“Human life is sacred,” he said sententiously.
“Ah, that must have been decreed by some one who had never suffered!” Justine exclaimed.
Mr. Tredegar smiled compassionately: he evidently knew how to make allowances for the fact that she was overwrought by the sight of her friend’s suffering: “Society decreed it—not one person,” he corrected.
“Society—science—religion!” she murmured, as if to herself.
“Precisely. It’s the universal consensus—the result of the world’s accumulated experience. Cruel in individual instances—necessary for the general welfare. Of course your training has taught you all this; but I can understand that at such a time….”
“Yes,” she said, rising wearily as Wyant came in.
Her worst misery, now, was to have to discuss Bessy’s condition with Wyant. To the young physician Bessy was no longer a suffering, agonizing creature: she was a case—a beautiful case. As the problem developed new intricacies, becoming more and more of a challenge to his faculties of observation and inference, Justine saw the abstract scientific passion supersede his personal feeling of pity. Though his professional skill made him exquisitely tender to the patient under his hands, he seemed hardly conscious that she was a woman who had befriended him, and whom he had so lately seen in the brightness of health and enjoyment. This view was normal enough—it was, as Justine knew, the ideal state of mind for the successful physician, in whom sympathy for the patient as an individual must often impede swift choice and unfaltering action. But what she shrank from was his resolve to save Bessy’s life—a resolve fortified to the point of exasperation by the scepticism of the consulting surgeons, who saw in it only the youngster’s natural desire to distinguish himself by performing a feat which his elders deemed impossible.
As the days dragged on, and Bessy’s sufferings increased, Justine longed for a protesting word from Dr. Garford or one of his colleagues. In her hospital experience she had encountered cases where the useless agonies of death were mercifully shortened by the physician; why was not this a case for such treatment? The answer was simple enough—in the first place, it was the duty of the surgeons to keep their patient alive till her husband and her father could reach her; and secondly, there was that faint illusive hope of so-called recovery, in which none of them believed, yet which they could not ignore in their treatment. The evening after Mr. Tredegar’s departure Wyant was setting this forth at great length to Justine. Bessy had had a bad morning: the bronchial symptoms which had developed a day or two before had greatly increased her distress, and there had been, at dawn, a moment of weakness when it seemed that some pitiful power was about to defeat the relentless efforts of science. But Wyant had fought off the peril. By the prompt and audacious use of stimulants—by a rapid marshalling of resources, a display of self-reliance and authority, which Justine could not but admire as she mechanically seconded his efforts—the spark of life had been revived, and Bessy won back for fresh suffering.
“Yes—I say it can be done: tonight I say it more than ever,” Wyant exclaimed, pushing the disordered hair from his forehead, and leaning toward Justine across the table on which their brief evening meal had been served. “I say the way the heart has rallied proves that we’ve got more strength to draw on than any of them have been willing to admit. The breathing’s better too. If we can fight off the degenerative processes—and, by George, I believe we can!” He looked up suddenly at Justine. “With you to work with, I believe I could do anything. How you do back a man up! You think with your hands—with every individual finger!”
Justine turned her eyes away: she felt a shudder of repulsion steal over her tired body. It was not that she detected any note of personal admiration in his praise—he had commended her as the surgeon might commend a fine instrument fashioned for his use. But that she should be the instrument to serve such a purpose— that her skill, her promptness, her gift of divining and interpreting the will she worked with, should be at the service of this implacable scientific passion! Ah, no—she could be silent no longer….
She looked up at Wyant, and their eyes met.
“Why do you do it?” she asked.
He stared, as if thinking that she referred to some special point in his treatment. “Do what?”
“It’s so useless…you all know she must die.”
“I know nothing of the kind…and even the others are not so sure today.” He began to go over it all again—repeating his arguments, developing new theories, trying to force into her reluctant mind his own faith in the possibility of success.
Justine sat resting her chin on her clasped hands, her eyes gazing straight before her under dark tormented brows. When he paused she remained silent.
“Well—don’t you believe me?” he broke out with sudden asperity.
“I don’t know…I can’t tell….”
“But as long as there’s a doubt, even—a doubt my way—and I’ll show you there is, if you’ll give me time–-“
“How much time?” she murmured, without shifting her gaze.
“Ah—that depends on ourselves: on you and me chiefly. That’s what Garford admits.
