XXIX
FOUR more days had passed. Bessy seldom spoke when Justine was with her.She was wrapped in a thickening cloud of opiates--morphia by day,bromides, sulphonal, chloral hydrate at night. When the cloud broke andconsciousness emerged, it was centred in the one acute point of bodilyanguish. Darting throes of neuralgia, agonized oppression of the breath,the diffused misery of the whole helpless body--these were reducingtheir victim to a mere instrument on which pain played its incessantdeadly variations. Once or twice she turned her dull eyes on Justine,breathing out: "I want to die," as some inevitable lifting orreadjusting thrilled her body with fresh pangs; but there were no signsof contact with the outer world--she had ceased even to ask forCicely....
And yet, according to the doctors, the patient held her own. Certainalarming symptoms had diminished, and while others persisted, thestrength to fight them persisted too. With such strength to call on,what fresh agonies were reserved for the poor body when the narcoticshad lost their power?
That was the question always before Justine. She never again betrayedher fears to Wyant--she carried out his orders with morbid precision,trembling lest any failure in efficiency should revive his suspicions.She hardly knew what she feared his suspecting--she only had a confusedsense that they were enemies, and that she was the weaker of the two.
And then the anaesthetics began to fail. It was the sixteenth day sincethe accident, and the resources of alleviation were almost exhausted. Itwas not sure, even now, that Bessy was going to die--and she wascertainly going to suffer a long time. Wyant seemed hardly conscious ofthe increase of pain--his whole mind was fixed on the prognosis. Whatmatter if the patient suffered, as long as he proved his case? That, ofcourse, was not his way of putting it. In reality, he did all he couldto allay the pain, surpassed himself in new devices and experiments. Butdeath confronted him implacably, claiming his due: so many hours robbedfrom him, so much tribute to pay; and Wyant, setting his teeth, foughton--and Bessy paid.
* * * * *
Justine had begun to notice that it was hard for her to get a word alonewith Dr. Garford. The other nurses were not in the way--it was Wyant whoalways contrived to be there. Perhaps she was unreasonable in seeing aspecial intention in his presence: it was natural enough that the twopersons in charge of the case should confer together with their chief.But his persistence annoyed her, and she was glad when, one afternoon,the surgeon asked him to telephone an important message to town.
As soon as the door had closed, Justine said to Dr. Garford: "She isbeginning to suffer terribly."
He answered with the large impersonal gesture of the man to whomphysical suffering has become a painful general fact of life, no longerdivisible into individual cases. "We are doing all we can."
"Yes." She paused, and then raised her eyes to his dry kind face. "Isthere any hope?"
Another gesture--the fatalistic sweep of the lifted palms. "The next tendays will tell--the fight is on, as Wyant says. And if any one can doit, that young fellow can. There's stuff in him--and infernalambition."
"Yes: but do _you_ believe she can live--?"
Dr. Garford smiled indulgently on such unprofessional insistence; butshe was past wondering what they must all think of her.
"My dear Miss Brent," he said, "I have reached the age when one alwaysleaves a door open to the unexpected."
As he spoke, a slight sound at her back made her turn. Wyant was behindher--he must have entered as she put her question. And he certainlycould not have had time to descend the stairs, walk the length of thehouse, ring up New York, and deliver Dr Garford's message.... The samethought seemed to strike the surgeon. "Hello, Wyant?" he said.
"Line busy," said Wyant curtly.
* * * * *
About this time, Justine gave up her night vigils. She could no longerface the struggle of the dawn hour, when life ebbs lowest; and since herduties extended beyond the sick-room she could fairly plead that she wasmore needed about the house by day. But Wyant protested: he wanted hermost at the difficult hour.
"You know you're taking a chance from her," he said, almost sternly.
"Oh, no----"
He looked at her searchingly. "You don't feel up to it?"
"No."
He turned away with a slight shrug; but she knew he resented herdefection.
The day watches were miserable enough. It was the nineteenth day now;and Justine lay on the sofa in Amherst's sitting-room, trying to nerveherself for the nurse's summons. A page torn out of the calendar laybefore her--she had been calculating again how many days must elapsebefore Mr. Langhope could arrive. Ten days--ten days and ten nights! Andthe length of the nights was double.... As for Amherst, it wasimpossible to set a date for his coming, for his steamer from BuenosAyres called at various ports on the way northward, and the length ofher stay at each was dependent on the delivery of freight, and on thedilatoriness of the South American official.
