The Incubator Baby

Mrs. Fielding looked at her daughter doubtfully.

“Perhaps she needs a little punishment,” she suggested, “but I am not sure that the latest authorities approve of punishment. I will let you know. I should like to consult others before acting.”

Mrs. Fielding laid the matter before the Mothers’ club at its next meeting. She found the Mothers’ club to be frankly and openly divided on the question. Mothers who had at first held the most modern ideas had fallen into laxly illogical methods, and instead of taking broad views of the infant as a theoretical subject, had become rank individualists. Mrs. Jones could talk only of Johnny Jones and Mrs. Smith argued all questions to and from Susie Smith. Mrs. Fielding found no satisfaction there and at length appealed to the monthly convocation of the local federation of Women’s clubs, which included the best intellect of all the women of the city. When the federation had finished considering the question, Mrs. Fielding found that she was one of a committee of four appointed to direct the growth of Marjorie in mind, body, and soul. The federation had undertaken to guide Marjorie through the pitfalls of infancy.

Miss Martha Wiles, of the Browning club, was made chairman of the committee; Miss Vesey, of the Higher Life circle, and Miss Loring, of the Physical Good guild, were members of it, and Mrs. Fielding was added at the last moment to represent the Mothers’ club because the other members of the Mothers’ club said they had enough to do to look after their own babies.

When the committee convened in the Fielding nursery to consider Marjorie’s temper, Marjorie greeted it with a sweet smile. The committee sat on the sofa and Marjorie sat in her crib. She had conquered her backbone and was on good terms with it and the world again.

The committee entered upon its duties enthusiastically. It began by studying the records of Marjorie. It met daily to adopt rules and regulations and spent hours over the card cabinet until it became thoroughly acquainted with Marjorie’s averages. Then it made out a schedule of normal development for mind and body.

Chiswick viewed the schedule skeptically.

“It’s a nice schedule, mam, I’ll say that much for it,” she said, “but if the day comes when she’s entered to creep, and she don’t creep, what am I going to do about it?”

“It is your duty to see that she does creep,” said Miss Wiles.

“Very well, mam,” said Chiswick, “but may I ask one question?”

“You may. It is your duty to ask questions. Refer all your doubts to the committee,” replied Miss Wiles.

“Then,” said Chiswick, “answer me this. On page six of the records of the committee it says: ‘Whereas, the lower strata of air in a room are the abiding places of millions of germs; and whereas, children playing upon the floor must breathe the said air; and whereas, children playing upon the floor take into their mouths and convey thence to their stomachs the said germs, as well as pins, lint, needles, buttons, and other indigestible and highly injurious substances. Therefore, be it resolved, that the said Marjorie Fielding shall never be allowed to sit, lie, recline, or rest upon the floor, nor upon any rug, blanket, or other covering upon the said floor.’ What I want to know is, how the child is to learn to creep if she isn’t to be allowed on the floor.”

The committee looked at itself questioningly. Miss Loring giggled. Miss Wiles alone saved the day.

“You will, of course,” she said, haughtily, “give the child her lessons in creeping upon a table. Mrs. Fielding will see that one is provided.”

When the committee was gone Chiswick walked over to the crib where Marjorie lay and looked at her doubtfully. According to the schedule a creep was due from Marjorie in six weeks and Marjorie had only learned the art of sitting alone. Sitting alone at seven months is not bad progress for an incubator baby and Marjorie was rather proud of it.

“Well,” said Chiswick, “you’ve got to do it, and if you’ve got to do it you might as well begin to learn now.”

Marjorie was lifted and deposited upon her rotund little stomach, which protruded so much that she rocked back and forth upon it like a helpless hobby horse. She looked up at Chiswick appealingly but saw only a stern taskmistress.

“Lie that way a while,” said Chiswick coldly. “Get used to it,” and she went away.

Marjorie laid her cheek on the cool sheet and thought. It was a rather pleasant position. It gave her a comfortable compressed sensation below the waist. She liked it but she could not afford to be idle. She raised her head and peered around, as a tortoise peers, lengthening her neck. A foot beyond her reach she saw her rattle. She stretched her hands for it and only succeeded in bringing her pudgy little nose flat against the sheet. She kicked with her feet, but even that did not bring the rattle within reach; it only served to rock her gently to and fro on her stomach. Marjorie needed the rattle. She had still several hundred shakes to give it before her day’s work would be complete. And the rattle needed Marjorie; it looked forlorn and lonely. Even as she considered the matter Marjorie found that she was raising her body on her plump little arms. They were acting like little posts to elevate her shoulders and head. Then, in a most phenomenal way, one knee doubled itself and drew up under her body, and the other followed it, and she was on her hands and knees.

