The Bird’s Nest (11 page)

“Have you not called Doctor Ryan?” I asked, determined to keep to my warm bed.

“She won't let him in,” Miss Jones said; she seemed, in her anxiety, to be unable to stop talking and I could not hush her. “She has locked the door against us,” Miss Jones continued, her voice rising hysterically.

I sighed, and told her without enthusiasm that I should be with her directly. Even so, she persisted—as frightened relations so often do—in keeping me by urging me to hurry! “For a long time,” she said, “we couldn't imagine what doctor she wanted; she kept calling for Doctor Wrong.”

I hung up the telephone while she still talked on, and dressed with more speed than I have ever done in my life; childbirth, surgery, accidents—all these can bear to wait for the ten seconds it takes for the doctor to dash cold water on his sleepy eyes, but now I delayed for no such indulgence; there was, I knew to my sorrow, only one person in the world who called me Doctor Wrong.

And she was waiting for me behind the locked door of Miss R.'s bedroom; I could hear her shouting as Miss Jones opened the house door for me, and, hesitating only to mutter my name at Miss Jones, I brushed past her and, still in my coat and hat, took the stairs two at a time—an exertion, indeed, at my age, and one I could ill afford at the moment—and so came to the door from behind which came Betsy's voice shouting a song which surprised me only in that I could not imagine how she came to learn the words during Miss R.'s limited experience. “Betsy,” I said, tapping on the door, “Betsy, open this door at once; it is Doctor Wright.”

I was aware of my own hard breathing as I stood with my head against the door, listening to the voice inside; Betsy had broken off her song when she heard my voice and appeared now to be talking softly to herself. “Is it really the old fool?” she asked—meaning me, of course—and, “I think it is Ryan again, come to tease me.”

Miss Jones was coming up the stairs behind me, and I wanted badly to be into Miss R.'s room with the door closed before there was any question of Miss Jones' joining us; “Betsy,” I said, “let me in immediately, I tell you.”

“Who is it?”

“It is Doctor Wright,” I said impatiently, “open the door.”

“It is not Doctor Wright at all; it is Doctor Ryan.”

“I,” I said in a fury, “am Doctor Victor Wright, and I command you to open this door.”

“Commands?” Her voice lingered mockingly. “To
me,
Doctor Wrong?”

“Betsy,”
I said as emphatically as I could; Miss Jones was rounding the landing.

“Then tell me who you are,” said Betsy.

“I am Doctor Wright.”

“Indeed you are not,” said Betsy, laughing.

I took a deep breath and thought briefly and lovingly of punishments for Miss Betsy; “I am Doctor Wrong,” I said, and very softly, too.

“Who?”

“Doctor Wrong,” I said.

“Who?”
I could hear her laughing.

“Doctor Wrong.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, and I heard the key in the lock. “If you had told me who you were sooner, my dear doctor, I would have let you in at once.” And the wicked girl opened the door and stood aside as I slipped quickly in, and then she shut the door behind me, full in her aunt's face. “Poor dear,” she said loudly, “did Aunt Morgen attack you?”

“Miss R.,” I said, “this is intolerable. I will not be treated so.”

“And I,” she said, “will not be treated at all, and I am surprised that you finally came to visit me professionally instead of as my dear friend.” She turned a languishing glance upon me, and for the first time I met Betsy face to face, with her eyes open, the pair of us meeting as equals without the protective barriers of my office and hypnosis and sightlessness, and I perceived, looking at Betsy, that she was as fully and acutely aware of this as I was.

“Well?” she said, amused.

I took a deep breath, endeavoring to resume my control of myself, and said as quietly as I could manage, “I see that you have your eyes open.”

She nodded, and hugged herself, and laughed, and grinned, and widened her eyes to show me, and turned herself around gaily. “I told you, I told you, I told you,” she chanted, and then, coming close to me and looking slyly into my face, “and what are you going to do about it, old eye-closer?”

I surmised that for all her posturing and bravado she was still honestly in awe of me and upon that surmise—indeed, the only hope left us—I decided to base my own actions. Smiling back at her placidly, I seated myself upon the edge of the bed and took out my pipe. “I understood that you were ill,” I said conversationally.

