The Fruit of the Tree: Chapter 1

Chapter 1

IN the surgical ward of the Hope Hospital at Hanaford, a nurse was
bending over a young man whose bandaged right hand and arm lay stretched
along the bed.

His head stirred uneasily, and slipping her arm behind him she effected
a professional readjustment of the pillows. "Is that better?"

As she leaned over, he lifted his anxious bewildered eyes, deep-sunk
under ridges of suffering. "I don't s'pose there's any kind of a show
for me, is there?" he asked, pointing with his free hand--the stained
seamed hand of the mechanic--to the inert bundle on the quilt.

Her only immediate answer was to wipe the dampness from his forehead;
then she said: "We'll talk about that to-morrow."

"Why not now?"

"Because Dr. Disbrow can't tell till the inflammation goes down."

"Will it go down by to-morrow?"

"It will begin to, if you don't excite yourself and keep up the fever."

"Excite myself? I--there's four of 'em at home----"

"Well, then there are four reasons for keeping quiet," she rejoined.

She did not use, in speaking, the soothing inflection of her trade: she
seemed to disdain to cajole or trick the sufferer. Her full young voice
kept its cool note of authority, her sympathy revealing itself only in
the expert touch of her hands and the constant vigilance of her dark
steady eyes. This vigilance softened to pity as the patient turned his
head away with a groan. His free left hand continued to travel the
sheet, clasping and unclasping itself in contortions of feverish unrest.
It was as though all the anguish of his mutilation found expression in
that lonely hand, left without work in the world now that its mate was
useless.

The nurse felt a touch on her shoulder, and rose to face the matron, a
sharp-featured woman with a soft intonation.

"This is Mr. Amherst, Miss Brent. The assistant manager from the mills.
He wishes to see Dillon."

John Amherst's step was singularly noiseless. The nurse, sensitive by
nature and training to all physical characteristics, was struck at once
by the contrast between his alert face and figure and the silent way in
which he moved. She noticed, too, that the same contrast was repeated in
the face itself, its spare energetic outline, with the high nose and
compressed lips of the mover of men, being curiously modified by the
veiled inward gaze of the grey eyes he turned on her. It was one of the
interests of Justine Brent's crowded yet lonely life to attempt a rapid
mental classification of the persons she met; but the contradictions in
Amherst's face baffled her, and she murmured inwardly "I don't know" as
she drew aside to let him approach the bed. He stood by her in silence,
his hands clasped behind him, his eyes on the injured man, who lay
motionless, as if sunk in a lethargy. The matron, at the call of another
nurse, had minced away down the ward, committing Amherst with a glance
to Miss Brent; and the two remained alone by the bed.

After a pause, Amherst moved toward the window beyond the empty cot
adjoining Dillon's. One of the white screens used to isolate dying
patients had been placed against this cot, which was the last at that
end of the ward, and the space beyond formed a secluded corner, where a
few words could be exchanged out of reach of the eyes in the other beds.

"Is he asleep?" Amherst asked, as Miss Brent joined him.

Miss Brent glanced at him again. His voice betokened not merely
education, but something different and deeper--the familiar habit of
gentle speech; and his shabby clothes--carefully brushed, but ill-cut
and worn along the seams--sat on him easily, and with the same
difference.

"The morphine has made him drowsy," she answered. "The wounds were
dressed about an hour ago, and the doctor gave him a hypodermic."

"The wounds--how many are there?"

"Besides the hand, his arm is badly torn up to the elbow."

Amherst listened with bent head and frowning brow.

"What do you think of the case?"

She hesitated. "Dr. Disbrow hasn't said----"

"And it's not your business to?" He smiled slightly. "I know hospital
etiquette. But I have a particular reason for asking." He broke off and
looked at her again, his veiled gaze sharpening to a glance of
concentrated attention. "You're not one of the regular nurses, are you?
Your dress seems to be of a different colour."

She smiled at the "seems to be," which denoted a tardy and imperfect
apprehension of the difference between dark-blue linen and white.

"No: I happened to be staying at Hanaford, and hearing that they were in
want of a surgical nurse, I offered my help."

Amherst nodded. "So much the better. Is there any place where I can say
two words to you?"

"I could hardly leave the ward now, unless Mrs. Ogan comes back."

"I don't care to have you call Mrs. Ogan," he interposed quickly. "When
do you go off duty?"

She looked at him in surprise. "If what you want to ask about
is--anything connected with the management of things here--you know
we're not supposed to talk of our patients outside of the hospital."

"I know. But I am going to ask you to break through the rule--in that
poor fellow's behalf."

A protest wavered on her lip, but he held her eyes steadily, with a
glint of good-humour behind his determination. "When do you go off
duty?"

"At six."

"I'll wait at the corner of South Street and walk a little way with you.
Let me put my case, and if you're not convinced you can refuse to
answer."

"Very well," she said, without farther hesitation; and Amherst, with a
slight nod of farewell, passed through the door near which they had been
standing.

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