AN INDIAN BABY
WHEN old Lovelace-Legge sank into a stertorous final coma which his lovely marble tombstone called by a much prettier name, and the blinds were drawn up after a decent interval, and a tremendous heraldic joke, furnished by Heralds’ College, was dismounted from over the front door, Mrs. Lovelace-Legge, after the requisite period of seclusion, took an exquisite little gem of a house in Sloane Street, furnished it to a marvel, and began, with discreetness, to enjoy herself. All her affairs flourished, her pet plans prospered, her gratifications were many, her disappointments nil; people began to call her “Lucky Lotta Legge.� She took her good fortune as her due.
“Perhaps she feels she deserves something of Providence for putting up patiently with old Lovelace-Legge during those ten awful years,� said Lady Cranberry, her dearest friend, to another just a shade less dear, as they walked up Sloane Street one fine morning.
“I suppose hewasawful?� hazarded the second-best beloved.
Lady Cranberry crumpled her eyebrows. “He had a complexion like New Zealand meat,� she said. “Next time you walk up the King’s Road with Lotta, watch her as you pass a cheap butcher’s shop. She will wince and look the other way, and you may guess what she is thinking of, poor darling!�
“She said to me once,� remarked the second-best one, “‘I always fretted for children, but perhaps they were wisely withheld.’�
“I should think so,� consented Lady Cranberry. “When there is a chance of an infant’s coming into the world with three chins and a nose like Punch, to say nothing of bandy legs and patent shoes like bicycle gear cases——�
The second-best reminded Lady Cranberry that children were not usually born with shoes.
“Of course, I meant feet,� said Lady Cranberry. “Feet of that size and flatness, too. And if there is the merest chance of a child’s coming into the world thus handicapped, it is infinitely better that the child should keep out of it. Here we are at Lotta’s door. Isn’t that cream enamel with the old Florentine copper-embossed knocker and bells too divine for anything? Great Heavens!�
She had evidently received a shock, for she was paler than her powder, and as she clutched her companion’s arm her eyes were fixed in quite a ghastly stare.
“Mercy!� the next best-beloved friend of the owner of the cream-white door with the Florentine copper work adjuncts exclaimed, “you saw something—what?�
But Lady Cranberry, with more energy than her weak state seemed to warrant, had ascended Mrs. Lovelace-Legge’s brown doorsteps, and was plying the Florentine knocker. The servant who responded to the summons thought that Mrs. Lovelace-Legge was at home, but knew her to be profoundly engaged.
“Take up the names. We will wait,� said Lady Cranberry. Then, as the respectful servant went upstairs, she drew her companion into the shelter of a little reposeful niche, in Liberty draperies and Indian carved wood,where palms and things flourished in pots, and an object of familiar shape, in bamboo work, and newly freed from swathings of brown paper, stood upon a table. To this she pointed with a neatly gloved forefinger that trembled with emotion.
“Oh! Why,� cried the other, “it isA BABY’S CRADLE!�
“It was delivered,� said Lady Cranberry, “at this door as we came up. It cannot be for a doll: it is full-sized. What on earth can Lotta want with such a thing?�
As she uttered these words the servant returned. His mistress begged the ladies to come upstairs. He delivered his message, and then, with well-trained gravity, lifted the compromising cradle and led the way upstairs. Mrs. Lovelace-Legge did not purpose to receive her friends in the drawing-room, it appeared, or even on the floor above, where her bedroom and boudoir were situated. The ladies were conducted by their guide to regions more airy still; indeed, their progress knew no pause until they reached the highest landing. Here Lady Cranberry received another shock, for a gaily-painted wooden gate, newly hung, gave access to a space where a rocking-horse stood rampant in all the glory of bright paint and red leather trappings; and beyond, through an open door, shone a glimpse of an infantile Paradise, all rosebud dimity, blue ribbons, and brightness, in the midst of which moved Mrs. Lovelace-Legge radiant in a lawn apron with Valenciennes insertion, issuing directions to a head nurse of matronly proportions, an under-nurse of less discretionary years, and a young person dressed in blue baize, trimmed with red braid and buttons, whose functions were less determinable.
