Books: The Red Acorn
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John McElroy >> The Red Acorn
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"O, them Doctors always talk that way. They're the flintiest-hearted
set I ever see in all my born days. They're always pretending that
they don't believe there is nothin' the matter with a feller. I
really believe they'd a little liefer a man'd die than not. They
don't seem to take no sort of interest in savin' the soldiers that
the country needs so badly."
Rachel felt as if it would sweeten much hard service if she could
tell Alspaugh outright her opinion that he was acting very calfishly;
but other counsels prevailed, and she said encouragingly:
"You are only discouraged, Jacob--that's all. A few days rest here
will restore both your health and your spirits."
"No, I'm not discouraged. I'm not the kind to git down in the
mouth--you know me well enough for that. I'm sick, sick I tell
you--sicker'n any other man in this hospital, an' nothin' but the
best o' nursin' 'll save my life for the country. O, how I wish
I was at home with my mother; she'd take care o' me."
Rachel could not repress a smile at the rememberance of Jake's
termagant mother nad her dirty, comfortless cottage, an how her
intemperance in administering such castisement as conveyed most
grief to a boy's nature first drove Jake to seek refuge with her
father.
"No doubt it would be very comfortable," she answered, "if you
could get home to your mother; but there's no need of it, because
you'll be well before you could possibly reach there."
"No, I'll never be well," persisted Jake, "unless I have the best
o' care; but I feel much better now, since I find you here, for
I'm sure you'll take as much interest in me as a sister would."
She shuddered a little at the prospect of even temporary sisterly
relations to the fellow, but replied guardedly:
"Of course I'll do what I can for you, Jacob," and started to move
away, but he caught her dress and whimpered:
"O, don't go, Miss Rachel; do go and leave me all alone. Stay any
way till I'm fixed somehow comfortable."
"I half believe the booby will have hysterics," thought Rachel,
with curling lip. "Is this the man they praised so for his heroism?
Does all his manhood depend upon his health? Now he hasn't the
spirit of a sick kitten." Dreading a scene, however, she took
her seat at the head of the cot, and gave some directions for its
arrangement.
Jake's symptoms grew worse rapidly, for he bent all his crafty
energies to that end. Refuge in the hospital from the unpleasant
contingencies attending duty in the field was a good thing, and
it became superexcellent when his condition made him the object of
the care and sympathy of so fine a young lady as Miss Rachel Bond.
This he felt was something like compensation for all that he had
endured for the country, and he would get as much of it as possible.
His mind busied itself in recalling and imitating the signs of
suffering he had seen in others.
He breathed stretorously, groaned and sighed immoderately, and even
had little fits of well-feigned delirium, in which he babbled of
home and friends and the war, and such other things as had come
within the limited scope of his mental horizon.
"Don't leave me, Miss Rachel--don't leave me," he said, in one
of these simulated paroxysms, clutching at the same time, with a
movement singularly well directed for a delirious man, one of her
delicate hands in his great, coarse, and not-over-clean fingers.
Had it been the hand of a dying man, or of one in a raging fever,
that imprisoned hers, Rachel would not have felt the repulsion
that she did at a touch which betrayed to her only too well that
the toucher's illness was counterfeited. She could hardly restrain
the impulse to dash away the loathsome hand, as she would a toad
that had fallen upon her, but she swiftly remembered, as she had
in hundreds of other instances since she had been in the hospital,
that she was no longer in her own parlor, but in a public place,
with scores of eyes noting every movement, and that such an act
of just disdain would probably be misunderstood, and possibly be
ruinous to a belief in her genuine sympathy with the misfortunes
of the sick which she had labored so heroically to build up.
She strove to release her fingers quietly, but at this Alspaugh's
paroxysm became intense. He clung the tighter to her, and kneaded
her fingers in a way that was almost maddening. Never in all her
life had a man presumed to take such a familiarity with her. But
her woman's wit did not desert her. With her disengaged hand she
felt for and took out a large pin that fastened a bit of lace to
her throat, with the desperate intent to give her tormentor a sly
stab that would change the current of his thoughts.
But at the moment of carrying this into effect something caused
her to look up, and she saw Dr. Denslow standing before her, with
an amused look in his kindly, hazel eyes.
She desisted from her purpose and restored the pin to its place
in obedience to a sign from him, which told her that he thoroughly
understood the case, and had a more effective way of dealing with
it than the thrust of a pin point.
