as he smiled, he actually blushed. And that made me blush a little, too, and we sat there and beamed and blushed at each other quite like two sillies.

“You have read something of mine?” he asked timidly.

I had to shake my head, but I did it gently and regretfully.

“No, Mr. Tully, I haven't. Political economy always seems so hard to understand. I'm sure it's quite beyond my poor brains, don't you think so?”

“Not at all, Miss Pryde, not at all! I don't think you would have any trouble comprehending it. It's a most interesting science, believe me. I wonder” He paused and smiled again deprecatingly. “I wonder if you'd allow me to give you a copy of my 'Distribution of Wealth'? Of course, you wouldn't have to read it unless you cared to, but there are some portions of it that I'm certain would interest you. And if there was anything I could explain”

“I should love to have it,” I answered warmly. “And you must put your name in it. Will you, Mr. Tully? And as for reading it, why, I should love to try. Oh, dear, that doesn't sound nice, does it? But you know what I mean, I'm sure.”

“I shall consider it a great honor, Miss Pryde, to be allowed to inscribe my name in it,” said Mr. Tully earnestly. “I only regret that the work, with which I am at present engaged, is not published. I call it 'A First Book of Political Economy for the Use of Schools and Colleges.' It is, as the name implies, primary in its nature, and I am trying to make it, at the same time, what I might call popular. I wish I might give you that instead of the 'Distribution of Wealth,' since by reading it, you could more easily work up to the other volume.”

“Thank you so much, but I'm sure the—the 'Distribution of Wealth' will do nicely. But you mustn't be surprised or disappointed if I prove stupid. For I really am stupid, Mr. Tully; dreadfully so.”

“I find that difficult to believe. You seem to me to have a very quick mind, a very intelligent one, Miss Pryde.”

I shook my head sorrowfully.

“You are just trying to flatter me, Mr. Tully.”

“Really no!” he cried in distress. “I wouldn't think of doing such a thing. I am the one who has been flattered. To think that you should recognize me here as the author of 'The Distribution of Wealth'!”

“I don't think that that is at all remarkable,” I said hurriedly, feeling very small and mean. “Do put Fairfax down, Mr. Tully. He must be terribly heavy.”

“Not at all.” He pulled the cat's ears, and Fairfax responded by digging his claws gently into the knees of Mr. Tully's trousers.

“It was nice of you to call, Mr. Tully,” I said after a moment, “and you must meet my aunt while you are here.”

He looked a little uneasy, but murmured that he would be delighted to do so.

“I ought to tell you, I think,” I went on, that you aren't in her good graces at present, Mr. Tully.”

“Really? But why? I wasn't aware that I had done anything to offend Miss Groves.”

“It was the jelly,” I said darkly.

“The jelly!”

“Yes, the currant jelly. The jelly that Aunt Myra sent over just after we came. Peter brought it back and said”

“Oh, I remember. But I had no idea of offending her, Miss Pryde. It was extremely kind of her, but the patient doesn't eat jelly, and so”

“And so you sent it back? That is where you got in wrong—I mean where you make a mistake. You should have been tactful, Mr. Tully, and kept it—even if you had had to throw it away.”

“I see. Yes, I suppose so. I'm very sorry. What—what shall I do?” He glanced with alarm toward the front door, as though he expected Aunt Myra to issue forth with a broom.

“Oh, just be nice, Mr. Tully. She'll forgive you, I'm sure. She's really a very nice auntie, but she's touchy about her jellies and preserves. But she will appreciate your calling, and”

“One moment, Miss Pryde. You mustn't give me any credit for this call, because—er—the fact is, I came to ask a favor of you.”

But that's lovely,” I answered. “I do hope it's something I can do, for I shall be only too glad to.”

“Well, it's—it's so remarkable a request that I scarcely have the courage to make it, Miss Pryde.”

“Please go on, Mr. Tully. You're getting me all worked up.”

“It's this, then, Miss Pryde.” He stopped. “Perhaps, though,” he went on doubtfully, “I ought to wait until your aunt is present. The request is so—so unconventional”

“No, no, tell me now. We will consult auntie later.”

“You remember, perhaps, my telling you that both the physician and I had been trying to persuade the patient to allow himself to be taken out of doors?”

I nodded gravely.

“Hitherto he has resisted our importunities. In spite of that, however, I took it upon myself to order a wheel-couch, and it arrived a day or two ago. Yesterday, much to my surprise and relief, the patient agreed to allow me to take him out onto the porch in it”

“How nice!” I murmured.

“On one condition.”

“And what was the condition, Mr. Tully?”

“That—that” He was making very hard work of it, poor man. “That I persuade you to—to pay him a visit!”

“Oh!” I exclaimed in great surprise.

“Of course I realize that it is a very strange request for him to make, since he has never even seen you,” went on Mr. Tully hurriedly. “But he has heard me speak of you several times; I was merely mentioning our meetings, you understand; and—er—he has got it into his head that he would like to see you and speak to you. I—I tried to dissuade him from forcing such an embarrassing errand on me, Miss Pryde, but when he once gets his mind made up, it is extremely difficult, I might well say impossible, to change it. So I promised to ask you, thinking that possibly, if you would just take into consideration that he is an invalid and suffering more or less pain”

“Pain! Why, he said—you said—there was no pain!” I exclaimed. Mr. Tully looked perplexed and shook his head.

