The Pretenders (Owen Oliver)/The Wonder

by Owen Oliver

 

III

THE WONDER

WHEN the baby was three weeks old they said that Omi could come down-stairs for an hour or two in the afternoon. So I went home early and carried her down. She laughed so much that I had to laugh, too.

“Why!” she said. “Here's my old laughing Jimmy come back again! I thought I'd lost him.”

I hadn't been laughing very much lately; and I had my reasons; but I didn't want to talk about them. So I pretended to be out of breath, and carried her to the armchair and tucked her up in a rug, and made her lie against the pillows. Then I fetched another chair, and sat beside her, and tried to change the subject.

“It's nice to have you down again, Omi,” I told her.

“Yes—— Why have you given up laughing, Jimmy?”

“So you've noticed,” I said slowly. I could see that it was no use trying to put her off. It never is.

“Of course!” She nodded. “What is it?”

“Another bad habit!” I explained. “You see, I got into rather a way of worrying—before. I wouldn't let you see that I worried, but——”

Omi looked up at me and smiled.

“I saw, Jimmy,” she stated.

“Yes, I suppose you did. I thought, if I pretended to be cheerful, it would cheer you up a bit.”

“It did.” Omi held out her hand, and I squeezed it. “And I thought it would cheer you up a bit, if I pretended that I didn't see! Aren't we dreadful pretenders, Jimmy?”

She laughed again. She didn't seem to have altered a bit.

“I don't seem to be a success as a pretender,” I owned. “You always see through me.”

“Yes. So you may as well tell me at once. What is it?”

“I don't know——”

“Jimmy!” She shook her head at me. “You do.”

“I don't know how to put it, I mean.”

“No,” she contradicted, “you mean that you don't know how to avoid 'putting it.' It's no use bothering about that, because I'm going to make you tell me the truth. And now you can do it!”

“Well,” I said, “it's like this: You see, you weren't just an ordinary wife, Omi. You were a—a sort of chum, too. We liked the same things and the same people, and making fun of everything, and going out together; and things seem different when you have a chum to do them with; and I hadn't any chum when she was up-stairs; and so I didn't feel like laughing; and that's all.”

“And now she's down-stairs,” said Omi; “and that's all. But you aren't even smiling. That isn't a smile. It's only a grimace. What is it?”

“Nothing,” I told her. She didn't contradict me, but watched me with her finger on her cheek.

“Baby is a funny little creature,” she remarked, at last.

“He's a funny little creature,” I agreed.

“Do you think he's like you?” she inquired.

“No,” I said emphatically. “I don't.”

“Nurse says he is.”

“They always do.”

“Mrs. Harraden thinks so, too; and you always say that she's so sensible.”

“You have taken away her reputation in a breath.”

“I think he's like you. But Mrs. Villiers says he's like me.”

“Good gracious, no!” I cried energetically. “Fancy comparing a baby—or anything—to Omi!”

“Who do you think he's like?”

“He's more like a monkey than anything,” I growled.

“Yes!” Omi laughed. “Isn't he? Very like a monkey.” I was rather taken aback at this. I had expected her to be indignant.

“He's not more like a monkey than other babies,” I qualified.

“Not so much,” she said. “Not nearly so much. He's very good-looking—for a baby; and he's got your nose; and he takes a lot of notice, and seems to know people. I'm sure he likes holding my finger better than anybody's!”

“And you like holding his finger better than anybody's,” I told her.

Omi selected one of my fingers, and held it tightly.

“Now I see,” she cried. “You're jealous!”

“No-o,” I corrected. “Not exactly jealous. I do feel a bit envious—sometimes; but that is beastly of me; and I'll soon get over it.”

“There's nothing to get over, Jimmy; but I ought to like him, too.”

“I want you to like him just as much as other mothers like their babies.”

“Oh?” Omi clasped her hands. “But other mothers can't love their baby so much as I love mine—yours! I may love him, mayn't I, Jimmy?”

“Of course you may.”

“And you will, won't you?”

“I dare say I shall get to like the little sleepy bundle, when he's bigger.”

“You like him now, Jimmy,” she insisted.

“Yes, Well, I suppose I do. I do, then.”

“So you can't be jealous of me liking him.”

“I'm not jealous, Omi. I—I don't know how to explain what I mean exactly.”

Omi leaned her head against my shoulder, and didn't say anything.

“It's two troubles in one,” I confessed. “The first is that you won't be able to do all the things we used to do together, on account of——”

“The little soft, sleepy bundle,” she said gently.

“The little soft, sleepy bundle. And so we sha'n't be quite such chums as we used to be.”

“We sha'n't be able to do things together quite so often; but we shall be just as great chums, Jimmy. Think how delighted we shall be when the—the sleepy bundle goes to sleep; and we can run off together and be—just the same as we've always been.”

“Ah!” I said. “We sha'n't be just the same, Omi. That is the second trouble; the real one. We were just two together; and you couldn't say what one was apart from the other. Now you'll live part of your life with him instead of with me, and so you'll alter; and I shall alter, because you have altered. I don't mean that we shall drift apart, or anything of that sort. You'll be a good chum still; and so shall I. We shall be just as fond of each other, I hope, then; but we sha'n't be quite the same people. Anyhow, we sha'n't have quite the same jolly times. There was nothing I wanted altered, Omi.”

Omi drew a deep breath.

“I see what you mean, Jimmy,” she agreed. “I shall have to look after the baby; and so I sha'n't be able to do things with you sometimes. So you'll drop into the club, and—— Don't protest, Jimmy. I'd rather you'd fill up the time pleasantly. And I shall take very good care that you like me better than the club. We shall still be great friends—you mean that, don't you?”

“Yes, little wife.”

“Very great friends; but we sha'n't be a pair by ourselves; and we shall live little pieces of life that are different. And so we shall come to look at things a little differently. Is that it?”

“That's it, Omi.”

“But don't we do that now, Jimmy? You have your office; and a little golf; and once I let you go yachting for two whole days—but I never will again! I couldn't rest a minute.”

“Little goose!”

“Yes. And I have the house; and shopping; and afternoon calls. Why should I alter—because I have another—amusement? He's a very little one, Jimmy.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “He's a very little one; but the other things didn't reckon, and he does.”

“Yes. He does; but—— There are some friends who reckon, Jimmy. There was a time when I felt about them as you feel about baby. I'm much more jealous than you really, and—I expect you know why I didn't like the 'clan' at first, though you've never told me.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I know.”

“And now I'm so fond of Elsie; and sent you to take her home the other night, and never worried for a second; and I wouldn't give the dear old clan up for anything. We don't love each other less because we love our friends more, do we?”

“No, dear: but we have the same friends.”

Omi pulled one arm out of the rug, and put it around me.

“Jimmy,” she said. “We have the same baby!”

A man may be clever and wise—though I am neither—but a woman is far cleverer and wiser. I shall always feel that, when Omi said that, she made a difference in both our lives; but I didn't see it all at once.

“Of course!” I said. “I shall take a lot of interest in him when he grows up; but I meant while he's a—a little sleepy bundle—when he does sleep. And you have everything to do with him. I don't quite see where I come in now.”

“Don't you? Let's have him down for a minute. Only a minute, Jimmy. He shall go back again directly. I don't want even baby with us this afternoon. Truthfully I don't, Jimmy. It's only to—just to explain.”

“I don't see how he can help,” I objected.

“But he can,” she persisted.

“Very well,” I said. “I'll ring for nurse.” But Omi touched my arm.

“Fetch him yourself, Jimmy,” she suggested.

“But why?”

“Because I want you to.” I rose. “Jimmy!”

“Yes, Omi.”

“Be sure you support his back.”

