CHAPTER I.

Otago Witness, Issue 2130, 20 December 1894, Page 1

CHAPTER I.

I make the acquaintance of the experiment. R INGRAM ia ill. He wishes one of you to go to bis houise and attend him. I think it is your turn, Nurse Thurston." And the matron looked at me. We were sitting in our comfortable little parlour in the Nurbea' Home. We had jn6t finished tea and were indulging in half an hour's well-earned rest. Only three of us were present, the others having already departed on their several duties. M&y Burton, ft young and pretty girl, the youngest nurse in the hospital, who had only just passed through her probation, and xvhoee small, fair features and petite figure made her appear even younger than she really was. She looked like a child, And people when she went to nurse them were at first afraid to trust her, and thought that there must be some mistake ; but they aoou knew better, for she was a born nurse, the beßt and cleverest of us all ; and, in spite of her fragile appearance, she could stand harder work, longer hours, aud greater responsibility than any girl I erer knew. Agneta Edwards was older and more staid, but sh« was a clever woman and a competent nurse; and in great request both inside and outside the hospital. For myself, I was neither so pretty aB May nor so clever as Agneta. Every time I looked critically in the glass, which was not very often, I toldmy«elf that I was a very ordinary young person ; fcmt I did not let that thought trouble me much, for I was in love with my profession, and I thought that to be a good nurse was only second to being a fall - fledged M D. Les- speculative, less daring, perhaps, but not less useful. Xhe Z Hospital was a large one, or at least it seemed so to me, a colonial-born girl who had never been outside New Zealand, and had passed her novitiate in a little up-country institution, where the jcnatron and one assistant had looked after ten or a dozen patients in a very simple, unsophisticated manner. But I had worked fcard and made the most of my opportunities, 80 that when a vacancy occurred at Z and I applied for and obtained it, it seemed fis if I had suddenly ascended from a narrow yalley to the summit of a lofty hill, so wide feraß my intellectual outlook, irhe nunwe. etafi wa» larue. and auch.

being the case, it happened occasionally that the nurses were allowed to leave the hospital and attend private cases. This was somewhat of an innovation to me, but I liked the idea, although I had not as yet been called upon to carry it into execution. We nurses had a comfortable enough home in the Z Hospital, and we led a happy, busy life ; at the same time it was a hard-working one — long hours, considerable responsioility, and little recreation. The prospect of going outside thiß routine, of seeing a new home and having new experiences, excited me almost as much a8 — under other circumstances — I might have been excited by the thought of going to my first ball. I was glad that it was my turn and that the matron had not forgotten me. So when she asked the question, I answered quickly : " Yes, it is my turn, and I think I shall like it very much. When am Itogo ? " "To-morrow morning, unless we have a telephone message in the meantime to say that Dr lugram is worse. Then you will start im mediately ." " What ia the matter 1 " asked Netta Edwards. " Something in the nature of typhoid, but the doctors themselves do not seem quite certain. Of course he has the beet advice." "Of course ; only rather too much of it, perhaps — one can have too much even of a good thing," said May rather flippantly. "Too rnanj cooks, you know." The matron looked troubled. "Dr Irgram is a good man," she said, rather inconsequently as it seeme'l to me. " Wnich Dr Ingram is it 1 " asked Netta. «' What I " I cried. " Are there two 1 " •' Of course there are. The old gentleman with white hair whom you must often have seen in the waidn, and whom people call ' the father of the hospital,' because he has had so much to do with it from the very begin- > ning. I don't think he nxactly laid tba first [ stone, but something very like it. He has made it what it is — thejpr<?>«j'erhospital o£ the colony. Ha is always getting some alterations and improvements made, and it is to him that we owe our own comfortable quarters. The nurse* bad a bad time of it in the old days, I can tell you. He's a dear old fellow ; I quite dote upon hita. I hope it is not he who is ill." "But it is he," said the matron, who still stood by the table with her hand lightly resting on it, in an absent manner very unusual in one who was always so busy and bustling that among ourselves we called her " Martha," and wondered whether she ever sat down and rested like other people. "It is Dr Leonard Ingram who is ill." Then Bhe started suddenly as from a dream, told me to get my things ready for an early start, and bustled out of the room. When she had gone I turned to Netta and inquired : "Who is the other Dr Ingram? Have I ever seen him 1 " " He ia the handsomest man in town," she answered decidedly, " and I think you must have seen him often." " No," cried May quickly, " I don't think you have. It has not been his turn at the hospital lately— indeed, he comes here very rarely now, and I'm glad of it, for I hate him." "What, hate the handsomest man In town 7 " I said jestingly. " Hush 1 Don't talk like that," she cried, with far more feeling than the occasion seemed to warrant. "In my eyes he is ugly, uglier than the most deformed of our patients." "Wnat nonsense 1 His features arc perfect. lam sure any artist would tell you 80." " Perhaps so, but their expression is most painful to me, or rather their want of expression. They are a mask which he never allows to Blip off. He appears to me to be always in hiding, always repressing his real nature," persisted May, and her own pretty face grew almost btcrn, and the soft lines hardened into decision. "He impresses me most unfavourably. I know he is a bad man inside, though I grant you that the outside is attractive enough — at least to some people. But, there I don't let us talk about him. Eboda will see him and judge for herself." This strong expression of adverse opinion on the part of one generally so careless and merry struck me very forcibly, and I resolved that before I left the Home I would try and get M*y to expr«ss herself more clearly, for I judged that she had more reason for her words than mere fancy. In the meantime I turned the conversation by asking if the two doctors were related. "Father and bod," said Netta. 41 No," interposed May, who seemed to know all about it, which was not strange, as she was a Z girl born and bred, and knew everyone from the Old Identitiej to the