“I don't think I could have said so, Miss Pryde; at least, not intentionally. For the patient is, I'm sorry to say, under pain a good deal of the time. Considering that, I thought that perhaps—as you have shown yourself so kind—you wouldn't mind—just for a moment—humoring him, Miss Pryde.”

“Of course I will! “But I had no idea—Is—is the pain very severe, Mr. Tully?”

“At times, yes. Sometimes toward evening it is necessary to give opiates in small doses.”

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I wailed. “I don't like pain a bit.”

“I regret I mentioned it,” said Mr. Tully apologetically. “I did so only in the interests of my request. You need have no fear that any suffering of his will obtrude during your visit, for he seldom allows even me to see that he is in pain. May I tell him that you will come over for a few minutes after luncheon?”

“Indeed, yes, Mr. Tully! I'll be only too glad to come. Is there anything I could take him, or anything I could do for him? Would he care to be read to?”

Mr. Tully shook his head. “I don't think SO. He doesn't seem to be much interested in books or papers. Sometimes he gets me to read my writing to him, but I think he does that mostly to please me. It is a great help to have someone to read your stuff to, Miss Pryde. He usually goes to sleep, however,” added Mr. Tully sadly.

“That's not flattering, is it?” I laughed. “But I'm sure it's not the fault of your book, Mr. Tully. May I find auntie now? Will you excuse me a moment?”

I left Mr. Tully and Fairfax and sought Aunt Myra. As I suspected, she was dressing. Aunt Myra spends the earlier hours of the day in what she calls her “morning gown,” a wonderful creation of lavender silk, tied with purple ribbons ribbons. At eleven she puts on muslin. At four she dresses for driving. At six she changes for dinner. She quite makes my head reel sometimes, and she thinks it scandalous when I get through the day in two gowns. “My dear,” she tells me, “it is a woman's duty to look nice and attire herself properly for all occasions. When I was a girl, we were taught to realize that, no matter how pretty a dress might be as a dress, it was not pretty if worn at the wrong time. Blue linen—” this with a glance at my modest raiment “does very well for luncheon, Marjorie, but as a costume for driving”

I told Aunt Myra that Mr. Tully had called and was waiting to see her on the veranda.

“Hm,” she said. “At last he has had a glimmer of intelligence, has he? I suppose he has come to explain about the jelly?”

“Partly, I think, auntie.”

“Well, it would serve him quite right if I refused to see him. But don't stand there giggling; go back and entertain him! Do you think it polite, pray, to leave a caller all alone for ten minutes?”

He isn't alone,” I said. “He has Fairfax.” Aunt Myra sniffed.

“Go right down to him. Would you wear this black and white, or the one with the sprigs of yellow roses?”

“Either, auntie dear; you look lovely in each of them.”

“It isn't a question of looking lovely,” replied Aunt Myra severely, “only of appropriateness.” But I could see she was pleased, just the same. “Tell Mr. Tully I will be down in a minute.”

But, of course, she wasn't; Mr. Tully and I were forced to entertain each other for a quarter of an hour before she came. She had put on the muslin with the little yellow roses and I was very proud of her, she looked so dainty and sweet. In five minutes Aunt Myra and Mr. Tully were as thick as thieves, and the currant-jelly episode had been sponged out. She couldn't help liking him, he was so much of a gentleman, and so anxious to please her in his big serious way. I sat by and held Fairfax and played chaperon; for all the attention they paid to me, I might have been a thousand miles away. After a while, however, I saw that Mr. Tully would never broach the subject of his call unless he was prompted. So I interrupted the conversation and introduced the subject of the patient and the new wheel couch, and after several false starts, Mr. Tully got away with a rush.

Aunt Myra looked a little alarmed and a trifle shocked at first, and for a while I feared that our conspiracy was doomed to failure. But Mr. Tully was so humble and apologetic that Aunt Myra went to his support. I knew that what she would have liked to have done was telegraph the Major for advice, but there was no time for that, and in the end she declared, somewhat defiantly, as though Mrs. Grundy was eaves-dropping inside the library window, that she could see no reason why I shouldn't grant the invalid's request.

“I'm sure,” she said, we are both very sorry for the poor young man, and anything I or my niece can do to lighten his sufferings will be done most gladly, Mr. Tully.”

So it was arranged that I was to go over to the House in the Hedge at about three o'clock, and Mr. Tully, after declining a pressing invitation to remain for luncheon, and promising to repeat his call, and inviting Aunt Myra and me over to see his flowers and the sweet-pea trellis, which he was just completing, took his leave, looking quite radiant. After he had gone, and after auntie had informed me what an estimable gentleman he was, I asked:

“What do you think I had best wear this afternoon?”

Aunt Myra gave the question long thought. “Well,” she said at last, “I presume, something rather subdued would be in keeping with the occasion, Marjorie. There's that gray frock with the plaid pipings”

But I had been thinking too, and I shook my head.

“No, auntie,” I said. “I think you're wrong there. The sick man wants to be cheered up, and I'd never cheer him up if I went looking like a Sister of Mercy or a hospital nurse. I shall wear the prettiest frock I have.”

I don't think Aunt Myra approved, but she said nothing, and so, as there was lots of time before luncheon, I went upstairs and had Elise do my hair over and put me into my very best, and very newest, lingerie gown.