"I'm very much afraid that this is a dangerous case we have here,
Miss Bond," he said in a stage whisper, as if very anxious that
the patient should not overhear. "Yes, a very dangerous case."
Jake grew pale, released Rachel's hand, turned over on his side
and groaned.
"Do you really think so, Doctor?" said Rachel in the same tone.
"Yes, really. It's as clear a case of de gustibus non disputandum
as I ever saw in my life."
"O, Lordie, hev I got all of that?" asked Jake, as he sat bolt
upright, with eyes starting.
"It is my unpleasant duty to tell you that you certainly have,"
said the Doctor, gravely. "As plainly indicated as I ever saw it.
Furthermore, it is seriously complicated with fiat justitia ruat
caelum, with strong hints of the presence of in media tutissimus
ibis."
"Great Scott! can I ever get well?" groaned poor Jake. Rachel's
strain was on her risibles, and to make her face express only
sympathy and concern.
"And," continued the remorseless Surgeon, in a tone of the kindliest
commiseration, "in the absence of the least espirt de corps, and
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori feeling in you it is apparent
that none of your mental processes are going on properly, which
deranges everything."
"Can't I be sent home to die?" whimpered the wretched Jake.
"Not in your present condition. I notice, in addition to what I
have told you, that your heart is not right--its action is depraved,
so to speak." This with a glance at Rachel, which brought the
crimson to that damsel's cheek.
"O, Doctor, please try to do something for me right off, before I
get any worse," pleaded Jake, with the tears starting in his eyes.
Rachel took this opportunity to slip away to where she could laugh
unobserved. The Surgeon's facial muscles were too well trained to
feel any strain. he continued in the same tone of gentle consideration:
"I have already ordered the preparation of some remedies. The Steward
will be here in a few minues with the barber, who will shave your
head, that we may apply a couple of fly-bisters behind your ears.
They are also spreading a big mustard-plaster in th dispensary for
you, which will cover your whole breast and stomach. These, with
a strong dose of castor-oil, may bring you around so that you will
be able to go back to duty in a short time."
Jake did not notice the unsheathed sarcasm in the Surgeon's allusion
to returning to duty. He was too delighted with the chance of
escaping all the horrors enumerated to think of aught else, and he
even forgot to beg for Rachel to come and sit beside his bedside,
as he had intended doing, until the blisters began to remind him
that they stuck closer than a brother. After that he devoted his
entire attention to them, as a man is apt to.
A good-sized blister, made according to the United States Pharmacopoeia,
has few equals as a means of concentrating the attention. When
it takes a fair hold of its work it leaves the gentleman whom it
patronizes little opportunity to think of anything else than it and
what it is doing. Everything else is forgotten, taht it may receive
full consideration. Then comes in an opportunity for a vigorous
imagination. No one ever underestimates the work done by an active
blister, if it is upon himself. No one ever grumbles that he is
not getting his money's worth. It is the one monumental exception,
where men are willing to accept and be satisfied with a fractional
part of that which they have bought and paid for.
So when the layer of fresh mustard that covered the whole anterior
surface of Mr. Alspaugh's torso began to take a fair hold of its
appointed work that gentlemen's thoughts became strangely focused
upon it, and they succeeded each other as the minutes went by
something in this fashion:
FIRST TEN MINUTES.--"I 'spect that this may become rather unpleasant
and bothersome, but it will not be for long, and it'll really do
me much good."
SECOND TEN MINUTES.--"I had no idead that blisters felt just this
way, but they never really hurt anybody but women and children--MEN
laugh at them."
THIRD TEN MINUTES.--"The thing seems to be hunting 'round for my
tender spots, and pokin' pins into 'em. I begin to wish that it
was all over with."
FOURTH TEN MINUTES.--"It begins to hurt real bad. I wonder if it
ain't a'most time to take it off?"
FIFTH TEN MINUTES.--"The very devil seems to be in that thing. It
burns like as if a sheet of red-hot iron was layin' there."
SIXTH TEN MINUTES.--"I surely believe that they've made a terrible
mistake about that blister, and put in some awful thing that'll kill
me if it ain't stopped. I'll swear it's not only eat all the skin
off, but it's gone through my ribs, an' is gnawin' at my insides.