From this frightfully elevated position the rattle appeared quite near, so near that it seemed as if she could touch it. She put out a hand, and lo! the whole fabric of herself that she had reared, collapsed, and she was sprawled flat on the sheet.

But the rattle certainly seemed nearer. She tried it again, and this time she put her hand forward only a little way, and followed it with the other, but she was firmly anchored at the rear, and there was no elasticity in her body. It would not stretch another inch. She thought of her legs reproachfully. But for them she might even now have the rattle. Her legs felt the reproach and wiggled with shame. They knew they were in disgrace and they longed to come closer and nestle lovingly against Marjorie. One of them moved forward slowly and paused. Its fellow, fearing it was being deserted, moved up beside it, but cruel Marjorie moved her hands forward again.

She could almost touch the rattle! One more forward movement of her legs and —

Chiswick, turning, saw it just in time. She was beside the crib in one bound, and her right hand pressed down upon Marjorie and squeezed her deep into the softness of the crib, and held her there kicking and squealing.

“Land sakes!” cried Chiswick. “You’re breaking the schedule! You can’t creep now. The idea! What will that there committee say! What will they say of you to that federation of clubs! You and me won’t have no reputation left. Don’t you ever creep till I say so. Never!”

She picked up the offended Marjorie and set her upright in the end of the crib. Marjorie rolled over upon her hands and knees. She wanted the rattle. She scoffed at schedules. Chiswick held her down with one hand and reached for the rattle with the other.

“Now I’ve got to watch you day and night,” she grumbled, “or we’ll be having resolutions made about us, and things voted, and land knows what! You’d break the whole constitution and by-laws, you would.”

Marjorie smiled gleefully, and struggled to free herself. Chiswick tied her to the head of the crib with a strip of antiseptic bandage; and entered in the day book: “Tried to creep; restrained by nurse.”

When the committee met again they passed a resolution of thanks to Chiswick for her prompt action, and Marjorie’s private secretary entered it on the records. As she wrote the last word she looked at Marjorie and winked, and Marjorie smiled wickedly.

There were hours when Chiswick was off duty, and then the private secretary was left alone in charge of Marjorie, and those were hours of riotous living. The private secretary was scientific – as a bookkeeper – but as a nurse she was ignorantly human.

She scoffed at the Higher Life for Women; she ate candy and avoided as much as possible her physical good. She refused to be emancipated. She had an idea it meant something in the way of doing without lacing and wearing shoes a size too large for one.

So when she was left alone with Marjorie they had a good time. They sat on the floor and imbibed germs, and they did all sorts of unscientific, retrogressive things. Perhaps that was why Marjorie remained a sweet, cheerful baby instead of becoming a sour little old woman.

One evening when Chiswick was away the private secretary and Marjorie were having a romp on the floor of the nursery. It was a handicap race, a creeping match, and the private secretary was handicapped by her skirts. The two were so interested that they did not hear the nursery door open. When Marjorie had won the twenty-foot dash the private secretary turned, and blushed with confusion and guilt. Mr. Fielding stood in the doorway! A frown darkened his brow and he looked at the private secretary with severity.

Miss Vickers sprang to her feet hastily and brushed out the folds of her skirt.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Fielding. “So this is how you behave! This is what you may be expected to do when you are trusted alone with the child! What do you suppose Mrs. Fielding and the committee would say?”

The private secretary laughed. Marjorie laughed and clapped her hands. Mr. Fielding frowned and picked Marjorie up. He put her in the crib, and Marjorie, rudely taken from her playmate by this stern man, lifted up her voice and wailed. She turned red in the face and howled. There was a swish of silk skirts – which never should be worn in the nursery – a rush of feet, and a hand pushed Mr. Fielding aside. With one sweep of her arms the private secretary gathered Marjorie to her breast.

“What did you do to her?” she cried. “Much you know about babies, and all your silly committees!”