“My dears!� Mrs. Lovelace-Legge fluttered to her friends and kissed them, and nothing save Lady Cranberry’simperative need of an explanation kept that lady from swooning on the spot. “You find me all anyhow,� said Lotta, with beaming eyes. “But come—come and look.� She pioneered the way into the room beyond, with its Lilliputian fittings, its suggestive cosiness, its scent of violet powder and new flannel. “Do you think he will be happy here?� she asked, with a tender quasi-maternal quaver of delightful anticipation.
“Who is—He?�
Lady Cranberry hardly recognized her own voice, so transformed was it by the emotions she suppressed; but Mrs. Lovelace-Legge noticed nothing. “Who?� she echoed, and then laughed with moist, beaming eyes. “Who but the baby? Is it possible I haven’t told you? Or Lucy?� The second-best-beloved shook her head. “No. You see—the news of his coming was broken so suddenly that I was carried off my feet, and since then I’ve done nothing but engage nurses and buy baby things. This is Mrs. Porter�—she turned to the matronly person—“who will have entire charge of my pet—when he arrives; and this is Susan, her assistant. This�—she indicated the anomaly in blue baize and red braid—“is Miss Pilsener, from the Brompton Kindergarten. She is going to teach me how to open his little—littlemind, and be everything to him from the very beginning!�
“Won’t you openourlittle minds?� implored the second-best friend. “You know we are in a state of the darkest ignorance.�
Mrs. Lovelace-Legge dismissed her attendants, and made her friends sit down on the nursery sofa, and sank into a low nursing-chair. She absently tried on an india-rubber apron as she spoke, and it was plain her heart was with the invisible infant. “Ask me questions,� shesaid. “I don’t seem able to keep my thoughts concentrated on anything but—baby!�
“You must understand, Lotta,� said Lady Cranberry, “that to find you in possession of�—she gulped—“a baby is a shock in itself to your most intimate friends. And in the name of your regard for Lucy, supposing myself to have no claim upon your confidence, I must ask you to explain how you come to be in possession of such a—such a thing? And to—to whom it belongs—and where it is coming from?�
“I came into possession of baby through a dear friend,� explained Mrs. Lovelace-Legge. She added: “Perhaps you have heard of General Carabyne—Lieutenant-General Ranford Carabyne of the Ordnance Department, Calcutta?�
Her friends replied simultaneously: “Never!�
“He is the father of my child,� continued Mrs. Lovelace-Legge, “and, I am given to understand, a charming person!�
Lady Cranberry’s lips moved soundlessly. She might have been breathing a prayer for patience.
“The General,� went on Lotta, “married my old school-fellow, Julia Daubeny, in the spring of last year. He had already been married—in fact, had been twice a widower—when Julia met him at a Garrison Gymkhana. It was a case of love at first sight, and I gave Julia her trousseau as my wedding present. And now she is sending me home the General’s baby—the child of his last wife—as it cannot stand the climate, and she knows how I dote on little children.�
“How old is this child?� queried Lady Cranberry.
Mrs. Lovelace-Legge produced a thin crackling envelope from her pocket, and unfolded Mrs. Carabyne’sletter. “Julia always writes without punctuation, and all her capitals are in the wrong places,� she said, apologizing for the hesitation with which she attacked the scrawled pages. “‘I forgot to mention,’� wrote Julia, “‘that the General has one son quite a darling and a favorite with everybody. He was christened Dampierre. There is French blood on the mother’s side, but everybody calls him ‘Dumps.’ He has the sweetest nature and splendid teeth until about six months old——’�
“Incoherent, isn’t she, rather?� hinted Lady Cranberry.