Why don't the Doctor come 'round an' see to it? Here, nurse, call
the Doctor, an' have this think taken off."
NURSE.--"No, it's all right. The Doctor left orders that it was
not to be disturbed for some time yet. I'll see to it when the
proper time comes. I'm watching the clock."
SEVENTH TEN MINUTES.--"Great Jehosefat! this's jest awful. That
blasted stuff's cooked my innards to rags, an' I kin feel my
backbone a-sizzlin'. Say, Steward, do, for the Lord's sake, come
here, an' take this thing off, while there's a little life left in
me."
STEWARD.--"Can't do anything yet. You must grin and bear it a
little while longer."
EIGTH TEN MINUTES.--"Holy smoke! I couldn't suffer more if I was
in the lake of burnin' brimstone. Every ounce of me's jest fryin'.
Say, Steward! Steward!"
STEWARD (ANGRILY).--"I have told you several times that I couldn't
do anything for you yet awhile. Now keep quiet."
"But Steward, can't you at least bring me a fork?"
"Why, what do you want a fork for?"
"Jest to see for myself if I ain't cooked done--that's all."
A roar of laughter went up in which even Dr. Denslow, who had just
entered the ward, joined. He orderd the blister to be taken off,
and the inflamed surfaces properly dressed, which was done to the
accompaniment of Jake's agonizing groans.
"I think Lieutenant Alspaugh will be content to go back to the
field in a few days, if we continue this vigorous treatment," Dr.
Denslow said, a little later, as he came into the reading-room of
the hospital where he found Rachel sitting alone.
"O, Doctor, how could you be so cruel?" she asked in tones which
were meant to be reproachful, but only poorly disguised her mirthful
appreciation of the whole matter.
"I wasn't cruel; I only did my duty. The fellow's a palpable
malingerer, and his being here makes it ever so much worse. He's
trying to shirk duty and have a good time here in the hospital.
It's my place to make the hospital so unpleasant for him that he
will think the field preferable, and I'm going to do it, especially
if I find him squeezing your hand again."
There was that in the tone of the last sentence which sobered
her instantly. Womanly prescience told her that the Surgeon had
discovered what seemed to him a fitting opportunity to say that
which he had long desired. Ever since she had been in the hospital
he had exerted himself to smooth her path for her, and make her stay
there endurable. There was not a day in which she was not indebted
to him for some unobtrusive kindness, delicately and thoughtfully
rendered.
While she knew quite well that these courtesies would have been
as conscientiously extended to any other woman--young or old--in
her position, yet her instincts did not allow her any doubt that
there was about them a flavor personal to herself and redolent of
something much warmer than mere kindliness. A knowledge of this
had at times tainted the pleasure she felt in accepting welcome
little attentions from him. She dreaded what she knew was coming.
He took her hand and started to speak with tremulous lips. But
almost at the same instant the door was flung open, and a nurse
entered in breathless haste.
"O, Doctor," he gasped, "I've been looking for you everywhere. That
Lieutenant in the First Ward thinks he's a-dyin'. He's groanin'
an' cryin', and a-takin' on at a terrible rate, an' nobody can't do
nothin' with him. The Steward wants you to come there right off."
"It's only the castor oil," muttered the Doctor savagely, as he
rose to follow the nurse.
This was the letter that the Orderly handed Rachel some days later:
Dear Ratie: Your letter came at last, for which I was SO thankful,
because I had waited SO long for it that I was SO tired and SO
anxious that I was almost at my wits' end. I am SO glad that you
are well, that you have got your room at last fixed up real nice
and comfortable, as a young lady should have, and that you find your
duties more agreeable. It is SO nice in that Dr. Denslow to help
you along as he does. But then that is what every real gentleman
should do for a young lady--or old one for that matter. Still, I
would like to thank him SO much.
I am not at all well: my heart gives me SO much trouble--more
than ever before--and as you say nothing about coming home I have
about concluded to try what a change of climate and scene will do for
me, and so have concluded to accept your Aunt Tabitha's invitation
to spend a few months with her. Unless you hear from me to the
contrary--which you will probably not, as the mails are so uncertain
in Kentucky, you had better address your next letter to me at Eau
Claire.
But I am so sorry to see by your letter that you show no signs of
weariness with your quixotic idea of serving the country in the
hospital. I had hoped so much that you would by this time have decided
that you had done enough, and come home and content yourself with
doing what you could for the Sanitary Fair, and the lint-scraping
bees.