Mr. Fielding paused irresolute. Marjorie cooed gently in her protector’s arms, and her father looked at her curiously.

“You – you don’t believe in scientific motherhood?” he said to Miss Vickers. He seemed to be asking for information; seeking light on a question that had already raised itself in his mind.

“‘Scientific’ doesn’t hurt any, but it needs some mother with it,” she replied. “See her smile!” Mr. Fielding leaned forward cautiously.

“She does, doesn’t she?” he said, with curiosity. “I never saw that before. It is quite interesting.”

“It’s great!” exclaimed the private secretary. “You take her a minute and I’ll show you something else.”

Mr. Fielding took her, carefully.

The private secretary clapped her hands and Marjorie looked toward her.

“Two hands, baby,” she said, and the two pink arms reached out to her.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Fielding, “How human!”

“See if she will do it for you,” suggested the girl.

Mr. Fielding clapped his hands. “Two hands!” he said.

Marjorie looked at him good naturedly. If he was willing to play she could forgive everything. She reached out her hands, and jumped toward her father. Before he knew how it happened, he had pressed his lips to her soft cheek and her hands were entangled in his hair.

When the doorbell rang, half an hour later, Mr. Fielding was on his hands and knees playing “peek-boo!” with Marjorie. Miss Vickers swept her into her crib and helped him to arise hastily. Then she pushed him toward the door.

“It is Chiswick!” she whispered. “Hurry!”

“Yes!” he whispered in return. “We – we will keep this matter private? It is not necessary to inform any one.”

The private secretary watched him nervously while he gave Marjorie a last, long kiss, and then she pushed him gently from the nursery. She really had to push him out.

When Mrs. Fielding was appointed to read a paper on Scientific Motherhood at the annual convention of the national federation of Women’s clubs, she accepted the task with due modesty but not without a sense of complete fitness. Her mere presence in the distant convention city would in itself be a proof of the correctness of her theories. Under what other system could a mother leave her young baby and devote a week’s absence to club duties? She felt quite at ease, however, for the three remaining members of the committee of four were in charge of Marjorie’s welfare, and back of the committee was the entire federation of her city. She took the train with a grateful sense of freedom.

It was the opportunity Marjorie had been awaiting. No sooner had Mrs. Fielding left the city than Marjorie raised her temperature two degrees, just as an experiment. It was wonderfully successful. It made Chiswick scurry around the nursery with distracted concern. Marjorie raised her temperature a few degrees more and Chiswick telephoned for the committee.

The committee came, consulted and wondered what to do. It decided to await developments, and went away again.

As Mrs. Fielding sped toward the place where she was to exercise the noble functions of her mind, Marjorie, in the nursery, lay in the private secretary’s arms, at times sleeping and at times with wide-open, glassy, bright eyes. The private secretary was staying overtime, but she did not mind it. She was glad to stay because Marjorie was fretful and would not let Chiswick touch her.

Marjorie moved about restlessly in Miss Vickers’s arms, trying fresh positions each moment, and tossing her hot head from side to side. Her cheeks glowed red, and the same red overspread her forehead and gleamed through the tossed gold of her hair. Where her head touched it the private secretary’s arm burned as under a hot iron.

The private secretary – who really had no voice at all – chanted:

“Ma-mie had a lit-tle lamb,Little lamb,Little lamb,Ma-mie had a lit-tle lamb,Its fleece was white as snow.”

Marjorie fretted. She did not want to be sung to. She did not know what she wanted. She was not used to being abnormal in temperature, it made her peevish, but she was lovable even so, for through the peevishness stray smiles would creep – sick little “please – excuse – Marjorie” – smiles, to show she had no hard feelings, but just one great uncomfortable feeling.

“You dear, dear, dear baby!” the private secretary exclaimed, and bent and kissed the hot cheek.

It was a hard night for the private secretary but it was a treasured night. It was blessed to feel the little hot baby resting in her arms and to be able to give up sleep and comfort and everything for the sleepless child.

When the sun arose Marjorie had fallen asleep, but tossed restlessly, and on her white skin, from which the fever had retreated, thousands of bright red spots glowed and glowed. Marjorie had the measles.

Chiswick suggested sending a hurry call for the committee, but while she was sending it the private secretary routed Mr. Fielding from his bed. He came to the nursery in bath robe and slippers, and dashed out again to set the telephone bell clamoring.