“‘Six months old when he was thrown out of his bamboo-cart’—Anglo-Indian for perambulator, I suppose—‘thrown out of his bamboo-cart with a woman who had got hold of him at the time a most dreadful creature and sustained a severe concussion of the brain. You will gather by this that the poor dear is inclined to be more than a little child.’�
“Is not the sense of that rather—involved?�
Mrs. Lovelace-Legge held out the letter.
“It is ‘child’ or else ‘wild,’� Lady Cranberry said, dropping her eyeglasses.
“As if an infant of six months old could be called ‘wild’!� giggled Mrs. Lovelace-Legge. She read on:
“‘Now the doctors have positively ordered him home, and we have not the least idea where to send him. In this dilemma I thought of you. The General shakes his head, but I have carried my point, and Dumps and his nurse sail by the “Ramjowrah� next Thursday, and when arrived in London will come straight to you. I have every faith in your goodness of heart, and know that poor dear Dumps could be placed in charge of no kinderfriend. He is extremely affectionate—from pursuits which ruin many of the most promising young.’�
“Humph!� ejaculated the puzzled Lady Cranberry.
“Perhaps Julia means tearing his clothes and sucking the paint off his toys?� suggested the second-best dearest friend.
Mrs. Lovelace-Legge read on: “‘Men in India if you have read Rudyard Kipling I need not be more definite we shall look to your gentle influence to wean him.’�
“One thing at least is clear,� remarked Lady Cranberry. “The child is not yet weaned. As to your correspondent’s style, Lotta——� She said no more, but in her mind she harbored a most definite conviction that Julia Carabyne drank. “Eau de Cologne or red lavender,� she thought, “or pure, unadulterated cognac. I pity the General from my heart!�
A few more confused and comma-less paragraphs, and the letter wound up.
“You think I did right?� Mrs. Lovelace-Legge glanced round at her preparations. “But, indeed, I had no choice. How could any woman with a heart—and a nursery——�
“Both unoccupied?� said Lady Cranberry.
“Close her doors against a little sick baby, coming all the way from India in a nurse’s arms? The bare idea strikes one as horrible! Besides, the poor darling may arrive at any moment!� Mrs. Lovelace-Legge dried her pretty eyes with a fragment of gossamer cambric, and then—rat-tatter, tatter,TAT! went the hall-door knocker.
The three ladies started to their feet. Mrs. Lovelace-Legge rushed to the window.
“Can it be?�
“The baby—arrived?�...
“It has! I see the top of a cab piled with luggage!�cried Mrs. Lovelace-Legge, leaning eagerly from the nursery window. “I can make out the Harries Line label on the portmanteaux——�
The second-best friend joined her at the casement.
“One thing puzzles me,� she said, peering downward. “Would a child of that age travel with gun-cases and a bicycle?�
“They may belong to a passenger friend who promised to see the dear child delivered safely into my hands. Ah, here is Simmons!�
Simmons it was, with a salver and a card. He wore a peculiar, rather wild expression, and his countenance was flushed and somewhat swollen; perhaps with the effort of climbing so many stairs. All three ladies hurried to meet him.
“He—it—the——�
“Theyhave arrived?� gasped little Mrs. Lovelace-Legge.
Simmons bowed his head. His mistress could not speak. She took the card without looking at it, and turned away.
“Show them up here!� commanded Lady Cranberry, sympathetically comprehending Lotta’s emotion.
“And pay the cabman,� added the second-best friend.
Left together, the three women broke out into anticipatory ejaculations:
“The pet!�
“The wumpsy!�
“Will it be pretty?�
“Oh, I hope so! But even if it is not,� cried little Mrs. Lovelace-Legge, clasping her hands, “I feel that I shall love it. Ought we�—her eyebrows crumpled inquiringly—“oughtwe to give it a warm bath at once? Where is Nurse?�
Nurse and her understrapper appeared on the scene with the young lady from the Kindergarten. Six eager feminine heads were projected over the balusters of the top landing as masculine footsteps creaked upon the staircase, and a tall young man, dressed in a rough yachting suit of blue serge, raised his eyes—a handsome and ingenuous pair—and blushed under the salvo of optical artillery which greeted his appearance. Behind him followed a grizzled, middle-aged person, evidently a soldier-servant in mufti.