New Iniquities, and took a proportionate | interest in them, " their cousins, and their aunts." " Not the son, but the adopted son. Old Dr Ingrnin usver was married ; but years ago, 28 or 30, he adopted a child, the son of an emigrant whom no one knew, and brought him up as his own." " Rather a good idea," I said, more by way of making a remark than because I had thought out the subject in detail. 11 That depends." "On what?" " On how it turns out," said May lightly, the expression of her face having changed again, like a lake that dimples into brightness after reflecting a passing cloud. " Come alorg, Rhoda, I have half an hour to spare, and I'll help you to put up your traps." We went to the pleasant sunny room which we shared, and quickly packed a few necessaries. Naturally enough, our talk still ran on the two doctors. "Yon spoke very strongly about Dr Bertrand Ingram just now, May. You must surely have come other reason to dislike him, some better one than his habitual self-con-trol, which might spring from the highest motives." " 1 do not wish to prejudice you against him, since you are going to the house, for they live together ; aud yet " " Tell me," I insisted. "It is not fair. No, I won't tell you, for after all lam not certain. It miy be an impression — nothing more ; I may be mistaken ; you must jadge for yourself. But I beg of you to be on your guard — always on your guard, and watch." "Yon are very mysterious to-night and very annoying. Wnom should I watch and why 7 and what is this secret about Dr Ingram that you wou't tell me ? " But May would not be drawn. Shorefnsed to say any more on the subjret, and began to laugh, chatter, and jest in such a way that we were Boon as merry as a coaplo of school girls, for in a hard life like ours an occasional hearty laugh is as good as a tonic, and the nurße who does not cultivate her Banse of humour deprives herself and her patients of one of her best weapons, fcio we talked and laughed and told funny stories until long past the timo when we should both have been asleep. And on the following day I went to Dr Ingram'e. He lived in a large house in the best part of the town. There wore evidently twe surgeries', for on one door I saw a brass plate inscribed : Da L. Ingram, M.D , F.R.O.S. and on another : Dv Bkbteand Inobam, M.D. The two brightly-polished plates fascinated me. I looked from one to another, and doubted to which of them I should apply. Finally, I decided against them both, and went up three carefully-whitened steps to what was evidently the front door, and rang the bell. A neat maid, in cap and apron, made her appearance. " I am the nurse from the hospital," I eaid quietly. "How is Dr Ingram this morning ? " " He's pretty bad. The other nurse— she's not a hospital nurse, you know— l believe she's frightened; she's been looking for you the last hour. But come away in, and I'll get you some tea." " Thanks, I don't want anything ; I have just had breakfast. Will you call the other j nurse, or take me to her? " She took me upstairs— a low, broad, handsome staircase— and showed me into a large room that had evidently been more of a study than a sittirjg room, for the walls were lined with books, and a large writing table stood under the window; but now this table was covered with medicine bottles, fruit, cups, glasses, trajs, and the thousand and one odds and ends which collect in the vicinity of a sick room. As I looked at them I determined to diminish the number as speedily as might be. This large apartment, which was now nothing more than the ante-chamber of the sick room, was evidently the doctor's private 6anctum, and his bedroom opened from it, for my companion left me BtandiDg by the table, and knocked softly at a closed inner door. It was opened almost immediately, and an ! elderly woman came out. It was easily seen that she was a nurse of the old-fashioned type. Her face was troubled and anxious, and her manner flustered and distressed. When she saw me her features brightened a little, and she appeared relieved. "I am glad you've come at last," ehe said. I paid no attention to the emphasis laid on the final words— as if I had been long expected and waited for— but asked for details concerning the patient; and as she

