The condition of George startled him. Evidently the boy was in a heavy stupor. His body was so feverish that it seemed to give off a perceptible heat. There was no need to touch the skin in order to know that it burned: one divined this. The hair was damp. About the pale lips an irregular rash had formed, purplish, patchy, and the rash seemed to be the mark and sign of some strange dreadful disease that nobody had ever named: a plague. Worse than all this was the profound, comprehensive discomfort of the whole organism, showing itself in the unnatural pose of the limbs, and in multitudinous faint instinctive ways of the inert but complaining body. And the child was so slight beneath the blanket, so young, so helpless, spiritually so alone. How could even Hilda communicate her sympathy to that spirit, withdrawn and inaccessible? During the illness of his father Edwin had thought that he was looking upon the extreme tragic limit of pathos, but this present spectacle tightened more painfully the heart. It was more shameful: a more excruciating accusation against the order of the universe. To think of George in his pride, strong, capricious, and dominant, while gazing at this victim of malady ... the contrast was intolerable!
George was very ill. And yet Hilda, despite the violence of her nature, could stand there calm, sweet, and controlled. What power! Edwin was humbled. “This is the sort of thing that women of her sort can do,” he said to himself. “Why, Maggie and I are simply nothing to her!” Maggie and he could be self-possessed in a crisis; they could stand a strain; but the strain would show itself either in a tense harshness, or in some unnatural lightness, or even flippancy. Hilda was the very image of soft caressing sweetness. He felt that he must emulate her.
“Surely his temperature’s gone up?” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Hilda replied, fingering absently the clinical thermometer that with a lot of other gear lay on the table. “It’s nearly 105. It can’t last like this. It won’t. I’ve been through it with him before, but not quite so bad.”
“I didn’t think anyone could have influenza twice, so soon,” Edwin murmured.
“Neither did I,” said she. “Still, he must have been sickening for it before he came down here.” There was a pause. She wiped the boy’s forehead. “This change has come on quite suddenly,” she said, in a different voice. “Two hours ago—less than two hours ago—there was scarcely a sign of that rash.”
“What is it?”
“Charlie says it’s nothing particular.”
“What’s Charlie gone for?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head; then smiled. “Isn’t it a good thing I brought him?”