Bobby Unwelcome
Bobby had learned U that day in school, and he
strutted home beside his nurse, Olga, with conscious relief in the
swing of his sturdy legs. There was a special reason why Bobby felt
relieved to get to U. He glanced up, up, up, sidewise, at the
non-committal face so far above him, and wondered in his anxious
little way whether or not it would be prudent to speak of the special
reason now. Olga _had_ times, Bobby had discovered, when you dassent
speak of things, and it looked--yes, cert'nly--as though she was
having one now. Still, if you only dast to--
"It's the same one that's in the middle o' my name, don't you know,"
he plunged in, hurriedly.
"Mercy! What iss it the child iss talking about!"
There! wasn't she having one? Didn't she usually say "Mercy!" like
that when she was?
"That letter, you know--U. The one in the middle o' my name," Bobby
hastened on--"right prezac'ly in the middle of it. I wish"--but he
caught himself up with a jerk. It didn't seem best, after all, to
consult Olga now--not now, while she was having one. Better
wait--only, dear, dear, dear, how long he had waited a'ready!
It had not occurred to Bobby to consult his mother. They two were not
intimately acquainted, and naturally he felt shy.
Bobby's mother was very young and beautiful. He had seen her dressed
in a wondrous soft white dress once, with little specks of shiny
things burning on her bare throat, and ever since he had known what
angels look like.
There were reasons enough why Bobby seldom saw his mother. The house
was very big, and her room so far away from his;--that was one
reason. Then he always went to bed, and got up, and ate his meals
before she did.
There was another reason why he and the beautiful young mother did
not know each other very well, but even Olga had never explained that
one. Bobby had that ahead of him to find out,--poor Bobby! Some one
had called him Fire Face once at school, but the kind-hearted teacher
had never let it happen again.
At home, in the great empty house, the mirrors were all high up out
of reach, and in the nursery there had never been any at all. Bobby
had never looked at himself in a mirror. Of course he had seen
himself up to his chin--dear, yes--and admired his own little
straight legs often enough, and doubled up his little round arms to
hunt for his "muscle." In a quiet, unobtrusive way Bobby was rather
proud of himself. He had to be--there was no one else, you see. And
even at six, when there is so little else to do, one can put in
considerable time regarding one's legs and arms.
"I guess you don't call _those_ bow-legged legs, do you, Olga?" he
had exulted once, in an unguarded moment when he had been thinking of
Cleggy Munro's legs at school. "I guess you call those pretty
straight-up-'n'-down ones!" And the hard face of the old nurse had
suddenly softened in a strange, pleasant way, and for the one only
time that he could remember, Olga had taken Bobby in her arms and
kissed him.
"They're beautiful legs, that iss so," Olga had said, but she hadn't
been looking at them when she said it. She had been looking straight
into his face. The look hurt, too, Bobby remembered. He did not know
what pity was, but it was that that hurt.
The night after he learned U at school Bobby decided to hazard
everything and ask Olga what the one in his name stood for. He could
not put it off any longer.
"Olga, what does the U in the middle o' my name stand for?" he broke
out, suddenly, while he was being unbuttoned for bed. "I know it's a
U, but I don't know a U-_what_. I've 'cided I won't go to bed till
I've found out."
Things had gone criss-cross. The old Norwegian woman was not in a
good humor.
"Unwelcome--that iss what it must stand for," she laughed
unpleasantly.
"Bobby Unwelcome!" Bobby laughed too. Then a piteous little
suspicion crept into his mind and began to grow. He turned upon Olga
sharply. "What does Unwelcome mean?" he demanded.
"Eh? Iss it not enough plain to you? Well, not wanted--that iss what
it means then."
"Not wanted,--not wanted." Bobby repeated the words over and over to
himself, not quite satisfied yet. They sounded bad--oh, very; but
perhaps Olga had got them wrong. She was not a United States person.
It would be easy for another kind of a person to get things wrong.