talked I removed my out-door garments and put on my cap, apron, and cuffs, and declared myself ready to take over " the case." The bedroom was dark — for the Venetians were carefully drawn — but there was light enongh to see the fine head crowned with snow-white hair, which lay upon the pillow in an attitude of unmistakable exhaustion. I went to the patient's side, and laid my hand upon his wrist. He cpened his eyes wearily. At first he seemed to see nothing, but after a tima he recognised the dress, and a faint smile crept round h'.a lips. " You have come from the hospital 1 " he said. " I am glad. I hope it is not too late." " Why did you not send for one of us before ? " I said impulsively. " I did send, but there wafl no one at liberty," he answered faintly. Bat I fait pretty sure that do message had been received at the hospital, where, for several weeks past two or three nurses could havo been spared for such a task. I looked at the woman, who interpreted my glance. " Yeß, we sent two or three times ; but I suppose you were all very busy." The fault, then, did not lie with her. Who was guilty 1 I pondered this question several times durirg the day, but could come to no satisfactory conclusion. The patient was in a very low state. The faver was intermittent, and when the paroxysms were over the prostration was terrible, and threatened collapse. The treatment was for typhoid, and we were forbidden to give any food except milk, of which a large quantity was prescribed daily. As I looked at him I could not help thinking that brandy would have been a better treatment. ] Nurse Field to go away for a rest and I a hiuap while I took her place. The patient fell into a dose, and I oat by his side, scarcely daring to speak or move. After a time ha began to mutter and toss about in his sleep. At first the words were disconnected, but gradually, as the delirium Increased, they became more connected, and I could distinguish the name of his adopted son — Bertrand — on whom he called continaally, addressing him by tender aud endearing titles, such as we are ; jt to think more suited to the lips of a woman than those of a man. It was strange and touching to listen to. And as I sat quietly by the bed, giving medicine and nourishment at stated intervals, and listening to the muttered woids of affection, I could not help wondering what kind of man he might be who had won for himself such devotion, which appeared a strange contrast to May Barton's warning. The hourß passed slowly. There was very little to be done. Accustomed as I was to the routine and constant movement of the hospital wards, the quiet of that airy upstairs room, where there was no traffic and no sound save the indistinct mutterings of the sick man, soon became quite oppressive. Then I rose and quietly arranged the room, and finding that that did not disturb him, I set the door ajar and went into the anteroom to anange that, piling up the empty medicine bottles, plates, dishes, &0., that I might Bend them downstairs on the first opportunity. I was employed in this way when I heard the door of the ante-room open and close, but, thinking it was Nurse Field, I did not turn my head, but continued my self-imposed tasir. The newcomer did not speak or move, and after a few momenta I turned sharply round and met the direct gaze of a gentleman whom I knew must be Dr Bertrand j Ingram. He was looking at me with a curious and slightly amused expression, and I put down the bottle in my hand and turned towards the bedroom door to make good my retreat. Netta was right— he wa3 a handsome man, the handsomest tnan I had ever seen. I thought so then, I think so now, I shall always think so. He put out his hand, saying courteously : " You are the new nurse ? " II Yes ; I came from the hospital this morning. My name is Thurston — Rhoda Tburston." j "You are young to undertake such an important task." " I was 24 my last birthday, and I have had nearly three years' experience." "So old I I should not have given you credit for more than 20 summers, as the novelists say. How do you find my father 1 " " He is very weak, terribly weak — I think he requires some stimulant. Ha is an old man and has probably taken some all his life." " You are aware that milk, ia the proper diet," I

