One of the great surprises of Mrs. Lennox’s life was the first sight
of her daughter’s baby. She had been by Imogen’s bedside all through
that dreadful June night, until at last the great doctor decreed that
anæsthetics could be given, and her daughter’s frenzied clutch on
her hand slowly relaxed. Then, feeling numb and sick with vicarious
suffering, Mrs. Lennox retired into the adjoining room. There was
nothing more that she could do. In addition to the specialist, the
ordinary doctor and two nurses were in attendance. She would only be in
the way, she felt.
In the boudoir she found her son-in-law. John Vandeleur was sitting
with his face buried in his hands; his ruffled hair and disordered
attire testified to the horror of the vigil. It was the first time Mrs.
Lennox, or indeed anyone, had seen him in such a condition. A wave
of pity and affection came over her. “Imogen isn’t in pain now,” she
murmured, and sank down into the other astonishingly soft armchair.
John Vandeleur made no reply; Mrs. Lennox wondered if he had heard. The
wait went on, broken by heart-clutching sounds from the next room. The
doctor had already told them it was a difficult case--not quite normal,
as he phrased it. A burst of gasping moans was distinctly audible. Mrs.
Lennox interlocked her two hands tightly. “But she can’t really feel it
now; she is under chloroform,” she reassured herself.
There was another long pause. Suddenly both the auditors started.
The wail of an infant tore the silence. “But how loud!” Mrs. Lennox
exclaimed in surprise. “He must have good lungs!” She broke off in a
struggle between laughter and tears.
The thick portière between the two rooms was now pulled aside, and one
of the nurses appeared--the younger and prettier of the two. “A very
fine little girl, Mr. Vandeleur,” she announced deferentially.
John Vandeleur had raised his face at the first sound of the child’s
cry. Although it was ashen with anxiety, there was the light in his
eyes that a successful business _coup_ often put there. At the nurse’s
words this light went out. “How is Mrs. Vandeleur? Ask Dr. Fletcher if
I may go in to her,” he said after a barely perceptible pause.
It was not very long before the great specialist himself came in.
Whisperingly, he urged delay. Mrs. Vandeleur was very weak, not fully
conscious indeed, he explained. There had been trouble, but he thought
all danger was now happily over. Then he suggested to Mr. Vandeleur
that they would both be the better for some refreshment, and carried
him off downstairs. The husband’s presence in the adjoining room all
night had been resented by Dr. Fletcher as quite unorthodox, but he
had had to resign himself. Mr. Vandeleur was a man with whom it was
difficult to insist.
Mrs. Lennox sat motionless in her chair. She seemed to have been
forgotten, and she was very tired. In any case she wanted to remain
near lest Imogen should ask for her. All through these last few months
her daughter had clung to her in a curiously childlike way. This
dependence had culminated in the physical grip of last night, for
contact with her mother had seemed the only thing to bring poor Imogen
the least relief. Half unconsciously Mrs. Lennox began to picture the
little new-comer whose advent had caused the suffering. Doubtless
it was a fair, sweet little being as its mother had been. Even from
the very first Imogen had reminded her of a Dresden figure, the tiny
features had been so clear and delicate, the colouring so exquisite.
Suddenly the nurse again came in; this time she had a blanketed bundle
in her arms.
“Oh, let me see.” Mrs. Lennox rose and tottered forward. How stiff
she felt! A wooden look came over Nurse Vernon’s face. Husbands were
a necessary evil, but all other relations she considered a grievance.
It was to be hoped that this grandmother wasn’t going to poke herself
forward. However, she lifted a corner of the soft blanket so that Mrs.
Lennox might inspect.
Could this be Imogen’s child--this swarthy, dark-haired little
creature? What a funny little face it had, so strong and determined.
The tiny puckered brow and square jaw almost made her laugh. But how
homely! The word was forced even upon a potentially devoted grandmother.
As though conscious of hostile criticism the baby suddenly emitted a
shriek. Certainly Imogen had never cried in such a violently fortissimo
manner. Nurse Vernon hurried away to remove her noisy charge from the
vicinity of the sick room. As she passed through the further doorway
she turned a moment and spoke. “She weighs eight pounds two ounces, and
I’m thinking there’s a temper to match!”
For the next few days Mrs. Lennox saw very little of her granddaughter.
The doctors had decreed that Mrs. Vandeleur must be kept absolutely
quiet, and so the infant was banished to the distant nurseries. But
although Imogen was not allowed to see her baby, she might at least
have asked after her, Mrs. Lennox thought with painful surprise. When
she herself spoke of little Joan--for they had slipped into this name
as being the nearest to the expected ‘John’--Imogen changed the subject
with pettish weariness. Indeed, not only did she appear indifferent
as to the child, but her new affection towards her mother seemed to
have departed. Perhaps she felt and resented the unspoken criticism,
or perhaps the return to her usual state had removed the clinging
dependence. For whatever might be Imogen’s feelings, there was no doubt
that she was making an excellent recovery. Each day visibly brought
back her strength and beauty. By the end of the week, as she lay lapped
in her exquisite lingeries, one would hardly have known that she had
been ill.
