the possibility of danger.
"The measles! every child had the measles. If no fuss was made the
little chap," he declared, "would soon be all right. It was always a
mistake to exaggerate." But when there could no longer be any doubt on
the subject, a curious struggle took place in Sir Tom's mind. That
baby--die? That crowing, babbling creature pass away into the solemnity
of death! It had not seemed possible, and when he tried to get it into
his mind his brain whirled. Wonder for the moment seemed to silence even
the possibility of grief. He had himself gone through labours and
adventures that would have killed a dozen men, and had never been
conscious even of alarm about himself; and the idea of a life quenched
in its beginning by so accidental a matter as a draught in a nursery
seemed to him something incomprehensible. When he had heard of a child's
death he had been used to say that the mother would feel it, no doubt,
poor thing; but it was a small event, that scarcely counted in human
history to Sir Tom. When, however, his own boy was threatened, after the
first incredulity, Sir Tom felt a pang of anger and wretchedness which
he could not understand. It was not that the family misfortune of the
loss of the heir overwhelmed him, for it was very improbable that poor
little Tom would be his only child; it was a more intimate and personal
sensation. A sort of terrified rage came over him which he dared not
express; for if indeed his child was to be taken from him, who was it
but God that would do this? and he did not venture to turn his rage to
that quarter. And then a confusion of miserable feelings rose within
him. One night he did not go to bed. It was impossible in the midst of
the anxiety that filled the house, he said to himself. He spent the
weary hours in going softly up and down stairs, now listening at the
door of the nursery and waiting for his wife, who came out now and then
to bring him a bulletin, now dozing drearily in his library downstairs.
When the first gleams of the dawn stole in at the window he went out
upon the terrace in the misty chill morning, all damp and miserable,
with the trees standing about like ghosts. There was a dripping thaw
after a frost, and the air was raw and the prospect dismal; but even
that was less wretched than the glimmer of the shaded lights, the
muffled whispering and stealthy footsteps indoors. He took a few turns
up and down the terrace, trying to reason himself out of this