THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
He stood by her in silence, his eyes on the injured man.
THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
BY
EDITH WHARTON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALONZO KIMBALL
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
MDCCCCVII
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
ILLUSTRATIONS
| He stood by her in silence, his eyes on the injured man | Frontispiece |
| "No—I shall have to ask you to take my word for it" | Facing p. 82 |
| Half-way up the slope they met | 130 |
THE
FRUIT OF THE TREE
I
In the surgical ward of the Hope Hospital at Hanaford,a nurse was bending over a young manwhose bandaged right hand and arm lay stretchedalong the bed.
His head stirred uneasily, and slipping her arm behindhim she effected a professional readjustment ofthe pillows. "Is that better?"
As she leaned over, he lifted his anxious bewilderedeyes, deep-sunk under ridges of suffering. "I don'ts'pose there's any kind of a show for me, is there?" heasked, pointing with his free hand—the stained seamedhand of the mechanic—to the inert bundle on the quilt.
Her only immediate answer was to wipe the dampnessfrom his forehead; then she said: "We'll talkabout that to-morrow."
"Why not now?"
"Because Dr. Disbrow can't tell till the inflammationgoes down."
"Will it go down by to-morrow?"
"It will begin to, if you don't excite yourself andkeep up the fever."[p 4]
"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 inflectionof her trade: she seemed to disdain to cajole or trickthe sufferer. Her full young voice kept its cool note ofauthority, her sympathy revealing itself only in theexpert touch of her hands and the constant vigilanceof her dark steady eyes. This vigilance softened topity as the patient turned his head away with a groan.His free left hand continued to travel the sheet, claspingand unclasping itself in contortions of feverishunrest. It was as though all the anguish of his mutilationfound expression in that lonely hand, leftwithout work in the world now that its mate wasuseless.
The nurse felt a touch on her shoulder, and rose toface the matron, a sharp-featured woman with a softintonation.
"This is Mr. Amherst, Miss Brent. The assistantmanager from the mills. He wishes to see Dillon."
John Amherst's step was singularly noiseless. Thenurse, sensitive by nature and training to all physicalcharacteristics, was struck at once by the contrast betweenhis alert face and figure and the silent way inwhich he moved. She noticed, too