It was really time, Mrs. Lennox felt, to put an end to this unnatural
state of affairs. She did not announce her project as she went out of
her daughter’s room and up to the nurseries. A complete suite in the
further wing had been set aside for the baby’s use, three rooms with a
bath, scullery and small kitchen attached. Mr. Vandeleur himself had
superintended their being fitted up on all the latest and most approved
principles of child culture. The floors curved into the walls and walls
into ceilings in the manner reminiscent of an operating theatre; it
would have needed a hardy germ to secure a foothold. The dull green
colouring had been selected to avoid eye-strain, and, at the same time,
cultivate a child’s artistic sense. For the same reason the charming
frieze of cocks and hens had been painted by an artist of distinction.
A Vandeleur child must not like the mere ordinary baby be condemned to
machine-made wall paper bought by the yard. Some patent material, soft
yet highly hygienic, covered the floor, while all the furniture, also
in green, had been specially designed to secure an absence of angles.
“Why didn’t you have a padded room straight away?” Mrs. Lennox had
flippantly asked when she saw it. “And what are you going to do with a
naughty child without a corner to stand it in?”
It was to this Elysium that the grandmother now betook herself. Even if
Imogen didn’t care for her baby, she reflected, little Joan had every
other possible advantage. Had not Nurse Vernon been detailed off to
the child’s exclusive service, while yet another highly-trained nurse
had been engaged to attend her during the night? In addition to these,
there was the nurserymaid, Bridget, not sufficiently certificated to
touch the baby, but who washed the baby’s clothes and waited on the
nurses, and, in a yet lower circle, a Scandinavian woman who was too
rough for attendance on the baby’s nurses but competent to clean her
nurseries.
With a knowledge of these circumambient rings of ministration, Mrs.
Lennox was rather surprised to hear a wailing as she approached. The
baby was lying on the couch, which, to Mrs. Lennox’s old-fashioned
ideas, was a queer place for a young infant. However, both nurses were
sitting near doing their interminable crochet work, and, although they
took no notice of the infant, they were evidently in attendance. It
struck Mrs. Lennox that the poor little thing did not look as plump or
robust as she had done the previous week. “What is Baby crying about?”
she asked as she came forward.
Both nurses looked annoyed, and Mrs. Lennox felt that she had worded
her enquiry without due deference. “We are having a great deal of
trouble over the food,” Nurse Vernon answered shortly. She got up and
went over to the couch. “No doubt Dr. Fletcher will soon find a diet
that suits her.”
“I was fortunate in not having to feed my baby artificially.” The
nurses looked unresponsive and slightly shocked, so Mrs. Lennox
did not pursue the subject. At this point little Joan began to cry
loudly. “Don’t you think she might stop if she were taken up?” the
grandmother ventured. After all, Mrs. Lennox reflected, she was not
so entirely ignorant as these nurses imagined. In addition to her
own daughter, she had had a good deal to do a year or two ago with a
baby boy, whose mother was a member of the theatrical company. Miss
Mainwaring, the mother in question, was a clever and domestic woman
who had successfully brought up a large family under the difficult
conditions of stage life, and although she had gratefully accepted
her friend’s help, she was so competent that she had hardly seemed
to need it. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox had often thought that she herself
was the gainer, for, besides acquiring a good deal of baby lore, she
became devoted to little Willie until they were separated by the ever
fluctuating currents of the dramatic profession. However, fortified by
this experience, Mrs. Lennox reiterated, “Surely as Baby is crying so,
it would be better to take her up.”
“I should think it would be the very worst thing,” Nurse Vernon rudely
retorted. “Dandling babies is absolutely old fashioned.”
Mrs. Lennox flushed. Then she remembered her purpose which she had
forgotten in her agitation. “Well, I shall be obliged to be an old
timer, for Baby is going down to see Mrs. Vandeleur.--What an unnatural
daughter not to have said ‘Howdy’ to Momma yet!” The mild jest, a
foolish attempt at propitiating the nurses, was received in depressing
silence.
It might be bad, as the nurses said, to dandle babies, but the fact
remained that little Joan stopped crying as soon as she felt herself
lifted in her grandmother’s arms. Mrs. Lennox bore her burden out
of the nursery and downstairs in some triumph. The infant was still
quiet as she carried her in to Imogen’s room; indeed, the little
thing even opened her eyes; they were large and dark and formed her
one redeeming feature. Either Mrs. Lennox’s gratification over such
exemplary behaviour, or the fact that she herself had grown used to the
determined swarthy little face, made her quite forget to prepare Imogen
for the baby’s ugliness. “Look, darling, at your little daughter,” she
said, and she approached Imogen’s bed.
The young mother glanced round. In spite of herself she could not
help feeling an interested curiosity. It would be rather attractive,
she felt suddenly, to possess a dainty, exquisitely dressed little
baby, like a large-sized wax doll. Yes, she would allow bygones to be
bygones. Mrs. Lennox now lifted the covering head shawl. There was
a sharp cry of horror. “Oh Mother,” Imogen gasped. “It’s hideous,
absolutely hideous! And I was made so ill for that! Take it away. I
never want to see it again, never!” She turned and hid her face in the
pillow.
The fiasco was complete. The next day Imogen had a headache and her
temperature had again gone up. Little Joan had passed a very bad night,
which, of course, was put down to the grandmotherly escapade. Nurse
Vernon went so far as to say that she must give up the post if her
charge were interfered with. She complained to Dr. Fletcher, and he
in his turn spoke to Mrs. Lennox, politely, indeed, but with a latent
severity. “Nurse Vernon feels that she has the responsibility of the
case,” he explained, “so perhaps it was not quite fair to take away the
child. I consider her an excellent nurse, and it would be a pity for
Mrs. Vandeleur to lose her.”
After this there was nothing left for Mrs. Lennox but to stay away from
her granddaughter. She felt this would have been impossible had Imogen
kept to her hysterical threat of never seeing her baby again, but, as
the weeks passed, returning health brought a more normal attitude. To
do Imogen justice, she always performed her duty as she conceived it.
Every morning at ten o’clock precisely she visited the nursery and
carefully inspected the clothes that the baby was wearing that day.
It was probable that even in Fifth Avenue there was no child with a
wardrobe to rival that of little Miss Vandeleur. Not that Joan’s robes
were excessively ornate. Imogen’s flawless good taste in clothes made
her realize the vulgarity of an over-dressed infant. It was rather
that the material, and whatever trimming the gowns had, was of such
an exquisite fineness as to suggest a fairy origin. Even the superior
Nurse Vernon was grudgingly impressed.
Yet with it all, with the unreal clothes and the scientific nurseries,
with the automobile drives and the retinue of attendants, little
Joan Vandeleur did not seem to thrive. For four months she went
on moderately well, gaining weight some weeks, at a standstill the
others, crying a good deal all the time. The fifth month was definitely
unsatisfactory. Whether it was the bitterly cold weather, or the
approach of teething troubles, they did not know, but her weight went
down steadily, and the intermittent wailing became almost continuous.
For hours she lay crying in her cot while the nurses toiled over Dr.
Fletcher’s diet instructions, weighing and measuring and heating with
scrupulous accuracy. Asses’ milk, peptonised milk, humanized milk, they
were all tried in vain.
Mrs. Lennox stood it as long as she could. But each time she went
upstairs in her daughter’s house, she heard the distant sounds of the
baby’s crying, and each time she saw the child herself, the queer
little face seemed to have grown queerer, while a pinched look had come
over it that had not been there before. The eyes were so big now that
they were quite startling; they had a sort of appealing look, Mrs.
Lennox fancied, that cut her to the heart. “I wouldn’t have a baby cry
all day long like that, not for the universe,” she broke out at last to
her daughter.
“But don’t all babies cry a great deal?” Imogen asked, genuinely
surprised.
“They cry when they are hungry--they’ve no other way of telling you.
But they don’t cry for nothing. Why, when you were a baby, you were as
good as gold for hours together.”
“Nurse Vernon says that Joan has a very bad temper,” Imogen observed.
“Bad temper--a baby not five months old.” It was too much; Mrs.
Lennox fairly boiled over. “If I had my way I’d pack off both those
young women--a nice pair they are! How they can sit there with their
eternal crochet and never lift a finger while the unfortunate little
thing screams herself hoarse passes my understanding! Oh, I know it’s
their theory,” she went on quickly as Imogen seemed about to protest.
“You needn’t tell me that the child gets every attention and has its
temperature taken six times a day and is weighed before and after each
meal--as if she didn’t have trouble enough already, poor little wretch.
But what I say is the proof of the pudding is in the eating. That’s
why I think you ought to make a change. You might do better and you
couldn’t do worse. See here, darling,” she concluded coaxingly, “won’t
you give Baby into my charge when you go to Florida next week. I feel
so certain I could do better with her.”
“My dear Mother!” Imogen’s tone was coldly displeased. “It is very kind
of you, but really do you know very much about babies? It seems to me
absurd to think that you could manage her better than Nurse Vernon and
Nurse Smith.”
“At any rate, Imogen, I had charge of you, and you didn’t look like
your baby does,” Mrs. Lennox urged.
It was the wrong thing to say. “I don’t imagine that I was ever so
ugly as Joan,” Imogen retorted bitterly, “but I hardly feel that I am
responsible for that.”
“I wasn’t talking about the child’s being homely but about her being
ill. I tell you what, the poor little thing looks starved. Yes, that’s
it--starved.”
“How can you be so ridiculous, Mother?” Imogen was now definitely
angry. Indeed, the remark did sound foolish, for the amount spent on
Joan’s food would have kept a working class family in comfort. “You
know quite well that Baby has everything the doctors order.”
The discussion was closed, but someone besides Mrs. Lennox had
begun to notice little Joan’s appearance. For some weeks after the
child’s birth, Mr. Vandeleur had kept away from her almost as rigidly
as his wife. He had made up his mind so definitely as to the sex
of the approaching baby that the disappointment had been almost
insupportable. For Vandeleur & Son was more than an old established
firm; in this republican land it ranked almost as a dynasty. And now
there was no son, and one day there would be no Vandeleur, he told
himself bitterly. Imogen, he knew, was absolutely determined never to
have another child; indeed, she had been so ill that he, himself, could
hardly wish it. No wonder that he could not bear to enter the nurseries
prepared so carefully for the heir-apparent.
Sometimes, however, he came across his daughter being carried about
the house. Nurse Vernon felt that the great Mr. Vandeleur was a very
different person from an interfering, unimportant grandmother, and
so she always made a point of displaying her charge and cordially
answering the one or two stereotyped questions that were put to her.
For the last fortnight Mr. Vandeleur had not chanced to see the nurse,
but this morning he met her on the stairs. Baby was duly exhibited, and
her appearance gave him a shock. “Is she ill?” he asked.
“She is not very well. We cannot find a satisfactory food for her, but
Dr. Fletcher is trying a new formula to-day. Perhaps it will suit her
better.”
Mr. Vandeleur was looking at the little pulse throbbing in the blue
depression of the child’s temple. How often he was asked to contribute
to funds for hungry children--earthquake victims, starving refugee
families, a few of the many clamorous charities came to his mind--and
now he, John P. Vandeleur, was apparently unable to feed his own baby!
“Probably her teeth are troubling her.” The nurse’s words broke in upon
his thoughts.
He felt it a lame explanation. Every child must get teeth, he
reflected, and he was sure it did not make them all look like this.
“How old is she?” he asked abruptly.
“She will be five months next Monday.” Nurse thought that the interview
had gone on long enough, and drew aside to let her employer pass.
Mr. Vandeleur had taken to walking the first part of the way to the
office since his wife had ceased accompanying him, now about a year
ago. He had hoped that when Imogen got strong again, she would resume
the practice, but she had not suggested doing so. Indeed, since the
child’s birth a curious change had come over young Mrs. Vandeleur.
It almost seemed as though she bore her husband a grudge for all she
had gone through, she was now so indifferent to his society. To-day,
however, as he walked briskly through the cold air, Mr. Vandeleur was
not thinking of his wife, but of his daughter. Although it was early,
Central Park teemed with children. How sturdy they looked, running and
shouting with their straps of lesson books. There were already a few
baby carriages out. Hitherto Mr. Vandeleur had considered these only
as annoying obstacles in his path, but to-day he found himself peering
into them curiously. One, that he overtook, contained a fat, fair baby
whose face looked like a pink rose on the white pillow. “How old is
that infant?” Mr. Vandeleur suddenly asked the young nurse.
“Not four months, and he weighs eighteen pounds,” the girl replied,
flushing with pride and embarrassment. “And he’s that good, you
wouldn’t know there was a baby in the house.” The child gave a lusty
crow as though to confirm--or perhaps contradict--her words.
When he arrived down town, instead of going straight into the office
as usual, Mr. Vandeleur turned down a side street. It took him into
the heart of the poor Jewish quarter. Here were babies in plenty, some
in push carts, but more often carried in the arms of their mothers,
capable, foreign-looking women in head-shawls. These were evidently
doing their day’s marketing, as they bustled in and out of the queer
little shops with Hebrew inscriptions, whose stock seemed to consist
of pickled herrings and olives, and “wurst,” and such-like highly
flavoured comestibles. These children, with their curly dark hair and
olive skins, their funny little noses, already hooked, were of quite a
different type from most of the Central Park babies, but they resembled
them in being plump and healthy looking. One infant Mr. Vandeleur
passed was peering out from under its mother’s enveloping shawl like a
little bird in a nest; its big dark eyes reminded him of Joan. All at
once it stretched out a fat grubby little brown paw as though to shake
hands with him. The millionaire put his stock interrogation. “How old
is that child?”
