"The whole subject is too silly for any use," I managed to say, in a
superior kind of way. "It does very well for Boston, of course, but it
will never have much of a run here in New York."
"What a narrow way of looking at it, