"Then there is no hope?" I said.
It seemed to me as if in those few words he had pronounced a sentence of death, and as if I were about to sustain a personal loss.
"Oh, yes, there is hope," he replied; "but for poor people the gates are closed."
I begged him to explain, and he did so. Mrs. Cameron was suffering not only from debility, brought on by want of nourishing food, but from a chest and throat complaint which would certainly result fatally if she remained in London. The pestilential air, the poisonous fog—they spelt death. She could not possibly live through the coming winter. She needed a purer air, wine, and better food, and these were out of her reach. By slaving day and night at her needle the mother and daughter earned eight or nine shillings a week. They had no rich friends. What could they do?
"It is a question of money?" I said.
"Yes, it is a question of money, though even then I do not say she will recover. The privations she has endured have made terrible inroads upon her constitution."
"But there would be a chance of recovery."
"Undoubtedly a chance of recovery. In fact, the only chance. It is painful to witness such cases, to stand by a bedside and see a life passing away which money would probably save; but there is no help for it. The poor girl will suffer terribly. I have seldom witnessed such love, such devotion. It is surprising how she keeps up."
"There is help for it, doctor," I said, "and I should like to see you to-morrow to speak about it."
"I am home for consultations till twelve. May I ask your name?"