“I—I presume ...,� the young gentleman began, “I—I have the honor....�
“I am Mrs. Lovelace-Legge,� cried the charming widow, craning forward, “and where—oh, where is the baby?�
The young man turned pale. “The—the baby?�
“Haven’t you brought it?� cried all the ladies.
Tears welled up in Mrs. Lovelace-Legge’s lovely eyes.
“Don’t tell me it is dead!� she gasped. “Oh, if that were true, how could I break the news to Julia and General Carabyne?�
“Madam,� stammered the young gentleman, “I am the only son of General Carabyne—Dampierre Carabyne.� He blushed again. “People usually call me ‘Dumps,’� he said, and broke off as all six women screamed at once:
“You! You the baby!�
And the nurses flung their clean cambric aprons over their heads, and rushed in titters from the scene, as poor little Mrs. Lovelace-Legge went into screaming hysterics in the arms of her second-dearest friend.
“It is all a ridi—a ridiculous misunderstanding!� gasped Lady Cranberry, an hour later, as the recovered hostess, her friends, and her newly-arrived guest sat together in the drawing-room. “Let him see Mrs. Carabyne’s letter, Lotta. Perhaps he will be able to—— No! Better give it to me.� She mounted her gold eyeglasses upon her aquiline nose, and conned the Runic scroll a while. “We were misled,� she explained to the young man, “principally by a reference to your nurse.�
“Molloyismy nurse,� explained Mr. Dampierre Carabyne. “He was one of the hospital orderlies at Calcutta, and looked after me when I was ill. And the Pater thought it best that he should valet me on the voyage, being a useful, experienced kind of man.�
“As to this illness you speak of?� said Lady Cranberry.
“It happened six months ago....�
“Ago! I see a glimmer,� said Lady Cranberry.
“When I was thrown out of a bamboo-cart in which I was driving a friend of mine—a very great friend.�
Again the young man colored.
“The woman who had got hold of him,� murmured Lady Cranberry to herself. “And ‘more than a little child’ means ‘more than a little wild.’ I should have seenthatin his eye without a hint from Mrs. Carabyne.�
Thus, bit by bit, the determined lady translated Julia’s letter, which ran as follows:
“He was christened Dampierre (there is French blood on the mother’s side); but everybody calls him ‘Dumps.’ He has the sweetest nature, and splendid health until six months ago, when he was thrown out of his bamboo-cart with a woman who had got hold of him at the time—a most dreadful creature—and sustained a severe concussionof the brain. (You will gather by this that the poor dear is inclined to be more than a little wild.) Now the doctors have positively ordered him home, and we have not the least idea where to send him. In this dilemma I thought of you. The General shakes his head, but I have carried my point, and Dumps and his nurse sail by theRamjowrahnext Thursday, and when arrived in London will come straight to you. I have every faith in your goodness of heart, and know that poor dear Dumps could be placed in charge of no kinder friend.... He is extremely affectionate.... From pursuits which ruin many of the most promising young men in India (if you have read Rudyard Kipling I need not be more definite) we look to your gentle influence to wean him.�
Lady Cranberry took off herpince-nezand refolded the letter. As she did so she glanced toward the snug nook by the fireplace, where the pretty widow, entrenched behind the barricade of her afternoon tea-table, was making but a feeble show of resistance to the raking fire of Dumps’s handsome eyes. In such a mood such a woman as Lady Cranberry shares a corner of the mantle of the Prophets. It occurred to her that the infantile Paradise upstairs might not, if all went merrily as marriage bells, remain so very long untenanted.
And, indeed, at the expiration of a twelvemonth from that date Mrs. Dampierre Carabyne——
Please see the left-hand top corner reserved in the morning papers for these delicate and personal intimations.