The Bird’s Nest (23 page)

All of these doubts passed swiftly through my mind as I wrote a quick note to Miss Jones, asking only that she call on me to discuss the health of her niece, while Betsy sang to herself in her chair; I then thought to fortify the safe delivery of my message by remarking, as I handed the folded note across the desk, “I expect that you will keep this from Bess.”

“I will,” she said, and added slowly, “if I can.” And then, in a rush of words that seemed born of a terror not until now acknowledged, “I think she is getting stronger all the time.”

I glanced up at her frightened face, and said easily, “I believe we shall have her down yet. Don't be afraid of her.”

“Mother's Betsy mustn't cry,” she said, and turned and left me quickly.

Well, then, I sent my note, and had my answer, and my exasperation for my pains; a letter reached me two days later, and a staggering surprise it was—although my reader must do me credit, and suppose that I was not, after the first moment, altogether taken in—to read: “My dear Doctor Wright: I don't think you seriously meant what you said in your letter, and if you did, you should be horsewhipped. I am a poor lone woman but you are a bad old man. Sincerely yours, Morgen Jones.” This odd document, laboriously composed, had an air unmistakable, and even though it caused me some honest amusement, I was acutely aware of my own folly in supposing that Betsy's seeming friendliness was to be trusted for a moment; I had been taken in by her cheerfulness and seeming cooperative spirit. When I thought, finally, of what nonsense might even now lie in Miss Jones' hands, purporting to be from me, I was inclined to berate myself for a madman. I do believe, however, that this superlative insolence of Betsy's put the final stamp upon my conviction that matters must be brought to a head as soon as possible; I perceived that my present policy of tactful patience had been shortsighted, in allowing Betsy to wander almost freely, and Bess to establish herself almost firmly; knowledge is power, I told myself, and determined to seek my knowledge from Miss Jones, and, armed with my knowledge, lead an unscrupulous flank attack upon her niece.

I was, moreover, deeply concerned at the blatant tricks Betsy seemed willing to employ in order to avoid a meeting between her aunt and myself; I wondered that Betsy so much feared her aunt. That these obstructions came from Betsy I had no reason to doubt, and any question in my mind concerning the author of the letter I received was banished when I discovered, on the afternoon of the same day, that although Elizabeth came in resigned misery to my office, and turned shortly to Beth, from whom I had ten minutes of reproaches and tears, I was not able, that afternoon, to bring Betsy by any ingenuity. I asked her politely to come, I called her, I scolded and entreated, and the best I could do was Bess, who fell immediately to lamenting her aunt's criminal activities with regard to the bank account.

I had never found Bess so trying as on that afternoon; I attempted again and again to drive her away, and she only stayed on like an unwelcome guest, greeting my questions with blank stares or foolish answers, and relating every subject brought forward to her tiresome money. Again and again I tried to bring her to an understanding of the true state of her affairs, again and again I tried to explain to her that she was no more than one-quarter of an individual, that there were three others who shared her life and her person, and must be granted a share in the consciousness of Miss R., but each time I reached a point of final definition, where it seemed that surely this time she must comprehend, she turned aside from me and went back to her unending talk of money; it veritably seemed that she would willingly sacrifice three-quarters of her conscious life, if she might only be allowed to hold onto four-quarters of her money. I had put a pencil close by her hand, but sulky Betsy refused to write, and at last I said in disgust, “Miss R., this cannot continue. I am unable to go on today; we shall take up this conversation at another time, after I have spoken to your aunt.”

“What are you going to speak to my aunt about?” Bess demanded with suspicion.

“I must give her a report on your present condition,” I said thoughtlessly.

“What will you tell her?” Bess spoke imperatively, and I thought with anxiety; she leaned forward and asked again, “What will you tell her?”

“Merely my own opinions with regard to your mental health,” I said; now, indeed, her hand was writing, and I thought more of that than of Bess; this time she caught my glance and looked also down at her hand; “I have done this before,” she whispered, gazing in horror at her writing hand, “my hand is moving by itself.” She seemed horrified and filled with loathing for her own hand, and yet fascinated, for she made no attempt to lift her hand from the page, but leaned forward to see what was written. A ghostly kind of conversation then commenced, with Bess, speaking in a kind of muted sick voice, communicating with her own right hand. The hand had written: fool fool fool do not let him go he does not love you

Bess: (speaking) Who? Who does not love me?