Still--"not wanted"--they certainly sounded very plain. And they
meant--Bobby gave a faint gasp, and suddenly his thoughts turned
dizzily round and round one terrible pivot--"not wanted." He sprang
away out of the nurse's hands and darted down the long, bright hall
to his mother's room. She was being dressed for a ball, and the room
was pitilessly light. She sat at a table with a little mirror before
her. Suddenly another face appeared in it with hers--a little,
scarred, red face, stamped deep with childish woe. The contrast
appalled her.
Bobby was not looking into the glass, but into her beautiful face.
"Is that what it stands for?" he demanded, breathlessly. "She said
so. Did she lie?"
"Robert! For Heaven's sake, child, stand away! You are tearing my
lace. What are you doing here? Why are you not in bed?"
"Does it stand for _that?_" he persisted.
"Does what stand for what? Look, you are crushing my dress. Stand
farther off. Don't you see, child?"
"She said the U in the middle o' my name stood for Not Wanted. Does
it? Tell me quick. Does it?"
The contrast of the two faces in her mirror hurt her like a blow. It
brought back all the disappointment and the wounded vanity of that
time, six years ago, when they had shown her the tiny, disfigured
face of her son.
"No, it wasn't that. I morember now. It was Unwelcome, but it _means_
that. Is the middle o' my name Unwelcome--what?"
"Oh yes, yes, yes!" she cried, scarcely knowing what she said. The
boy's eyes followed hers to the mirror, and in that brief, awful
space he tasted of the Tree of Knowledge.
With a little cry he stumbled backward into the lighted hall. There
was a slip, and the sound of a soft little body bounding down the
polished stairs.
A good while afterwards Bobby opened his eyes wonderingly. There
seemed to be people near him, but he could not see them at all
distinctly. A faint, wonderful perfume crept to him.
"It's very dark, isn't it?" he said, in surprise. "I can smell a
beautiful smell, but I can't see it. Why, why! It isn't you, is
it?--not my mother? Why, I wasn't 'specting to find-- Oh, I morember
it now--I morember it all! Then I'm glad it's dark. I shouldn't want
it to be as light as _that_ again. Oh no! oh no! I shouldn't want her
to see-- Why, she's crying! What is she crying for?"
He put out a small weak hand and groped towards the sound of bitter
sobbing. Instinctively he knew it was she.
"I'm very sorry. I guess I know what the matter is. It's me, and I'm
very sorry. I never knew it before; no, I never. I'm glad it's dark
now--aren't you?--'count o' that. Only I'm a little speck sorry it
isn't light enough for you to see my legs. They're very straight
ones--you can ask Olga. You might feel of 'em if you thought 'twould
help any to. P'r'aps it might make you feel a very little--just a
_very_ little--better to. They're cert'nly very straight ones. But
then of course they aren't like a--like a--a _face_. They're only
legs. But they're the best I can do."
He ended wearily, with a sigh of pain. The bitter sobbing kept on,
and seemed to trouble him. Then a new idea occurred to him, and he
made a painful effort to turn on his pillow and to speak brightly.
"I didn't think of that-- P'r'aps you think I'm feeling bad 'count o'
the U in the middle o' my name. Is that what makes you cry? Why, you
needn't. _That's_ all right! After--after I looked in _there_, of
course I knew 'bout how it was. I wish you wouldn't cry. It joggles
my--my heart."
But it was his little broken body that it joggled. The mother found
it out, and stopped sobbing by a mighty effort. She drew very close
to Bobby in the dark that was light to every one else, and laid her
wet cheek against the little, scarred, red face. The motion was so
gentle that it scarcely stirred the yellow tendrils of his soft hair.
An infinite tenderness was born out of her anguish. There was left
her a merciful moment to be a mother in. Bobby forgot his pain in the
bliss of it.
"Why, why, this is very nice!" he murmured, happily. "I never knew
it would be as nice as this--I never knew! But I'm glad it's
dark,--aren't you? I'd rather it would--be----dark."
And then it grew altogether dark for Bobby, and the little face
against the new-born, heart-broken mother's cheek felt cold, and
would not warm with all her passionate kisses.