“He says there’s a good fighting chance—a very good one. He says her grit alone—Oh, Belden, what shall we do? What shall we do?”
Peter sat down heavily on the lowest stair.
“Only last week she was so well—and yet she really wasn’t. I suppose he knows. But it doesn’t seem possible—I can’t get it through my head. Poor little Caddy! She never had a sick day in her life. No headaches, like most Women, even—no nonsense—Oh, Belden, what shall we do?”
“Brace up, Peter; think what a good fighting chance means, think of that! It’s not as if Caddy were old; she has that on her side. She’s seven years behind me, you know.”
Peter scowled. “You’re fifty, aren’t you?”
“Not a bit. Only forty-eight, and just that, too. Now you go out and get the nurse, and I’ll stay here. It’ll do you a lot of good. Don’t mope around in the house all day—what’s the use?”
“I can’t leave the house. Honestly, Belden, I can’t. I’ve tried twice, and I just walk right back. It’s no good. There’s the cart—and you won’t be long, will you?”
Belden took up the reins with a vague sense of momentary relief: it was something to do. Under the influence of the fresh autumn air his spirits rose; he found himself enjoying the swift rattle of the cart and the beat of the horse’s feet. After all, think of Caddy’s grit; think of her fine constitution! A fighting chance—that was little enough to say, though. Why couldn’t he have put it a little stronger? Hitchcock always was a pessimist.
At the station the usual crowd of well-dressed suburbanites quieted their horses and waited impatiently for the express. As Belden drew up into line, they greeted him with a subdued interest; coachmen left their seats to ask how Mrs. Moore was to-day, and when could one see her? A sudden mist came over his eyes as he answered briefly, “Very soon—I hope.”
The train thundered in; in an incredibly short time all the guests and commuters were hurried off toward town—where was that nurse?