The Incubator Baby

Naturally, Marjorie got too much candy. Whenever she was alone with one of her family she found candy appearing from unsuspected places about their persons, and she began to like confidential little parties of two.

It was truly joyful to see Marjorie eat candy. She was not greedy. At least, she did not look greedy. She looked surprised and pleased. She never seemed so soulful and sinless as at the moment when her pink lips closed over a bonbon. At such a moment she seemed to forget the world and to live in a more blessed sphere. The committee was particularly strict about candy. It made the most positive rules against candy and had them pasted on the walls of the nursery, and then during its calls, each of its members skirmished to be the last to leave. The last out of the room usually dropped a piece of candy into Marjorie’s mouth.

Her indisposition was a glorious opportunity for the candy givers. Everybody had a good excuse for going to the nursery as often as possible, and she was in a constant glow of cherubic bliss, until the day of reckoning came. She lay on her cot and was crudely, simply sick. Her eyes were sunken and her cheeks varied from pale yellow to feverish red. For the first time in her life she refused candy.

Her family and attendants and her governing committee wandered about the nursery, each with one closed fist hiding a candy, seeking opportunities to bend over the crib, and offer the candy to Marjorie, unseen by the others. They made quite a procession. Someone was bending over the crib every moment. Finally the doctor came and bent over the crib, too, and then all the others joined him.

“That child is sick,” said the doctor, taking her from the crib and concocting a potion.

“We knew that, doctor,” said Miss Vickers. “We knew she was quite ill.”

“Ill!” he said. “Ill! I said sick. Dog sick. She’s overfed. Too much candy.”

“Oh!” they all exclaimed. “Candy! Impossible!”

“The rules of the committee – ” began the chairman.

“Did she eat ‘em?” asked the doctor savagely. “If she did she ought to be sick. It makes me sick to look at ‘em.” He glared at the assembly. “Which of you gave her candy?” he asked. There was no reply. He turned to Marjorie.

“Like candy?” he asked.

“Yeth,” said Marjorie.

“Who gives you candy?” he inquired. Marjorie looked at the faces above her. She selected Chiswick.

“Chithy,” she declared.

Chiswick blushed. The others looked at her in pained surprise.

“Who else gives you candy?” demanded the doctor.

“Papa,” said Marjorie.

Mr. Fielding crimsoned and avoided the eyes that frowned at him.

Miss Vickers alone spared him. She tossed her head defiantly.

“I gave her candy. Lots of it. It’s good for her,” she declared.

“Who else?” demanded the doctor.

“Mamma,” said Marjorie.

Mrs. Fielding put her handkerchief to her eyes. She was afraid of the committee and hid weakly behind her tears, knowing that they would not attack her there, but the committee was not considering an attack. It was preparing a graceful retreat and it oozed away before Marjorie made its baseness known.

“Doctor,” said Mr. Fielding unsteadily, “do you think you can pull her through?”

The doctor rumbled deep in his throat.

“Pull her through!” he growled. “Pull her through! Why don’t you ask me?” he snapped at Mrs. Fielding. Mrs. Fielding wiped her eyes.

“Will she get well?” she asked.

The doctor grew scarlet.

“You ask me?” he exclaimed at Chiswick, but Chiswick only looked mutely miserable, and the doctor turned and faced them.

“Pull her through!” he growled. “Yes, I’ll pull her through. She’s about as ill as I am, but she’s as sick as a dog. Stuffed with candy. I’ll prescribe – ”

He turned, and, walking to the wall, tore down the rules and schedule so carefully prepared by the committee. When he faced Mr. Fielding again he seemed happier.

“How’s your mother?” he asked.

Mr. Fielding gasped.

“My mother!” he stammered. “Why – why, she’s dead.”

“How’s your mother, then?” the doctor asked, turning to Mrs. Fielding.

“Mother is well, thank you.” she said.

“Good!” the doctor cried. “I prescribe one grandmother, one good, old-fashioned grandmother. And see that she isn’t any new-fangled affair, either, or I’ll turn her out and go out on the street and pick one to suit me.”

Marjorie, pale and big-eyed, looked at him wonderingly.

“An incubator is all right when a mother won’t do,” he said, “and a mother is all right when you can’t get a grandmother, but hang your committees and your rules! The only good thing about rules is to find exceptions to them. What this baby needs more than anything else is a course of good, old-style grandmothering.”

He buttoned his coat and paused to pinch Marjorie’s cheek.

“We know what you want don’t we?” he said, and Marjorie smiled a thin, pale smile.

“Want piece candy,” she replied. “Want piece candy,” she replied.