Before the committee had its pompadours well under way the good old bulky doctor was bending over Marjorie’s crib.

“Very severe attack,” he said, “but not necessarily dangerous. Keep her (and so on), give her (and so on). I’ll drop in after noon.”

When the committee arrived an hour later it had nothing to do but approve or disapprove of what had already been done. It decided to send Mrs. Fielding bulletins. Nothing weak or exciting; just cool, calm statements of facts. Things in the manner of reports to a fellow committee woman.

Mrs. Fielding received the first as she was in the hands of the reception committee.

“Marjorie has measles. No cause for alarm,” it said. She frowned. Why should they bother her with trifles.

About noon she received another message. It read: “Patient’s condition unchanged. No cause for alarm.”

She crumpled it in her hand and threw it on the floor. It had interrupted an inspiring conversation on the Higher Life.

When the doctor visited Marjorie about noon he sat fully five minutes with her, which was unusually long for such a busy man, and as he left he gravely remarked that he would drop in during the evening.

He did not like the way those red spots were fading.

When he returned he frowned. Mr. Fielding was sitting on the cribside holding one of Marjorie’s hot hands and gently passing his fingers over her brow. The private secretary was on her knees at the other side of the crib. But the doctor did not frown at either of these.

“I don’t like her condition, at all,” he said. “Not at all. But I’ll try to pull her through. Telephone my wife I’ll not be home to-night, will you?” Marjorie lay in open-eyed listlessness, staring upward at nothing. Her breath was short and rapid, and her heart beat like the quick strokes of a trip hammer.

She wondered vaguely why this strange thing was happening to her, and when the private secretary touched her she tried to smile, and only succeeded in making white lines about her drawn, dry lips.

It was nine o’clock when Mrs. Fielding arose to read her paper before the national convention, and as she arose she was handed a telegram. It was from the committee.

“Patient seriously ill. Best possible medical attendance. Do not worry.”

Mrs. Fielding read it and walked to the rostrum. “President and ladies,” her paper began, “my child is an example of the benefits of scientific motherhood,” but she did not read it so. As she stood facing her audience, her paper trembled in her hand, and as she looked at the lines written upon it they said but one thing – “Patient seriously ill.”

“President and ladies,” she began, “my child is – my child is – ” The lines vanished and she faltered. “My child,” she said, “is – is very ill to-night. I must go, of course. You must excuse me,” and she turned and fled.

It was rather odd that the first articulate word that Marjorie said in her life was uttered about that time. She had grown more irritable and had pushed away her father’s hand and the drink that the private secretary offered her.

“What do you want, little girl?” Miss Vickers asked, and Marjorie, whole weeks ahead of her schedule, said, “Ma-ma.”

III

For an incubator baby, Marjorie handled the measles remarkably well. After a first reluctant period when she seemed to prefer death to disfigurement, she blossomed into exceeding spotfulness and rioted in soda baths, and then she gently faded into her usual pink-and-white-ness. The effect on her system was excellent, but to Chiswick, her faithful nurse, it brought distress.

The world bows down before a sick baby, but a convalescent baby puts its foot on the neck of the prostrate world and then pushes. Marjorie ruled. She demanded many things. She insisted on being rocked to sleep, and sung to, and being held while awake, and all manner of things that her governing committee considered debilitating and antiquated, and Mrs. Field-ing, glowing with newly found mother love, decided that Marjorie must have them. She felt that a little petting would not harm the child, but she was afraid of Chiswick.

Chiswick, like an incorruptible guard, was always present, and back of Chiswick was the governing committee, and back of the committee was the Federation of Women’s Clubs, and back of that was all the great theory of scientific motherhood and the greater theory of the Higher and Better Life for Women. Mrs. Fielding felt that the eye of the world was upon her, and that Chiswick was that eye. The only way to secure freedom was to put the eye out, so she put it out. She gave Chiswick an afternoon off.

Chiswick went reluctantly. She was a lover of duty, and she had but one desire in life, to see Marjorie keep to her schedule.

Mrs. Fielding and Marjorie had a good time that afternoon. Marjorie learned to put her arms around her mother’s neck and to lay her face close against her mother’s face, but Chiswick wandered up and down before the house disconsolately.