“
She
was; I am never ill.”

“Then,” I said ironically, “a good doctor like myself ought rightly to allow you to remain until the course of Miss R.'s infection has run itself out.”

She laughed. “I believe I
have
done her good,” she said complacently. “If she hadn't been weak and sick, I couldn't have gotten out, and if I hadn't gotten out, she would still be weak and sick.” She spread her hands as one who demonstrates an utterly reasonable point. “So you see I
am
good,” she said. She seated herself on the chair next the bed and looked at me soberly. “Doctor Wright,” she said—and I have never seen Betsy so demure—“don't you think that now I
am
out, I should be allowed to stay?”

She must have mistaken my silence for a hesitation as to whether or not I should agree with her, for she went on persuasively, “You can see that I am healthier and happier than she is, and I have been very patient for a long time, and it's only
fair
to give me a chance. Besides,” she went on as I started to speak, “all that I used to say about wanting to do you harm and wanting to hurt her was only because I was so tired of being a prisoner and I just wanted to get out and be happy and not be a prisoner any more, and—”

“Betsy,” I said gently, “how can I let you stay? Think of Elizabeth, think of Beth.”

“Why should
I
think of them just because
you
care more for them than you do for me, and you expect me to give up just because
you
decide you'd rather have
them?
”

I repressed a smile at her impulsive self-interest, and told myself again that she was in actuality little more than a child, and so I said tolerantly, “Well, Betsy, suppose I make a bargain with you? Suppose I agree to let you stay tonight?”

“Let me have a week, then,” she said. “A week, and no one to bother me.”

“But Miss R. is ill.”

“She will be well,” said Betsy grimly, and then looked at me, all innocence. “At least,” Betsy said, “she will not be delirious any more.”

“Of course,” I said, realizing. “It was you.”

“I had a lovely time,” Betsy said. “And poor Aunt Morgen outside the door, wringing her hands and trembling.”

I could not point out to Betsy the callousness of this, any more than I could explain to her childish mind the impossibility of letting her take over, as it were, the whole personality of Miss R.; all I could do, as one does with a difficult child, was to pretend to fall in with her plans, reserving privately the right to determine with my own—and, I must say, my superior—judgment, what was best for all of us. Consequently, I continued blandly, “So, my dear Betsy, are we agreed, then? If I consent to your staying out for a day or so, will you then co-operate with me in helping to heal Miss R.?”

“I will,” she said earnestly, and I do believe she thought she meant it. “I will do all I can, if I can only be free, sometimes, and be happy for a little while.”

“That does not sound unreasonable,” I conceded. “Now will you go back into bed and go quietly to sleep?”

“I never sleep,” she told me. “I lie there inside all the time.”

Again I must repress my amusement; how many children have we heard, who declare absolutely that they do not sleep, that they never sleep, that they would not know how to sleep if they tried? However, I only said, “Will you let Elizabeth come back, very briefly, then, so that I may put her under hypnosis for a minute and tell her to feel better?”

She considered, chin on hands. “Even if you do not sleep,” I added solemnly, “Elizabeth must rest, and I propose a brief suggestion or two from myself to effect that. There is nothing in any case for you to do tonight unless you decide to keep your unfortunate aunt wringing her hands outside your door again, and so, if you want any freedom at all, you would be most wise to help Miss R. regain
her
health.”

“She's no use to
me
sick,” said Betsy agreeably. “Even if
I
feel well Aunt Morgen wouldn't let
her
go anywhere.”

“That's true,” I said, thanking heaven for the dragon downstairs. “But you must also promise,” I added, “that while you are free you do not in any way attempt to harm Miss R. By stuffing her with sweets, for instance, or damaging her in the eyes of her friends.”

“Or making her walk in front of a train,” said Betsy, grinning. “You must think I'm crazy,” she said, and giggled.

