Bobbie, General Manager: A Novel

by Olive Higgins Prouty

Ever since Madge's little baby was born, I've wanted one of my own. I didn't care before that, but when I held the warm little thing in my arms for minutes at a time, dressed it, cared for it when the nurse was out, and listened to its poor pitiful little cry in the middle of the night, something seemed to spring open in me that I can't close.

I want a little daughter-companion of my very own! I want to wash her, and dress her and take her out with me. I want her to sit with me rainy afternoons in her little rocking-chair and play while I sew. I want her to tell me all her secrets, and I want to give her all the love, all the good times and pretty things a little girl wants. When Madge brings over her Marjorie, and I see her clinging to her mother's knee when I come into the room, I'd give anything in the world to have some little girl cling to me like that! Will has always loved children; he has wanted them even longer than I, though he never told me. Will affects indifference on the subject, but he doesn't deceive me in the least. I know the lurking hunger is always in his heart as it is in mine.

Why I was so especially down-hearted to-night as we walked home from our tea-party on the hilltop was on account of a remark of Alice Van Breeze's thrown off in her quick, careless fashion. I think Will kissed me in the hall to soothe a little of the hurt of Alice's unconscious words. People who have babies of their own don't guess how many times they stab those who haven't.

"What an ideal place this is for children!" Alice had exclaimed. "Such air! Such sunshine! If you don't mind, Lucy," she had caught herself up, "I shall bring Junior up here often to get some tan in your adorable garden."

"Do," I had said, looking away.

"How is the little chap?" Will had asked her kindly. Will can't even talk about a child without a little note of tenderness in his tone.

"Oh, he's perfect!" Alice had laughed. "The very world revolves about him. Why, we're prouder of that little bundle of bones and flesh than of his father's latest book!"

I didn't look at Will and Will didn't look at me. We're so filled with pity for each other at such moments (and there are many of them) that we can't bear to gaze upon the hurt look in the other's face.

Our whole sad little story can be traced in our house-plans. When we first decided to build, we talked bravely then about the nursery on the sunny side; it looked out towards the south and east; it was large and airy, with four big windows, and a fireplace for chilly nights. When the first sketches arrived the room was plainly labelled in printed letters, and I remember that the mere word gave me a queer thrill of joy. I had, as you know, immediately made patterns of the nursery furniture, placed the paper crib in position, and estimated the number of steps from my bed to the baby's. I had had it beautifully planned for contagious diseases: Will could move into the guest-room, and I and the sick children could be absolutely isolated from the rest of the house, in two lovely rooms with a bathroom of our own. But I needn't have planned on children's contagious diseases. There will never be any little children with measles, or chicken-pox, or whooping-cough in our house, to take care of. I am sure of it now. On the last roll of plans which our architect submitted to us the word printed across the face of the southeast room had been changed from Nursery to Chamber! I think Will must have requested it and I knew then with awful finality that even Will had given up hope. I never asked how or why the room's name had been changed. I simply understood without asking and cried it out by myself in my room. The next day I burned the nursery paper furniture—the crib, the folding yard, the toy-case like Edith's—in the kitchen stove, with a pang as big as if they had been real.

After that I called the southeast chamber, "Ruth's room." I had always secretly hoped that Ruth would live with me if ever I had a house of my own. I had hoped it ever since Alec had married Edith. It hadn't come to pass—it never would. Ruth is so fastidious. But she has spent a night with me very often so I decided to make over the room that no little child seemed to want to occupy, for my only sister. It really was easier to refer to the room as Ruth's. I was glad, after the first shock, that Will had made the change. The evident question and pity in people's eyes when we had called it by its old name had become unpleasant for both Will and me.