The woman looked enquiring; she evidently had but a slight acquaintance
with English. But on Mr. Vandeleur repeating the words and pointing to
the baby, she seemed to understand. “Fünf-feeve Monaten,” she said,
nodding and smiling, and holding up her hand with the digits outspread
for his better understanding. “Und so streng!” She put the baby girl at
arm’s length to show how she could sit up without any support at the
back.
Mr. Vandeleur put a quarter into the baby’s hand, and was amused at the
way she clutched it. Indiscriminate giving was totally at variance with
his principles, but he was doing so many unusual things to-day that it
did not seem to matter. “Buy her a toy, not candy,” he stipulated.
That evening the Vandeleurs were dining alone. It was a rare occurrence
nowadays, but a restful evening was imperative in view of Imogen’s
departure to Florida the next morning. She had never quite regained her
strength after the child’s birth, although her beauty had returned;
indeed, perhaps it was even enhanced by the touch of physical languor
and delicacy. Certainly she had never looked lovelier than this evening
as she lay on the sofa in a wonderful Chinese teagown. John Vandeleur
was sitting in a hard, upright chair; this was one of his peculiar
preferences. “I think Joan is very ill,” he said suddenly.
“Oh nonsense! Of course she isn’t robust, she never has been.” Imogen’s
tone was fretful. “Babies seem to be nothing but a trouble from the
time you get them. I’m sure I don’t know what more could be done for
her. She has two highly-trained nurses and a nursery maid, and Dr.
Fletcher is in constant attendance. And as for the money spent on her,
I believe our expenses are doubled. Her clothes cost nearly as much as
mine.”
“I don’t suppose expensive clothes affect her much one way or the
other,” John Vandeleur sensibly observed. “What does Fletcher say about
her?”
“Oh he thinks she’s got a supersensitive digestion. But he’s trying
new diets all the time; he is sure finally to get something that suits
her. Oh, I’m so tired of all this fuss about asses’ milk and sterilized
foods. Do let’s talk of something else.”
Mr. Vandeleur ignored the observation. He was rather haunted by the
little face he had seen that morning in the nurse’s arms. Moreover, his
pride was pricked. This baby was, after all, his daughter. Compared
with all those other infants he had seen, she was a failure. He was
not used to being associated with failures. “Do those young women look
after the child properly?” he demanded.
“Of course they do. Didn’t I tell you they had the very highest
possible certificates? Dr. Fletcher quite raves about Nurse Vernon; he
says she’s extraordinarily methodical and accurate and all the rest of
it. You’re as bad as Mother. She had a crazy idea that things would be
better if she took Baby away and looked after it herself. You both seem
to think I’m neglecting my child.” Imogen suddenly burst into tears.
“As if it were a pleasure for me to hear her shrieking all the time!
The sound does not reach your room but it does mine, in spite of the
baize doors. It nearly drives me insane.”
Mr. Vandeleur did not pursue the subject. Instead he tried to comfort
his wife. It was true that he had been rather shocked from the very
commencement by Imogen’s attitude about the baby. Lately, however,
this feeling had been replaced by anxiety as to his wife’s continued
delicacy; both he and Mrs. Lennox had warmly seconded the doctor’s
advice of a season in Florida. He had even arranged to escort his wife
himself, and nothing but the most urgent business would have detained
him. However, some friends had been found with whom Imogen could
travel, and Mr. Vandeleur hoped soon to rejoin her, for, at least, a
part of her stay.
The following evening found the ‘copper king’ a grass widower. Usually,
even when his wife was at home, he left her to entertain any visitors
and retired directly after dinner to his library. It was a beautiful
room, and, as a young man, he had made a valuable collection of books,
but nowadays he was always too busy to enjoy them. To-night, when it
seemed such a favourable opportunity either for business or study,
he avoided the library altogether. Instead he walked upstairs in a
slightly stealthy manner, and went into his wife’s empty bedroom. Once
inside he stood listening. Yes, there it was, muffled by the distance,
but quite distinct--the fretful, steady crying of a baby.
John Vandeleur sat down by the dressing-table. Then he took off his
watch, which he wore on a fob, and laid it before him. “I’ll give them
ten minutes,” he murmured. He got a notebook out of his pocket and
began checking some figures to employ the time. Every now and then he
paused, but the wailing never ceased. At the end of the time he shut
his watch with a snap and pursued his upward journey.
This was actually the first time he had been into the wing since its
occupation by his daughter. But the numberless interviews he had held
there with architects and decorators had made it very familiar ground.