YOUR AFFECTIONATE MOTHER.
P.S.--Your father is well. He will go with me to Wisconsin, and
then go down to Nebraska to look after his land there.
P.S.--I am SO sorry to tell you that Harry Glen has acted badly
again. The last letters from the regiment say that he did not go
into the fight at Wildcat, and afterward was missing. They believe
he was captured, and some say he was taken prisoner on purpose.
Everybody's saying, "I told you so," and Mrs. Glen has not been
on the street or to church since the news came. I am so sorry for
her, but then you know that she used to put on quite as many airs
as her position justified.
P.S.--Hoop-skirts are getting smaller every month, and some are
confident that they will go entirely out of fashion by next year.
I do so hope not. I so dread having to cme back to the old way of
wearing a whole clothes-basketful of white skirts. The new bonnets
are just the awfulest things you ever did see. Write soon.
Rachel crumpled the letter in her hand, with a quick, angry gesture,
as if crushing some hateful, despicable thing, and her clear hazel
eyes blazed.
"He is evidently a hopeless coward," she said to herself, "when
all that has passed can not spur him into an exhibition of proper
spirit. If he had the love for me he professed it could not help
stimulating him to some show of manliness. I will fling him out
of my heart and my world as I would fling a rotten apple out of a
basket."
Then a sadder and gentler light shone in her face.
"Perhaps I am myself to blame a little. I may not be a good source
of inspiration to acts of heroism. Other girls may have ways of
stimulating their loves to high deeds that I know not of. Possibly
I applied the lash too severely, and instead of rousing him up I
killed all the hope in his heart, and made him indifferent to his
future. Possibly, too, this story may not be true. The feeling
in Sardis against him is strong, and they are hardly willing to do
him justice. No doubt they misrepresent him in this, as they are
apt to do in everything."
Her face hardened again.
"But it's of no use seeking excuses for him. My lover--my husband--must
be a man who can hold his own with other men, in whatever relation
of life the struggle may be. The man into whose hands I entrust the
happiness of my life must have his qualities so clear and distinct
that there never will be any question about them. He must not need
continual explanation and defense, for then outraged pride would
strangle love with a ruthless hand. No, I must never have reason
to believe that my choice is inferior to other men in anything."
But notwithstanding this, she smoothed out the crumpled letter
tenderly upon her knee, and read it over again, in the vain hope
of finding that the words had less harshness than she had at first
found in them.
"No," she said after a weary study of the lines, "it's surely worse
than mother states it. She is so kind and gentle that she never
fails to mitigate the harshness of anything that she hears about
others, and she has told me this as mildly as the case will admit.
I must give him up forever."
But though she made this resolution with a firm settling of the lines
around her mouth that spoke strongly of its probable fulfilment,
the arrival of the decision was the signal for the assault of
a thousand tender memories and dear recollections, all pleading
trumpet-tongued against the summary dismissal of the unworthy lover.
All the ineffably sweet incidents of their love-life stretched
themselves out in a vista before her, and tempted her to reverse
her decision. But she stayed her purpose with repeating to herself:
"It will save untold misery hereafter to be firm now, and end a
connection at once that must be the worse for both of us every day
that it is allowed to continue."
There was a tap at the door, and Dr. Denslow entered.
The struggle had so shattered Rachel's self-control that she
nervously grasped the letter and thrust it into her pocket, as if
the mere sight of it would reveal to him the perturbation that was
shaking her.
His quick eyes--quicker yet in whatever related to her--noticed
her embarrassment.
"Excuse me," he said with that graceful tact which seemed the very
fiber of his nature. "You are not in the mood to receive callers.
I will go now, and look in again."
"No, no; stay. I am really glad to see you. It is nothing, I
assure you."
She really wished very much to be alone with her grief, but she felt
somehow that to shrink from a meeting would be an evasion of the
path of duty she had marked out for her feet to tread. If she were
going to eliminate all thoughts of her love and her lover from
her life, there was no better time to begin than now, while her
resolution was fresh. She insisted upon the Doctor remaining,
and he did so. Conscious that her embarrassment had been noticed,
her self-possession did not return quickly enough to prevent her
falling into the error of failing to ignore this, and she confusedly
stumbled into an explanation:
"I have received a letter from home which contains news that disturbs
me." This was as far as she had expected to go.
