Chapter III

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.