Hand: (it was clearly Betsy, and so I shall call it) robin does not love you or coffee or tea or girls love me

Bess: What do you want? Why are you writing? (to me) I can't even feel it; it goes right on moving and I can't make it stop.

Doctor Wright: (to Betsy) Indeed, there has been wickedness done.

Betsy: fiddle-dee-dee.

Bess: This is how my hand cut me with the knife, then.

Betsy: cut your head off next time ha ha dear bumblebess

Doctor Wright: Betsy, I think I shall forgive you for your impertinence to me, but will you fare so easily with your aunt?

Betsy: aunties mad and im glad

Bess:
Her
aunt? Does she mean Aunt Morgen?

Betsy: Go marry the mouse you filthy bess

Doctor Wright: (at something of a loss) Here is an honor I had not expected. Bess, this is Betsy; I thought you two had already met.

Bess: This is some kind of a joke, I suppose. Or else you are trying to frighten me, Doctor, and I promise you that I am not going to think better of you for these cruel tricks. You seem to think that all you have to do is say “Betsy” and I'll come running to you for help; I wish I could make you understand that this is not at all the way to deal with me. I am willing to be reasonable and helpful, but I won't have you thinking I'm a fool.

Betsy: foul dirty thing

Bess: I hope, Doctor, that you won't think
I
am as vulgar as this writing; I assure you that—

Doctor Wright: I have known Betsy for a long time.

Betsy: old man knows well i am not tame bess will know someday bess darling go away leave go away live somewhere else never come back find someone richer

Bess: I thought that sooner or later we would come around to talking of money. Just because I will be very rich, everyone thinks they can play tricks on me to get money.

Betsy: poor bess no more money do not let him go

Bess: Who?

Betsy: old doctor money-taker tell aunt m

Doctor Wright: Betsy, I will not endure any more mischief from you, remember.

Betsy: better hide nestegg went together to find

Bess: (lifting her hand violently from the page, and speaking to me) This is more than I can stand, my own fingers holding a pencil and speaking to me so rudely and then you play tricks and try to take away my money and Aunt Morgen is angry, and all I want is to be left alone and not bothered and I would be so happy!

Doctor Wright: I am not able, seemingly, to persuade you of my good intentions; there is nothing more I can do.

Bess: (writing again) My hand won't stay still—Doctor, can you make it stop?

Betsy: all went together to find a nestegg elizabeth beth betsy and bess

Doctor Wright: Betsy, if you will not come yourself, will you send Elizabeth?

Betsy: fiddle-dee-dee

“I think I have overstayed my time, Doctor Wright,” Elizabeth said, rising and pulling on her glove. “My aunt will wonder why I am late.”

“Will she worry?” I asked, rising.

“No, no,” said Elizabeth, “she knows where I am, of course. But she doesn't like waiting dinner.”

“Goodbye, then, until day after tomorrow,” I said.

She stopped in the doorway and looked at me over her shoulder. “Fiddle-dee-dee,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

 • • •

I have in my notes the record of the preceding conversation between Betsy and Bess; I naturally preserved Betsy's scrawl, and noted down Bess' remarks in my book. This odd performance was repeated only once, to my knowledge, and at Bess' insistence, on the occasion of Miss R.'s next visit to my office. Betsy had again refused to put in an appearance, and had showed no sign of her presence; I had spoken briefly to Elizabeth and even more briefly to Beth, who was still downcast, and who had broken off in the middle of a sentence to turn abruptly into Bess, who was seemingly so anxious to talk to me that she could not observe even fundamental good manners, but must interrupt her sister to catch my attention. She had been thinking, she informed me earnestly, and had concluded that it was unjust to suspect me of trickery. (She had been very nervous since her mother died three weeks before.) She had, however, been vastly entertained by my cleverness in causing her hand to write of itself, and hoped that I would show it to her again. Could I, did I think? Would I be so kind?