Dr. Denslow's face expressed a lively sympathy. "No one dead or
seriously ill, I trust."
"No, not as bad as that," she answered hastily, in the first impulse
of fear that she had unwarrantably excited his sympathy. "Nor is
it anything connected with property," she hastily added, as she saw
the Doctor looked inquiringly, but as though fearing that further
questioning might be an indelicate intrusion.
She picked nervously at the engagement ring which Harry had placed
upon her finger. It fitted closely, and resisted her efforts at
removal. she felt, when it was too late, that neither this nor
its significance had escaped Dr. Denslow's eyes.
"A f-riend--an--acquaintance of mine has disgraced himself," she
said, with a very apparent effort.
An ordinary woman would have broken down in a tearful tempest, but
as has been said before she was denied that sweet relief which most
women find in a readily responsive gush of tears. Her eyes became
very dry and exceedingly hot. Her misery was evident.
The Doctor took her hand with a movement of involuntary sympathy.
"I am deeply hurt to see you grieve," he said, "and I wish that
I might say something to alleviate your troubles. Is it anything
that you can tell me about?"
"No, it is nothing of which I can say a word to any one," she
answered. "It is a trouble that I can share with no one, and least
of all with a stranger."
"am I not more than a stranger to you?" he asked.
"O yes, indeed," she said, and hastening to correct her former
coldness, added:
"You are a very dear, good friend, whom I value much more highly
than I have given you reason to think."
His face brightened wonderfully, but he adventured his way slowly.
"I am very glad that you esteem me what I have tried to show myself
during our acquaintance."
"You have indeed shown yourself a very true friend. I could not
ask for a better one."
"Then will you not trust me with a share of your sorrows, that I
may help you bear them?"
"No, no; you can not. Nobody can do anything in this case but
myself."
"You do not know. You do not know what love can accomplish when
it sets itself to work with the ardor belonging to it."
"Love! O, do not speak to me of that," she said, suddenly awaking
to the drift of his words, and striving to withdraw her hand.
"No, but I must speak of it," he said with vehemence entirely
foreign to his usual half-mocking philosophy. "I must speak
of it," he repeated with deepening tones. "You surely can not be
blind to the fact that I love you devotedly--absorbingly. Every
day's intercourse must have shown you something of this, which
you could not have mistaken. You must have seen this growing upon
me continually, until now I have but few thoughts into which your
image does not appear, to brighten and enhance them. Tell me now
that hopes, dearer--infinitely dearer--than any I have ever before
cherished, are to have the crown of fruition."
"I can not--I can not," she sighed.
"What can you not? Can't you care for me at least a little?"
"I do; I care for you ever so much. I am not only grateful for
all that you have been to me and done for me, but I have a feeling
that goes beyond mere gratitude. But to say that I return the love
you profess for me--that I even entertain any feeling resembling
it--I can not, and certainly not at this time."
"But you certainly do not love any one else?"
"O, I beg of you not to question me."
"I know I have no right to ask you such a question. I have no
right to pry into any matter which you do not choose to reveal to
me of your own free will and accord. But as all the mail of the
hospital goes through my hands, I could not help noticing that in
all the months that you have been here you have written to no man,
nor received a letter from one. Upon this I have built my hopes
that you were heartfree."
"I can not talk of this, nor of anything now. I am so wrought up
by many things that have happened--by my letter from home; by your
unexpected declaration--that my poor brain is in a whirl, and I
can not think clearly and connectedly on any subject. Please do
not press me any more now."
The torrent of his passion was stayed by this appeal to his
forbearance. He essayed to calm down his impetuous eagerness for
a decision of his fate, and said penitently:
"I beg your pardon. I really forgot. I have so long sought an
opportunity to speak to you upon this matter, and I have been so
often balked at the last moment, that when a seeming chance came
I was carried away with it, and in my selfish eagerness for my own
happiness, I forgot your distress. Forgive me--do."
"I have nothing to forgive," she said frankly, most touched
by his tender consideration. "You never allow me an occasion for
forgiveness, or to do anything in any way to offset the favors you
continually heap upon me."
"Pay them all a thousand times over by giving me the least reason
to hope."
"I only wish I could--I only wish I dared. But I fear to say
anything now. I can not trust myself."
"But you will at least say something that will give me the basis
of a hope," he persisted.
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