The child’s crying came from the night nursery. The door was shut. He
knocked gently. To his surprise there was no reply. He knocked again
with the same result; so softly opening the door he went in.
The cradle was standing at the side of the room. It was a beautiful
antique of ebony inlaid with ivory, taken from some old Italian palace.
This was the sole article of furniture that had been allowed corners,
as it would be outgrown before the child reached the crawling age.
Inside one saw a miracle of creamy softness; there was a tiny white
satin eiderdown, and a snowy pillow edged with real lace. In the centre
of all, looking singularly out of key, was the swarthy, emaciated
little face, swollen and bleared with crying. No one else was there.
The nurses could be heard talking and laughing in the day nursery, the
door of which, Mr. Vandeleur had noticed, was closed. He again took out
his watch and sat down in a chair that stood by the baby’s cradle. They
should have a further five minutes’ grace to test if the absence were
momentary or deliberate.
He suddenly found that the baby’s eyes were fixed upon him; there
was a distinct interest in them. The crying grew more moderate. Mr.
Vandeleur felt surprised; he had hardly before realised his offspring
as a human being. That other baby this morning had put out her hand,
he remembered. He wondered whether this baby could do the same. Slowly
he advanced his forefinger towards her thin little clenched fist. She
did not move until he touched her hand; then suddenly the tiny fingers
curled round his large one. The crying stopped. So they remained,
staring at each other, for a couple of minutes.
Suddenly the baby’s face contorted, the corners of her mouth becoming
oddly square. Another spasm of pain had seized her. She began to shriek
piteously. Surely this would bring a nurse. No one, however, appeared.
Mr. Vandeleur’s face had also changed. His cheeks flushed and the
bridge of his nose gleamed white, a trick it had when he was angry. So
this was the way in which these highly certificated young women looked
after his daughter. Moreover, he felt almost unbearably pitying and
powerless. But he would wait until the five minutes were up. Besides
the baby was still clutching at his finger; he did not like to pull it
away.
The nurses were not quite so reprehensible as Mr. Vandeleur imagined.
Had he looked at the temperature and food charts on the mantelpiece,
he would have found them written up with the most meticulous care. The
last entry was not half an hour before, when the infant had last been
fed and attended to. It was system, not neglect, that left her lying
in her cot. She could not yet even sit up alone, so what possible harm
could overtake her? It was not unnatural for the nurses to feel, that,
as they could do so little, it was useless to be made unnecessarily
uncomfortable by the continual miserable noise.
Nurse Vernon had indeed just observed that Baby seemed to be crying
a good deal, and perhaps she ought to go in to her. But the dinner
had been good, and they were sitting there so comfortably with their
crochet work in the two easy chairs. Suddenly the door opened. “Mr.
Vandeleur,” one of them gasped. They both rose to their feet, feeling
horribly guilty; they did not quite know why.
“You will kindly come to my library to-morrow at ten o’clock, and
I will settle with you for the salary that is due. I shall have
no further need for your services. In the meantime I hold you
responsi----” A sudden access of shrieks cut short Mr. Vandeleur’s
dignified utterance. “Can’t you do anything to stop that poor child
screaming like that?” he demanded furiously, and strode away.
This was not, however, the end of Mr. Vandeleur’s activity on Joan’s
behalf. He went straight to his library and rang up Mrs. Lennox. He did
not like being put in the position of asking her assistance, indeed
this whole feeling of helplessness was most novel and unpleasant. But
what else could he do? His mother-in-law had at least brought up
Imogen successfully. “I heard that you kindly offered to take the baby
for a short time,” he called down the ’phone.
In five minutes it was all arranged. Mrs. Lennox was to call at the
Vandeleur’s house for Baby at half-past nine the following morning--how
early, she thought with a shudder. Her son-in-law pressingly gave
her _carte blanche_ to engage, in the meantime, any other nurses or
attendants that she required, but Mrs. Lennox replied that she was
satisfied with little Bridget, the nurserymaid. She had watched the
girl and considered her careful and conscientious. Moreover, she had
once come upon her in tears standing in the passage while the baby
wailed in its _cinquecento_ cot. “Och, me mother would nivver allow one
of me little brothers or sisters to cry its wee heart out like that,”
the girl had sobbed indignantly.
Although Mrs. Lennox was confident in the evening, a wakeful night
brought many qualms. As her daughter had said, what, after all, did
she know about babies? With Willie Potter--Potter was the name of
Miss Mainwaring’s husband--there had always been the mother in the
background, and it was twenty years since Imogen was a baby; besides,
she had never had the artificial food difficulty. As she lay awake
tossing, she wondered whether she had been an old fool to undertake the
charge.