“All right.”

“And see that his face is covered enough, so that he sha'n't catch cold.”

“Very well.”

“And not too much. So that he can breathe, you know.”

“Of course,” I started for the door.

“Jimmy, dear!”

“Well?”

“You won't run down the stairs with him, will you?”

“No, no!”

“Or joggle him?”

I closed the door almost savagely, and trudged up the stairs. Half-way up I relented, and went back and opened the door again.

“I won't joggle the wretch,” I promised. “Anything else?”

“Jimmy,” said Omi, “come here!”

It was five minutes before I went back again.

I went up-stairs and seized a warm, beflanneled bundle from the bed. I felt the bundle cautiously, to find where its back was, and adjusted it carefully on my left arm. I then examined an embroidered flannel thing that went over its head, and arranged a hole the size of a pea to allow of its breathing. On further examination, I made the hole the size of two peas; but it kept slipping farther open, so I sat down on the bed and pinned it with a safety-pin, after I had pricked myself twice. Then I listened at the hole, and made sure that it was breathing all right. I put a shawl over the lot to fend off the draft on the stairs, and walked down as if I was treading on eggs. I listened at the hole again, and put everything straight outside the door. Then I carried it in, and Omi laughed.

“Where am I to put it?” I asked her.

“Put it!” she cried. “Nowhere! You must nurse him, of course!”

So I sat down beside Omi, with the bundle on my knees. She pulled the rug aside, and drew the flannel off—she laughed at me about the safety-pin—and looked at him.

“Isn't he lovely?” she inquired.

“He isn't so red as he was,” I admitted.

But Omi took hold of my coat-sleeve. “He isn't red at all,” she said coaxingly.

“No,” I agreed. “He's——” I looked at him for a long time; and Omi pulled the flannel farther off, and pointed to his little hands gripping each other. If there is anything pretty about a baby, I think it is its hands. “He's—ours!” I said.

“Now you see what I mean!” Omi cried triumphantly.

“I always thought you were clever, Omi,” I said; “and now I know! Of course I see! We shall have to do it together! Bring him up, I mean.”

“Of course we shall! And it will be something to do quite by ourselves; more by ourselves than anything. And so we shall be more chums than ever; and—and—oh, Jimmy! You're the best——”

But I won't put down what she said then. I'm nothing like she thinks me; but I'm better than I should be if she didn't think so.

“So, you see,” she said finally, “if he makes a difference, he'll make a difference to both of us; and if we alter and grow old and wise—but I never shall!—we'll do it together. But we aren't going to alter if I can help it. We're going to have a good time, like we've always had; a jolly time; and we'll be just the very same as we've always been; only we'll have to be dreadful pretenders; because he mustn't know that we are silly and frivolous. No, you're not going to know, Master James!” She nodded at him. “Oh, Jimmy! Look at him eating his fist! And he's only three weeks old. Isn't he wonderful!”

“So he's to be James?” I inquired. Somehow I felt pleased that Omi meant to call him after me.

“Of course! What else could he possibly be! But I shall call him Jack.”

“Then why name him James?” I asked.

“Because I want him to take after his father in everything! And because James Grant is the best name that he can have!”

“Then why call him Jack?”

“Because I call his father Jimmy!” Omi's eyes flashed with their old mischief. “And because you want me to be silly,” she added. We both laughed together.

“Funny little mother!” I said. “And funny little—son!”

I tried to take the pink fist out of his mouth, and he grabbed at my finger and chewed it.

“Isn't he wonderful!” Omi cried.

“He's sharp for his age,” I owned. “He grips like anything; and doesn't he bite? I wonder if he's got any teeth yet.”

“Of course not,” Omi stated. “They won't come for ages yet. You don't understand babies.”

“I believe I felt them,” I persisted. I tried to look; and he opened his eyes and stared at me. He has a sensible stare; not a vacant one, like other babies; and his eyes are like Omi's. I think he's a little like both of us, when you notice him carefully.