" I have known oases in which brandy was the veritable eau de vie." " Oh 1 you have opinions of your own," h« said, looking at me so keenly that I felt embarrased by his gaze. " What do tha hospital Burgeons say to that 7 " 11 They do not ask for my opinion," 11 Neither did I. However, I am very glad to get it. I will mention it to bis advisers later on. Remember, lam not here as a doc or ; I have nothing to do with the case. I am only an experiment." " A what 1 " I said quickly. "An Experiment," be repeated lightly. "All doctors are experimentalists ; it is inevitable from our limited knowledge of therapeutics. We know nothing, or next to nothing of the real aotion of half the drugs we use. But I myself am an experiment, and, I fear, not a very successful one. But that old man in the next room is responsible for it." Ha spoke to himself rather than to me, and pushing the door, went into the inner room. I followed him. At the foot of the bed he paused and looked earnestly at the patient. The old man, who had been muttering incoherently and half deliriously, suddenlj opened his eyes, and said in a clear, distinct, joyous tone, " Bertrand." It would be impossible to express the wealth of passionate affection contained in, that one word. On me, a stranger, it had an extiaordinary affect; it seemed as if I could see into the very heart of the speaker, who, having neither wife nor child to love, had laid the whole treasure of his affection at the feet of his Experiment, this waif and stray of the streets. It was a love to move mountains. For the Grst time in my life I felt myself on "the threshold of another person'o life," and was awed andimpressed by this glimpse into the soul world. Tho young doctor leant over the bed and took the patient's hand. " How are you to-day, father 7 " " Better, my boy, better. But weak, very I weak." ; Hs might well say that he was weak. When tha fever fits were over ho had no more strength than a child ; but when Ber» | trand was there he made a great effort to pull himself together and make the best of himself ; or it might be tbat it was the mere presence of the dearly-loved son which had I this Influence over him. Wbatever'the reason, j the roault was very marked then and at all times. Dr Bertrand remained in the sick room for I some time. He took the temperature, and asked me a few questions in a perfunctory way, repeating what he had already told me ! thatthevisitwasnotprofessional. Later inthe day two of the best-known practitioners in Z called and examined the patient very | closely, asking me many questions, and giving me very strict and particular directions. From these questions and these directions I gathered that there was some uncertainty concerning the nature of the doctor's illness and tbat it presented some symptoms which could not be readily diagnosed, and so they desired my careful observation. Dr Bertrand did not come in with the other modical men, but later in the evening he appeared and questioned me closely as to what his colleagues had said, and it was then that I gathered that his opinion and theirs were not entirely in accord. •• Is it really typhoid, Dr Bertrand 7 " I said ; for I too, like most other people, spoke to and of him thus, to distinguish him from his father. Ho shook his head slightly. "They think so, and they aro older and wiser than I, and professional etiquette tnust not be infringed." " Did you epeak about the brandy 7 " "Not I. You can mention It yourself tomorrow " 1 mentally resolved to do so, and even to give a little during the night If ths patient Eeemed very low, and for that purpose I asked him to put some in the ante-room. " You do it on yoar own responsibility," he said, as he brought up the decanter, adding, "By the way, I see that you have removed all the bottleß, <fcc.,out of the ante-room. Why did you do that ? " " They vere not wanted, and 1 can't bear to have a lot of things standing about. I can easily fetob the milk when I want It, or ring for it, and the iced water too. Thc-se things are so soon contaminated." He nodded approval. " I nee you know what you aro about," ha said. We were in the ante-room ; the door into the inner room was open j the patient was dozing and needed nothing, and we could hear his faintest movement. The window of tba outer room was open, and the faint, sweet, evening air blew in and fanned my oheok like a oaress, The, doctor motioned van ifl » Beat,

I

11 You had better rest a little while you can."

There was trntb in his word*, as every nurse knows. I sat down by the open window and arank in the delicious air. He balanced bimstlf on the edge of the heavy writing table in a careless but not inelegant attitude. I wondered that he did not go away, and supposed he was waiting until the old doctor Bhoold awake.

For a time we were both silent. Under gome circumstances this silence would have been embarrassing, but I did not feel it to be so. I had nothiug particular to say, neither had he; and our position relieved ug from the necessity of forcing conversation.

Suddenly he spoke, and his voice utartled me from a reverie into which I had fallen, and in which I seemod entirely to forget my present life aod surroundings. " Did you know what I meant this mornIng when I called mjaelf «i experiment 7 " I looked at him with surprise and pulled myself together with difficulty, so much did the abrupt question astonish ma. "Yes, partly." «« Come," he said, leaning slightly forward $nd fixing his dark eyes on mine, " you have beard something about me. What is it 7 " " Only what I suppose all the world knows r-that you are Dr Ingrain's adopted son, and BOt hia own ohild." "Ib that all 7 Did you know that neither be nor I know anything of my parents — not even tbeir name; that my mothtr died in giving me birth ; that lam supposed never to have had a father ; that the doctor chose me for that reason— not because he pitied the lonely child, but because he wanted to try experiments on 'it'?" II What kind of experiments ? " *« Oh, nothing very terrible," he answered with a cynical smile; "no vivisection, mutilationj or anything of that sort," and he turned his handsome face full upon me that J might see that that at least had not been damaged. " But. it was an experiment all the same— an experiment in heredity. Have you thought much on that subject ? " " On heredity you mean ? "

He nodded.