When she was let in she threw off her hat and dashed at Marjorie greedily. She took her pulse eight times in succession and refused supper because she wanted to get so many respirations and temperatures that she had no time to eat.

She was just settling down to a nicely scientific evening when Mr. Fielding entered the nursery. Mr. Fielding feared Chiswick as much as he feared Mrs. Fielding. He cast one glance at Marjorie, sweet and clean in her nightgown, and another at the door, and then smiled at Chiswick. It was a guileful smile.

“Chiswick,” he said, “it is a beautiful evening.”

“Is it, sir?” she asked, coldly.

“Beautiful,” he returned with great enthusiasm. “Beautiful! I never saw a finer night – outside.”

“You don’t say!” she remarked, but her voice expressed the deepest unconcern for the weather. Mr. Fielding moved toward Marjorie. Chiswick quietly slipped between them.

“My!” Mr. Fielding exclaimed. “You are not looking at all well yourself, Chiswick. You are overworking. I don’t know what Mrs. Fielding can be thinking about to let you wear yourself out so. You are so faithful, so – ”

Chiswick shook her head.

“I don’t want no outing,” she said, sullenly. “I’ve had one. I don’t need no more. I’m well.”

“Really,” said Mr. Fielding, “a little run in this fresh evening air would do wonders for you; wonders! It would quite set you up again. You must think of your health, Chiswick.” He eyed Marjorie longingly.

“No, thank you,” said Chiswick. “I’ll try to get along.”

“Chiswick!” said Mr. Fielding. “I insist. You may neglect your health if you wish, but I cannot. What would Marjorie do if you should get sick – and die? I insist that you must go out for a little constitutional. Say for two hours, or three, if you wish.”

Chiswick balked and Mr. Fielding gently put his hand against her shoulder and pushed her to the door. She gave a last longing glance backward into the nursery and went. For two hours she sat desolately on the horse block and then sadly entered the house with a cold in her head.

Marjorie was asleep, but when she heard Chiswick’s tread she sighed and held up one soft hand. Chiswick clasped it – and took her pulse.

The next morning Miss Vickers looked up from her task of filling in the record cards for the previous day and smiled at Chiswick. It was unusual, for they were not the best of friends, and Chiswick hardened instantly.

“I’m looking sick, ain’t I?” she said, defiantly. “I need air, don’t I? I’ll lose my complexion if I don’t go out and sit a few hours on that stone horse block, won’t I? Huh! Not for you! No, mam, I’ll out in the afternoon for Mrs. Fielding, and I’ll out in the evening for Mr. Fielding, if I have to, but I won’t out in no morning for no private secretary. Not much?”

“I only thought,” said Miss Vickers, sweetly, “that perhaps you’d like to take a little fresh air. I don’t mind tending Marjorie, if you would.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Chiswick, shortly.

“Oh!” said Miss Vickers. She wrote rapidly for a few moments. “By the way,” she said, between cards. “I forgot to tell you – ” she wrote in a temperature – “that the committee” – another card – “said that a new sterilizer is needed” – another record written – “and said to tell you to get one” – another card – “this morning.”

Chiswick threw the baby clothes she held in her hand upon the crib with more than necessary violence. She jammed her hat on her head and stuck a hat pin through it vindictively. She ran all the way to the druggist’s and back, and as she entered the house she glanced at the horse block spitefully. Mrs. Fielding met her at the door.

“Chiswick,” she said, “I’m going to let you have another afternoon out to-day.”

Marjorie enjoyed Chiswick’s outings. She found herself in a world where people did nice things to her, and her appetite for petting became a vice. When entertainment stopped she doubled up her fists, closed her eyes and yelled. Sometimes, if her demands went long unanswered, she held her breath until she was purple in the face. Against such a plea only Chiswick could remain obdurate. She seemed absolutely incorruptible, but she was not. Every woman has her price.

It was an afternoon of the meeting of the federation and Mrs. Fielding was out. Miss Vickers was out, too, and Chiswick was happy. She did not have to take an outing.

Marjorie sat on the sterilized floor and planned the downfall of Chiswick. She wanted to be rocked asleep, and that, like Mary’s little lamb, was against the rule. Scientific babies are laid in the crib and go to sleep without rocking. Marjorie wept.