“Now you've woke him!” said Omi severely. “Oh, Jimmy! He's smiling!”

He contorted his features, and made a queer little sound.

“He's laughing!” she explained. “Listen to him! Touch his cheek with your finger. It always makes him laugh—mother's beautiful, lovely boy! I believe he understands. See how he holds out his arms. He's looking at you. That's your father, clever boy; your stern old parent, who's going to bring you up in the way you should go; and he's ever so wise and dignified. And this is your mummy; and she's going to bring you up in the way you should go; and she's very, very proper and sensible and sedate; and that's all you'll know, Master James. Isn't he funny! Mother's funny little James.” He made another contortion, and a sort of growl. “Did they call him nasty names! He sha'n't be James. He shall be Jack. Mama's pretty boy; and dada's clever son! There! That's a laugh!”

“It's more like—bad language,” I said. “I believe he's going to howl!”

“The idea! He's—— Here's nurse. Nurse, his stony-hearted father says that isn't laughing. What do you call it?”

Nurse regarded him solemnly.

“A little touch of spasms, ma'am,” she pronounced.

Then I had a real laugh, and so did Omi. Little James gave a fearful yell, and the nurse picked him up and threw him over her shoulder, and patted him till he was quieter.

“Mind!” I cried. “You're not supporting his back!”

Omi gave a regular shriek of delight, and clapped her hands; and the nurse grinned. She was a stout, good-tempered old body.

“I can see you know all about babies, sir,” she said. “So you'll know that it's time I took him back to bed.”

“No!” said Omi. “Let him take him. He knows all about babies.” She pointed at my horrified face and laughed again. I couldn't help laughing, too.

“It seems to me that you're a pair of babies yourselves,” nurse observed. “Howsomever, you'll be a week older before I go! I'll take him, ma'am.” She held out the struggling bundle for Omi to hug; and Omi hugged him, and held him out to me.

“Say good-by to your cruel father, who won't carry his little son,” she said. “Do mind his back, Jimmy!”

“I'm hanged if I don't take him up,” I said. “Come along, son and heir.”

And I carried him up-stairs before I handed him over to nurse.

“That's right,” the old lady said. “You help with him, and it won't come so hard on her. I often think—if you don't mind an old woman speaking plainly, sir?”

“I don't, nurse,” I said. I liked the old dame.

“I think—I'll have to give him a drop of something for these here spasms—I think as a man what likes his baby gets his reward in more ways than one. Take notice of your baby, and he'll take notice of you, I always say; and if he'll come to you it takes a bit of the worry off your good lady; and if you take the worry off her—well, you'll have a young wife longer. She's a nice young wife, sir, though I say so as shouldn't; and she's mighty fond of you.”

“Nurse,” I said, “you're a brick! And I'll tell you a secret. I'm mighty fond of her!”

“And you'll be mighty fond of him before you're done,” nurse declared. “You mark my words! A fine fuss you'll make over him, both of you.”

“I expect we shall spoil the young rascal,” I owned.

I had another look at him; and he really seemed to give a sort of grin, as if he wanted to be friendly—perhaps the grin was only “spasms”; but they wouldn't make him grab my finger like he did.

“I believe he knows me!” I said; and when I went down I told Omi; and she thought that he knew both of us; and perhaps even nurse.

“It's wonderful,” she declared, “what a lot he notices; and he's only three weeks old! And he quite talks in his way; and when he wakes up he smiles so. He's an extraordinary baby; and I really can't call him such an ordinary name as Jack. Couldn't we make a name of our own for him, to show that he's different from other babies?”

“We'll call him 'The Wonder,'” I suggested, “because—if he isn't, we think he is.”

“Yes!” she agreed. “But, Jimmy, I want to whisper, will you think that—that I'm a little bit wonderful, too?”

I think—but it's no use trying to write down what I think about Omi!