She threw down the calendar and leaned back, pressing her hands to hertemples. Oh, for a word with Amherst--he alone would have understoodwhat she was undergoing! Mr. Langhope's coming would make nodifference--or rather, it would only increase the difficulty of thesituation. Instinctively Justine felt that, though his heart would bewrung by the sight of Bessy's pain, his cry would be the familiar one,the traditional one: _Keep her alive!_ Under his surface originality,his verbal audacities and ironies, Mr. Langhope was the creature ofaccepted forms, inherited opinions: he had never really thought forhimself on any of the pressing problems of life.
But Amherst was different. Close contact with many forms of wretchednesshad freed him from the bondage of accepted opinion. He looked at lifethrough no eyes but his own; and what he saw, he confessed to seeing. Henever tried to evade the consequences of his discoveries.
Justine's remembrance flew back to their first meeting at Hanaford, whenhis confidence in his own powers was still unshaken, his trust in othersunimpaired. And, gradually, she began to relive each detail of theirtalk at Dillon's bedside--her first impression of him, as he walked downthe ward; the first sound of his voice; her surprised sense of hisauthority; her almost involuntary submission to his will.... Then herthoughts passed on to their walk home from the hospital--she recalledhis sober yet unsparing summary of the situation at Westmore, and thenote of insight with which he touched on the hardships of theworkers.... Then, word by word, their talk about Dillon cameback...Amherst's indignation and pity...his shudder of revolt at theman's doom.
"_In your work, don't you ever feel tempted to set a poor devil free?_"And then, after her conventional murmur of protest: "_To save what,when all the good of life is gone?_"
To distract her thoughts she stretched her hand toward the book-case,taking out the first volume in reach--the little copy of Bacon. Sheleaned back, fluttering its pages aimlessly--so wrapped in her ownmisery that the meaning of the words could not reach her. It was uselessto try to read: every perception of the outer world was lost in the humof inner activity that made her mind like a forge throbbing with heatand noise. But suddenly her glance fell on some pencilled sentences onthe fly-leaf. They were in Amherst's hand, and the sight arrested her asthough she had heard him speak.
_La vraie morale se moque de la morale...._
_We perish because we follow other men's examples...._
_Socrates used to call the opinions of the many by the name ofLamiae--bugbears to frighten children...._
A rush of air seemed to have been let into her stifled mind. Were theyhis own thoughts? No--her memory recalled some confused association withgreat names. But at least they must represent his beliefs--must embodydeeply-felt convictions--or he would scarcely have taken the trouble torecord them.
She murmured over the last sentence once or twice: _The opinions of themany--bugbears to frighten children...._ Yes, she had often heard himspeak of current judgments in that way...she had never known a mind sofree from the spell of the Lamiae.
*
* * * *
Some one knocked, and she put aside the book and rose to her feet. Itwas a maid bringing a note from Wyant.
"There has been a motor accident beyond Clifton, and I have been sentfor. I think I can safely be away for two or three hours, but ring me upat Clifton if you want me. Miss Mace has instructions, and Garford'sassistant will be down at seven."
She looked at the clock: it was just three, the hour at which she was torelieve Miss Mace. She smoothed the hair from her forehead, straightenedher cap, tied on the apron she had laid aside....
As she entered Bessy's sitting-room the nurse came out, memoranda inhand. The two moved to the window for a moment's conference, and as thewintry light fell on Miss Mace's face, Justine saw that it was whitewith fatigue.
"You're ill!" she exclaimed.
The nurse shook her head. "No--but it's awful...this afternoon...." Herglance turned to the sick-room.
"Go and rest--I'll stay till bedtime," Justine said.
"Miss Safford's down with another headache."
"I know: it doesn't matter. I'm quite fresh."
"You _do_ look rested!" the other exclaimed, her eyes lingeringenviously on Justine's face.
She stole away, and Justine entered the room. It was true that she feltfresh--a new spring of hope had welled up in her. She had her nerves inhand again, she had regained her steady vision of life....
But in the room, as the nurse had said, it was awful. The time had comewhen the effect of the anaesthetics must be carefully husbanded, whenlong intervals of pain must purchase the diminishing moments of relief.Yet from Wyant's standpoint it was a good day--things were looking well,as he would have phrased it. And each day now was a fresh victory.