The next day she was convinced of it. Moving Baby and Bridget had
been an easy task. Everything had been packed by the time Mrs. Lennox
reached Fifth Avenue, and the short drive in the warmed automobile
really seemed to soothe the child. But once little Joan was established
in her new quarters, she again began to wail, and had gone on almost
incessantly ever since. It was clearly the food that did not suit her.
She took it eagerly enough, but a few minutes later the screaming would
start again with increased vigour. And yet Mrs. Lennox could not
reproach herself with any lack of care. She had received from Nurse
Vernon the diet formula in the great Dr. Fletcher’s own handwriting,
and had followed it with the awed intensity of a religious devotee.
Surely when the evening came, the child must grow tired and sleep. “It
will be all right on the night.” Mrs. Lennox smiled wearily as she
repeated the theatrical formula.
Evening brought no relief. Indeed, the child’s discomfort seemed to
increase. The tired grandmother could not harden her heart to follow
the nurse’s practice, so, in the old-fashioned parlance, she began to
“walk the floor.” To her joy the crying at once subsided. Baby closed
her eyes as though she were mesmerised. Presently, as the infant seemed
sound asleep, the grandmother laid her in the cradle. Immediately, she
roused and started to cry. Three times Mrs. Lennox hushed the little
creature off to sleep, and three times, as with the most burglar-like
care, she tried to insinuate the little form into the cot, Joan again
woke. Well, Baby must sleep in her arms, Mrs. Lennox told herself. She
found a low chair and sat down with her burden.
For the next twenty minutes peace reigned. Mrs. Lennox was gazing
down at the tiny, baby face, while an immense pity gripped her heart.
Why should the poor little thing have had to suffer so? How ill she
looked, even in her sleep. But it was a clever head, the grandmother
told herself; surely in it lay dormant possibilities. And what long
lashes! They curved darkly over the soft colourless cheek. Suddenly as
she watched, she saw the child twitch. Some stab of pain again produced
a cry. Mrs. Lennox hurriedly began to walk until the infant once more
slept sound.
This routine was repeated at intervals until about two o’clock. Then a
bottle was due. After it the child’s pain evidently increased. Even by
walking the grandmother could not now soothe her cries. Mrs. Lennox
remembered having heard that fretful babies were quieted by singing,
but she thought ruefully that on no living being could her singing
have such an effect! As the next best thing, she began to declaim
softly, repeating pieces of poetry, little scenes from plays, blank
verse, anything that came to her mind. The crying once more stopped.
Suddenly, as she was quoting some animated passage, she saw the little
countenance change. Yes--surely--Baby was smiling--smiling while
the pitiful little tears still rolled down her cheeks. A feeling of
triumph, such as on Biddy’s first night, glowed in Mrs. Lennox. This
was success indeed! “You darling,” she murmured, and finished the scene
in her very best style.
Perhaps for a quarter of an hour the actress declaimed while Joan
lay there quietly smiling. Then possibly the attention of so young
a playgoer wandered, or else the pain increased. There was another
outbreak of crying.
By five o’clock Mrs. Lennox was so worn out that all emotion had
ceased. She heard the child’s wailing merely as a noise with the
personal element eliminated. She began to wonder whether there had ever
been a time without it. Almost she had reached the condition of the
nurses; she longed to go out of the room and shut the door behind her.
Her arms ached to such a degree that she thought in another moment she
would drop the child. So she laid her in the cradle and crept into her
own bed.
The grandmother had overrated her stoicism. In spite of two sleepless
nights Mrs. Lennox found she could not doze off while the wailing
continued. But she could not carry the child about any more; that was
out of the question. There was one other expedient that suggested
itself. It was entirely reprehensible, she knew--one of the seven
deadly sins in a nurse’s code. Lifting the tiny little form out of the
cradle, she snuggled it down beside her in her own bed. The crying
stopped. Probably the warmth relieved the infant’s pain. Three minutes
later both Mrs. Lennox and her granddaughter were sound asleep.
It was broad daylight when Mrs. Lennox again woke. Half-past eight; the
baby had slept for over three hours. No doubt she would awake soon and
want her bottle. Very cautiously the grandmother slipped out of bed,
and after making a hasty toilette, prepared the child’s meal. She again
studied the physician’s instructions, so as to avoid any possibility of
mistake. She had hardly finished when little Joan awoke. The baby was
evidently ravenously hungry, but the grandmother, reminiscent of Miss
Mainwaring’s oft repeated instructions, would only allow the bottle to
be taken slowly. “We won’t run any risks; there’s going to be no horrid
pain this time,” she murmured in triumph.
The victory was shortlived. Before the bottle was even finished the
baby’s face again grew contorted. The familiar shriek followed. For
a moment Mrs. Lennox stared in absolute despair. But her sleep had
refreshed her; she was more capable now of dealing with the situation.
