Her grandfather, it
appears, was killed many years ago by the bursting of a boiler; and
she is haunted, poor lady, by the conviction that Theodore is the
inheritor of an hereditary tendency to getting himself blown up. She
attaches no blame to us, seeing in Saturday's catastrophe only the
hand of the Family Curse. I tried to comfort her with the idea that
the Curse having spent itself upon a futile effort, nothing further
need now be feared from it; but she persists in taking the gloomier
view that in wrecking our kitchen, Theodore's 'Doom,' as she calls
it, was merely indulging in a sort of dress rehearsal; the finishing
performance may be relied upon to follow. It sounds ridiculous, but
the poor woman was so desperately in earnest that when an unlucky
urchin, coming out of a cottage we were passing, tripped on the
doorstep and let fall a jug, we both screamed at the same time, and
were equally surprised to find 'Sir Robert' still between us and all
in one piece. I thought it foolish to discuss all this before the
child himself; but did not like to stop her. As a result, he regards
himself evidently as the chosen foe of Heaven, and is not,
unnaturally, proud of himself. She called here this (Monday)
afternoon to leave cards; and, at her request, I showed her the
kitchen and the mat over which he had stumbled. She seemed surprised
that the 'Doom' had let slip so favourable a chance of accomplishing
its business, and gathered from the fact added cause for anxiety.
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