Justine went through her task mechanically. The glow of strength andcourage remained, steeling her to bear what had broken down Miss Mace'sprofessional fortitude. But when she sat down by the bed Bessy's moaningbegan to wear on her. It was no longer the utterance of human pain, butthe monotonous whimper of an animal--the kind of sound that acompassionate hand would instinctively crush into silence. But her handhad other duties; she must keep watch on pulse and heart, must reinforcetheir action with the tremendous stimulants which Wyant was now using,and, having revived fresh sensibility to pain, must presently try toallay it by the cautious use of narcotics.
It was all simple enough--but suppose she should not do it? Suppose sheleft the stimulants untouched? Wyant was absent, one nurse exhaustedwith fatigue, the other laid low by headache. Justine had the field toherself. For three hours at least no one was likely to cross thethreshold of the sick-room.... Ah, if no more time were needed! Butthere was too much life in Bessy--her youth was fighting too hard forher! She would not sink out of life in three hours...and Justine couldnot count on more than that.
She looked at the little travelling-clock on the dressing-table, and sawthat its hands marked four. An hour had passed already.... She rose andadministered the prescribed restorative; then she took the pulse, andlistened to the beat of the heart. Strong still--too strong!
As she lifted her head, the vague animal wailing ceased, and she heardher name: "Justine----"
She bent down eagerly. "Yes?"
No answer: the wailing had begun again. But the one word showed her thatthe mind still lived in its torture-house, that the poor powerless bodybefore her was not yet a mere bundle of senseless reflexes, but herfriend Bessy Amherst, dying, and feeling herself die....
Justine reseated herself, and the vigil began again. The second hourebbed slowly--ah, no, it was flying now! Her eyes were on the hands ofthe clock and they seemed leagued against her to devour the preciousminutes. And now she could see by certain spasmodic symptoms thatanother crisis of pain was approaching--one of the struggles that Wyant,at times, had almost seemed to court and exult in.
Bessy's eyes turned on her again. "_Justine_----"
She knew what that meant: it was an appeal for the hypodermic needle.The little instrument lay at hand, beside a newly-filled bottle ofmorphia. But she must wait--must let the pain grow more severe. Yet shecould not turn her gaze from Bessy, and Bessy's eyes entreated heragain--_Justine_! There was really no word now--the whimperings wereuninterrupted. But Justine heard an inner voice, and its pleading shookher heart. She rose and filled the syringe--and returning with it, bentabove the bed....
* * * * *
She lifted her head and looked at the clock. The second hour had passed.As she looked, she heard a step in the sitting-room. Who could it be?Not Dr. Garford's assistant--he was not due till seven. She listenedagain.... One of the nurses? No, not a woman's step----
The door opened, and Wyant came in. Justine stood by the bed withoutmoving toward him. He paused also, as if surprised to see her theremotionless. In the intense silence she fancied for a moment that sheheard Bessy's violent agonized breathing. She tried to speak, to drownthe sound of the breathing; but her lips trembled too much, and sheremained silent.
Wyant seemed to hear nothing. He stood so still that she felt she mustmove forward. As she did so, she picked up from the table by the bed thememoranda that it was her duty to submit to him.
"Well?" he said, in the familiar sick-room whisper.
"She is dead."
He fell back a step, glaring at her, white and incredulous.
"_Dead?_--When----?"
"A few minutes ago...."
"_Dead--?_ It's not possible!"
He swept past her, shouldering her aside, pushing in an electric buttonas he sprang to the bed. She perceived then that the room had beenalmost in darkness. She recovered command of herself, and followed him.He was going through the usual rapid examination--pulse, heart,breath--hanging over the bed like some angry animal balked of its prey.Then he lifted the lids and bent close above the eyes.
"Take the shade off that lamp!" he commanded.
Justine obeyed him.
He stooped down again to examine the eyes...he remained stooping a longtime. Suddenly he stood up and faced her.
"Had she been in great pain?"
"Yes."
"Worse than usual?"
"Yes."
"What had you done?"
"Nothing--there was no time."
"No time?" He broke off to sweep the room again with his excitedincredulous glance. "Where are the others? Why were you here alone?" hedemanded.
"It came suddenly. I was going to call----"
Their eyes met for a moment. Her face was perfectly calm--she could feelthat her lips no longer trembled. She was not in the least afraid ofWyant's scrutiny.
As he continued to look at her, his expression slowly passed fromincredulous wrath to something softer--more human--she could not tellwhat....
"This has been too much for you--go and send one of the others.... It'sall over," he said.
BOOK IV
The Fruit of the Tree Page 29