Miss Mainwaring had once told her that she had had great difficulty
with one of her children. It couldn’t take cow’s milk, however
prepared. They had been in despair, Miss Mainwaring had said, until
they had tried some patent food, and from that time the child had
thrived. Mrs. Lennox had related this incident to Nurse Vernon, but
her words had been received with a sniff of contempt. “If you want to
give a child rickets, give it those foods,” Nurse Vernon had snorted.
But, after all, Mrs. Lennox now reflected, she had seen this child,
then a sturdy girl of nine or ten, and certainly she had no sign of
rickets. Of course, her actress friend had not called in the leading
infant specialist of New York, and so she had been free to experiment.
Still the great doctor had not been markedly successful! But dared she,
a mere grandmother, take such a risk? However her reprehensible bed
panacea seemed to have answered; possibly this condemned food might
also bring the child relief. A fresh outburst of wailing decided her.
Bridget was dispatched to the nearest drug store.
While she was gone Mrs. Lennox washed and dressed the baby. The nurses
would have been horrified by the sketchy nature of the proceeding, but
the grandmother had only two ideas, not to fatigue the child and not to
give it cold. The poor little thing cried almost continuously until her
next meal time.
As Mrs. Lennox made up the new preparation, she felt physically sick
with anxiety. Suppose this food made little Joan worse; suppose she
screamed still more violently; suppose she died. Mrs. Lennox’s face was
haggard as she put the bottle to the infant’s mouth.
Joan seemed to like it--that was one relief. Still she had liked the
other preparation. Again Mrs. Lennox administered the bottle with
enforced slowness, clinging to her one item of mother lore. Every
instant she expected the little face to pucker and the shrieking
to start. The infant sucked on placidly. At last the bottle was
finished. Still there was no sound. Mrs. Lennox’s ears ached with
the apprehensive strain. She began praying, a thing that she had not
done for years. “Don’t let her cry, God, don’t let her cry,” she was
repeating in her thoughts again and again. The baby’s eyes began to
close. At last, almost amazed at her own audacity, Mrs. Lennox laid the
little figure in the cot. Still it did not stir. A benison of silence
fell upon the room.
Two days later Dr. Fletcher called. Mr. Vandeleur had sent him to
report on the baby’s progress before he, himself, rejoined Imogen in
Florida. “Oh, this is better,” the great specialist exclaimed directly
Mrs. Lennox brought the infant in. “So, at last we’ve found a diet to
suit her.”
“Yes.”
The doctor began thoroughly to examine the child, giving approving
murmurs as he did so. At last he had finished. “Excellent, excellent,”
he exclaimed. “Just continue the same formula exactly.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lennox said again. “But it is not the food you ordered.”
Her experiment was related. “You’ll let her go on with it?” she urged
desperately as the doctor’s face changed.
“Of course, of course.” The great man laughed. “If you have found out
something that suits her, by all means go on with it. I am willing to
write myself down a failure! In a couple of weeks you might begin to
add a little sterilized milk--start with half an ounce in each bottle,
you know,--and see if she can take it. But I leave it to you. If only
society mothers would realize all that is entailed by their refusal to
nurse their children themselves!”
That first week Joan gained seven ounces, the next week twelve. Mrs.
Lennox felt most absurdly proud and excited. The weekly weighing took
the place formerly held in her life by the box office returns. When,
a month later, Mr. Vandeleur came back from Florida, his daughter had
become quite a plump and presentable person. The little face was round
and rosy, although the clothing had sadly deteriorated. Indeed, Mrs.
Lennox had felt that it was too much responsibility to cope with such
a superior wardrobe, and had put most of it away, buying a few little
inexpensive flannel gowns. Joan was sitting up on her grandmother’s
lap, patting together her dimpled little hands, when Mr. Vandeleur
arrived. “I can hardly recognize her,” the millionaire said, startled.
He sat looking at the pair curiously. Baby had begun to grab at her
Granny’s pincenez, and was crowing with delight. “Where did you learn
the management of infants?” he asked at last. “I should hardly have
thought you would have had much practice in such a rôle.”
“Oh, you don’t know the possibilities of a theatrical career!” Mrs.
Lennox suggested with a sudden audacity. After all, her profession
had brought her in connection with Miss Mainwaring. Besides, did not
intellectual training in any direction produce a more competent person?
A shade crossed Mr. Vandeleur’s face at the mention of the forbidden
sphere. Still he realized that he was now under a distinct obligation
to his mother-in-law. “I can hardly attribute your present success with
Joan to your stage life,” he replied stiffly.
“But to what else do you attribute it? I have had no other life,” Mrs.
Lennox retorted.