Betsy's writing seemed to have a kind of horrid fascination for her, the kind of delight so many of us experience when told of our babblings when asleep, or the half-wary excitement of having one's fortune told; I suppose there is a kind of stimulation in a stranger's catching one off guard, as it were; I have felt it myself. At any rate, Miss Bess was charmed with the conversation of her own right hand, and eager to test it again. From the nervousness which possessed her I think that she half-hoped, too, to catch Betsy and Doctor Wright in some kind of a conspiracy against her, so that she might triumphantly reveal a plot against herself and her fortune and emerge victorious from our insidious conniving; in this last, I fear, she was sadly disappointed.

We sat ourselves down, then, Bess with the pencil in her right hand (grasped now, I noted, in the clumsy fashion of one who habitually uses her left, and not at all in the easy manner in which Betsy wrote) and a larger pad of paper provided for the purpose; I with my notebook on the shelf below my desk, quite out of Bess' view, since I did not put it past her to suspect me of a kind of written ventriloquism. Then, after waiting for some few minutes, and Bess watching her hand avidly, and I wondering to myself at her eagerness, and Betsy perhaps off chasing butterflies, for all the writing that was being done, finally Bess leaned a little forward and spoke tensely to her hand.

“Now,” she said, “you wouldn't do it at home because you were afraid. And
I
wasn't afraid, so I came here and I'm sitting here waiting, and if you're anything at all, show yourself, or I'll laugh myself sick thinking how silly you are.”

It seemed to me that this was no way to summon Betsy, who was not, in my experience, intimidated by strong words, so I said quietly, “Perhaps if you spoke more civilly, and called her by name, she might come.”

“She isn't worth it,” Bess said with contempt. “All I want is to prove she doesn't exist, and I don't need to worry anymore. It's nothing—” she turned the hand holding the pencil over in a gesture of mockery, “nothing but my imagination. And now are
you
convinced, Doctor?”

“Betsy,” I said, half-humorously, “now
you
must defend
me.
”

Immediately her hand turned, and wrote on the page, and I felt an unworthy satisfaction in the thought that Betsy had resisted all challenges until I asked her support. All the hand wrote at first, however, was “Doctor, doctor”

Bess: (ironically) She seems to prefer
you,
Doctor Wright; perhaps
you
would rather hold the pencil?

Betsy: doctor open my eyes

Bess: Betsy darling—if you will not be offended at my speaking familiarly to you?

Betsy: hateful

Bess: Now, that is rude, and I am being so polite. I don't even believe that you exist, and yet I am far too polite to say so; I am even calling you Betsy to please you and your dear doctor.

Betsy: bumblebess

Bess: I don't think that's very polite, either, and I think you and Doctor Wright should know that it's much better to be polite to
me.

Betsy: polite to a pig

Bess: That's much better; at least you show that you can understand what I'm saying. Now listen to this: I am so displeased at your manners that I am quite seriously planning to get rid of you for good, You
and
(to me) your doctor.

Doctor Wright: (without anger) You have tried before, I think.

Bess: But this time little Betsy knows I will manage. Poor Betsy is going to be badly hurt if she troubles me again.

Betsy: cut your head off

Bess: But you can't, can you? You tried again with the knife and I was too quick for you, wasn't I? I was watching for you, wasn't I?

Betsy: sleep

Bess: No, indeed; you aren't strong enough now. I think you are hardly able to keep writing from weakness.

Betsy: fiddle-dee-dee

Bess: I think I hurt you, when I caught you in the hotel, and I think you've been afraid of me ever since because I was stronger and I brought you back from your little escapade; Betsy darling, shall I tell Doctor Wright where you were going and what you were looking for?

Betsy: (suddenly stilled; then) no one knows

Bess:
I
know, darling; you've forgotten that pleasant doctor who treated you to lunch—shall I tell you what he told me?

Betsy: no

Bess: (mocking) You must have told him all sorts of things, Betsy darling.

Betsy: if you tell i will tell too