I stood up from the bed, and attempted to smooth the tumbled sheets. “Now hop into bed like a good girl,” I said, with a heavy and most reluctant attempt at heartiness. I patted her shoulder as she climbed into the bed, thinking how extraordinarily different Betsy was from Elizabeth or Beth; I felt like an uncle putting a bad child to bed, and even Miss R.'s grown-up person did not detract from the strong avuncular feeling. I pulled the blankets up under her chin, and then sat on the bed beside her. “Now show me how you let Miss R. come back,” I said, and then, as I spoke, I saw her eyes turn on me dully, and knew that without my perceiving it Betsy had withdrawn herself swiftly and completely and Miss R. lay there before me, wide-eyed and startled, as any young girl might be, who wakes up from what must have seemed a heavy sleep to find a man, albeit her doctor, sitting familiarly upon the edge of her bed and apparently continuing a conversation with her.

“Doctor Wright!” she said, recognizing me, and she attempted to sit up, but I put her gently back.

“It's all right,” I told her soothingly. “You have been ill, and your aunt has sent for me.” She lay back, still uneasy, and I spoke to her gently, telling her that she had called out for me in her sleep, and that her aunt had felt that I might be able to help her, so there I was, and I was planning to “put her to sleep” for only a minute or so. I could see that she had been very ill; her face was substantially thinner in even the few days since I had seen her, and she was pale and so weak that she could not protest hypnosis; I subdued her easily into a light trance, and then, speaking hastily, and dropping my voice for fear Miss Jones might be listening outside, I said, “Beth—Beth, is it you?”

She stirred, and smiled, and said, “My dear friend, I have been longing to hear your voice.” My poor Beth, too, was wasted and pale, and it saddened me to see her sweet face worn by illness and hear her soft voice so tired; “Dear Beth,” I said, taking her hand, “I am sorry you have been so unwell, but we will soon have you better.”

“I am better now,” she said, “with
you
here.”

“But, Beth, you must do something for me, something extremely important; do you think you can? It will help me, and help you to be well much sooner.”

“I can do whatever you tell me to.”

I hesitated only a minute, debating how most forcefully to drive home my point; then I said urgently, “This is what you must do; you must insist, constantly and as strongly as you know how, that you are recovered from your illness; you must watch constantly for signs of weakness and absent-mindedness; keep insisting upon your own strength and control. Try to keep your aunt near by as much as possible. And, most important, resist absolutely any actions not usual to you. Be vigilant. If you feel yourself compelled to misbehave before your friends, or to consume quantities of sweet things, or to throw yourself before a train, or to do any of a hundred things which would ordinarily not occur to you, fight against the impulse. Now, can you promise me all this?”

“I promise,” she said, whispering.

“I will help you all I can, and stay as close to you as possible. It is more important than I can tell you now, but someday I will explain it all to you.”

“If you want me to, I will do it,” she said.

“Dear Beth,” and I pressed her hand.

She opened her eyes, grinning. “I bet you never dreamed I could do Beth so well,” Betsy said.

 • • •

I know not how I stumbled down the stairs, past Miss Jones halfway; “Is she all right, Doctor?” I believe Miss Jones asked me, and I, shaking my head blindly, made my way somehow to the door, and abandoned that house.

A general who retreats while his army is strong, and able to fight, is a coward, but who can condemn a warrior who, shorn of weapons, seeing his allies desert him, confronted by a field upon which his adversary reigns triumphant, withdraws from battle? I sat up late that night composing a letter to Miss Jones, resigning her niece's care; I told her I was old and ill, I explained to her that my strength was inadequate, I described to her my many pressures of business and affairs, I recommended returning to Ryan, and suggested (with what pangs for my lovely Beth) that she seriously consider some good private institution, and I closed, her humble servant, having covered four sides and said everything, except the truth, which I knew to be that I was badly frightened and unwilling to jeopardize my own health in the service of a girl who had misled me; I had placed my faith on Beth and been deceived, and although I could hardly condemn her for being no more than a weak pawn, my trust in her was gone. I wrote late, as I say, and very well (indeed, I have saved the letter, and it is before me now), but I might have slept that night, and saved my inadequate words.