11 Yts, indeed ; who has not 1 II 6eems to me the burning question of the age, compared with which most other things are unimportant and trifling. To understand the laws which govern heredity and ceitain traits of mind and body ; to understand why in the family one child should inherit the Yirtuea and another the vices ; why certain peculiarities should pass one, two, thrse, and four generations and reappear in another; why abnormal talents should appear at one time as genius and at another as madness — that must be indeed a fascinating study."

"So Dr Ingram thought," he answered diyly. •• And don't you 7 " "I am the Experiment, you Fee. It can't be expected that the experiment and the experimentalist can ever view things from the came standpoint, any more than the anarchist aud the capitalist— one ha« everything to gain and the other everything to lose."

"What did you lose?" " Ah, you can argue, can you 7 I thought as much, in spite of that demure look and the cap and apron — badges of servitude. I »aw at once that you were a little woman •with strong opinions and convictions." " Opinions perhaps ; not convictions." "It's a mere detail; they follow each other, as the night the day. Opinions crystallise into convictions before we know where we are and what we are doing. But to return to myßelf, and to the Ego which is so important to each one of us. Was the doctor justified in making that exporiment 7 " " How can you ask that ? He loves you." A chatige aame over the young man's face. 11 How do you know that 7 " " I know it. I have seen it."

"So soon?"

11 Indeed, yes."

He changed hia position, brought up the swinging leg, and settled him9olf comfortably on the table. Immediately it flashed across my mind that somewhere in his remote ancestry there must have been a tailor or a Persian— men who habitually sit cross-legged from choice or necessity. He answered my unspoken thought i " I think I should have made a good tailor, Bitting cross-legged In my shop window, ready to prick the trunk of any investigating elephant." I did not at first realise that he had answered my thought, and when I did bo, I stared at him confused. " Well, what is the matter now 7"

11 1 eald nothing about the tailor."

" No, but you looked it, and the idoa has occurred to me before. Do you know why I hate being an experiment ?"

"No; how should I?" " Because it seems to me that I have lost ray identity. If he bad let me alone I might jhave been better or worse— l should certainly have been different. All throagh my life, ever since I was born, he baa been tryiDg to mould, and twist, and turn me, as if I were a bit of dough or putty, without any Identity or individuality of my own; and pgaln and again I have thought, 'What tight had he or anyone to do this 7 '" " Surely you might cay that concerning the training of any child." 11 No j because ohildren are bom into families, and their parents and gaardians are bound to train them."

" Is not that sophistry 7 According to your own account you were a " • " Say it out. A no-man's child." " Well, I will say it if you wish. You had no visible relative. The doctor assumed the functions which no one else was ready to fill, and he has done his duty by you." " How do you know that ? " «' The proof is before me."

He bowed mockingly.

11 That shows how little you know about It. Don't you see— can't you see — that by what he has done ha has bought me, soul and body, tvnd I hate the sense of obligation. No man has a right to forco it upon another."

t thivered at bis tone. Of all vices that of Ingratitude baa always seemed to me the basest.

"How would you like to be an experiment?" he continued.

" I don't know. I suppose to some extent we all are. Is not life itself an experiment $ Jftfl Jieier Know how it wili town, ont,"

"And Death is a still greater plunge in the darir, which we shall all make some day. However, we all put that off ao long aa we can — and small blame to us. Do you admit that the doctor owes me some reparation for the injury he has done me?" " I can't see that he has done you any injury." "Don'tl tell youhehas bought me.bodyand soul ; and has not yet paid the price." With that be uncrossed his legs and slid down from the table. "You see, that form of heredity has become irksome to me. I think it mait have wora itself out throagh several generations. I wish I knew what sort of a man my father was. Hark I the patient is moving. Will you go to him, or shall I? " I returned to the sick room, and he went downstairs, but before he did so he pointed to the table and said :

" You need not trouble to take those things away as I noticed you were doing this morning. Tho servants will remove them. I like to see the medicines, fee."

" Very well,"' I said simply, but it seemed to me a strange requsst— so, indeed was the whole conversation whan I cams to look back upon it. I did not know then what I have learned sinco, that there are certain persons who invite our confidence and whose sympathetic nature we recognise by a subtle mesmeric instinct, knowiag without spoken words that they understand us better than our nearest and dearest ; abo that there arc times when every human being must speak or write the thoughts that we in him, and that on such occasions it is often easier to speak to a stranger who has no foregone prejudices « gainst or .for up, and who will probably never come into our inner life, than to come intimate friend or relative, who haa generally some preconceived ideal concernir g us, np to which we feel, in a manner, bound to live ; and which if we have any selt-respect wa are anxious not to destroy.