Gordon only half comprehended the other’s words—Clare dangerously ill ... a question of dying, hospitals. She had suffered for so long that, without losing his sympathy for her, it had seemed to him her inevitable condition. It had fallen naturally upon him to care for her, guard her against damp, prevent her from lifting objects beyond her strength. These continuous, small attentions held an important place in his existence—he thought about her in a mind devoted substantially to himself, and it brought him a glow of contentment, a pleasant feeling of ministration and importance. It had not occurred to him that Clare might grow worse, that she might, in fact, die. The idea filled him with sudden dismay. His heart contracted with a sharp hurt. “The hospital,” he echoed dully, “Stenton.”
“By rights,” the doctor iterated; “of course we’ll do what we can here, she might last for a couple of years more without cutting; and then, again, her heart might just quit. Still—”
“What would the hospital cost?” Gordon asked, almost unaware of having pronounced the words.
“It’d be dear—two hundred and some dollars anyway, and the money on the nail. The nursing would count up; then there would be something for operating, if it was only a little ... a lot of things you don’t allow for would turn up.”
Two hundred and more dollars! Gordon had a fleeting vision, against the empurpling banks, the dark, sliding water, and the mountainous wall capped with dissolving gold beyond, of a room filled with the hot glow of kerosene lamps; he saw Jake’s twitching, murderous countenance above him.... Two hundred dollars! He had two hundred and eighty dollars in his pocket. He had another vision—of Simmons; it was two hundred and fifty dollars that the latter wanted, must have, to-morrow. But Simmons swiftly faded before Clare’s need, the pressure of sickness.
“She couldn’t go down in the stage,” he muttered, “the shaking would kill her before ever she got there.”
“I’ll drive her to Stenton, Gordon,” the doctor volunteered, “if you’ve got the money handy.”
“I’ve got her,” Gordon Makimmon declared grimly.
“I’ll take her right to the hospital and give her to the doctor in charge. Everything will be done for her comfort. She has an elegant chance of pulling through, there. And you can see her when you go down with the stage—” Pelliter suddenly stopped; he appeared disconcerted by what he had said.
“Well,” Gordon demanded, his attention held by the other’s manner, “can’t I?”