Calm and quiet held their negative sway over the Danner ménage for an
hour, and then there was a disturbed fretting that developed into a
lusty bawl. The professor passed a fatigued hand over his brow. He was
unaccustomed to the dissonances of his offspring. Young Hugo--they had
named him after a maternal uncle--had attained the age of one week
without giving any indication of unnaturalness.
That is not quite true. He was as fleshy as most healthy infants, but
the flesh was more than normally firm. He was inordinately active. His
eyes had been gray but, already, they gave promise of the inkiness they
afterwards exhibited. He was born with a quantity of black hair--hair so
dark as to be nearly blue. Abednego Danner, on seeing it, exercised the
liberty which all husbands take, and investigated rumours of his wife's
forbears with his most secret thoughts. The principal rumour was that
one of her lusty Covenanter grandsires had been intrigued by a squaw to
the point of forgetting his Psalms and recalling only the Song of
Solomon.
However that may have been, Hugo was an attractive and virile baby.
Danner spent hours at the side of his crib speculating and watching for
any sign of biological variation. But it was not until a week had passed
that he was given evidence. By that time he was ready to concede the
failure of his greatest experiment.
The baby bawled and presently stopped. And Mrs. Danner, who had put it
to breast, suddenly called her husband. "Abednego! Come here! Hurry!"
The professor's heart skipped its regular timing and he scrambled to the
floor above. "What's the matter?"
Mrs. Danner was sitting in a rocking-chair. Her face was as white as
paper. Only in her eyes was there a spark of life. He thought she was
going to faint. "What's the matter?" he said again.
He looked at Hugo and saw nothing terrifying in the ravishing hunger
which the infant showed.
"Matter! Matter! You know the matter!"
Then he knew and he realized that his wife had discovered. "I don't. You
look frightened. Shall I bring some water?"
Mrs. Danner spoke again. Her voice was icy, distant, terrible. "I came
in to feed him just a minute ago. He was lying in his crib. I tried
to--to hug him and he put his arms out. As God lives, I could not pull
that baby to me! He was too strong, Abednego! Too strong. Too strong. I
couldn't unbend his little arms when he stiffened them. I couldn't
straighten them when he bent them. And he pushed me--harder than you
could push. Harder than I could push myself. I know what it means. You
have done your horrible thing to my baby. He's just a baby, Abednego.
And you've done your thing to him. How could you? Oh, how could you!"
Mrs. Danner rose and laid the baby gently on the chair. She stood before
her husband, towering over him, raised her hand, and struck with all her
force. Mr. Danner fell to one knee, and a red welt lifted on his face.
She struck him again and he fell against the chair. Little Hugo was
dislodged. One hand caught a rung of the chair back and he hung
suspended above the floor.
"Look!" Mrs. Danner screamed.
As they looked, the baby flexed its arm and lifted itself back into the
chair. It was a feat that a gymnast would have accomplished with
difficulty. Danner stared, ignoring the blows, the crimson on his cheek.
For once in his lifetime, he suddenly defied his wife. He pointed to the
child.
"Yes, look!" His voice rang clearly. "I did it. I vaccinated you the
night the cordial put you to sleep. And there's my son. He's strong.
Stronger than a lion's cub. And he'll increase in strength as he grows
until Samson and Hercules would be pygmies beside him. He'll be the
first of a new and glorious race. A race that doesn't have to
fear--because it cannot know harm. No man can hurt him, no man can
vanquish him. He will be mightier than any circumstances. He, son of a
weak man, will be stronger than the beasts, even than the ancient
dinosaurs, stronger than the tides, stronger than fate--strong as God is
strong. And you--you, Matilda--mother of him, will be proud of him. He
will be great and famous. You can knock me down. You can knock me down a
thousand times. I have given you a son whose little finger you cannot
bend with a crow-bar. Oh, all these years I've listened to you and
obeyed you and--yes, I've feared you a little--and God must hate me for
it. Now take your son. And my son. You cannot change him. You cannot
bend him to your will. He is all I might have been. All that mankind
should be." Danner's voice broke and he sobbed. He relented. "I know
it's hard for you. It's against your religion--against your love, even.
But try to like him. He's no different from you and me--only stronger.
And strength is a glorious thing, a great thing. Then--afterwards--if
you can--forgive me." He collapsed.
Blood pounded in her ears. She stared at the huddled body of her
husband. He had stood like a prophet and spoken words of fire. She was
shaken from her pettiness. For one moment she had loved Danner. In that
same instant she had glimpsed the superhuman energy that had driven him
through the long years of discouragement to triumph. She had seen his
soul. She fell at his feet, and when Danner opened his eyes, he found
her there, weeping. He took her in his arms, timidly, clumsily. "Don't
cry, Mattie. It'll be all right. You love him, don't you?"
She stared at the babe. "Of course I love him. Wash your face,
Abednego."
After that there was peace in the house, and with it the child grew.
During the next months they ignored his peculiarities. When they found
him hanging outside his crib, they put him back gently. When he smashed
the crib, they discussed a better place for him to repose. No hysteria,
no conflict. When, in the early spring, young Hugo began to recognize
them and to assert his feelings, they rejoiced as all parents rejoice.
When he managed to vault the sill of the second-story window by some
antic contortion of his limbs, they dismissed the episode. Mrs. Danner
had been baking. She heard the child's voice and it seemed to come from
the yard. Startled, incredulous, she rushed upstairs. Hugo was not in
his room. His wail drifted through the window. She looked out. He was
lying in the yard, fifteen feet below. She rushed to his side. He had
not been hurt.
Danner made a pen of the iron heads and feet of two old beds. He wired
them together. The baby was kept in the inclosure thus formed. The days
warmed and lengthened. No one except the Danners knew of the prodigy
harboured by their unostentatious house. But the secret was certain to
leak out eventually.
Mrs. Nolan, the next-door neighbour, was first to learn it. She had
called on Mrs. Danner to borrow a cup of sugar. The call, naturally,
included a discussion of various domestic matters and a visit to the
baby. She voiced a question that had occupied her mind for some time.
"Why do you keep the child in that iron thing? Aren't you afraid it will
hurt itself?"
"Oh, no."
Mrs. Nolan viewed young Hugo. He was lying on a large pillow. Presently
he rolled off its surface. "Active youngster, isn't he?"
"Very," Mrs. Danner said, nervously.
Hugo, as if he understood and desired to demonstrate, seized a corner of
the pillow and flung it from him. It traversed a long arc and landed on
the floor. Mrs. Nolan was startled. "Goodness! I never saw a child his
age that could do that!"
"No. Let's go downstairs. I want to show you some tidies I'm making."
Mrs. Nolan paid no attention. She put the pillow back in the pen and
watched while Hugo tossed it out. "There's something funny about that.
It isn't normal. Have you seen a doctor?"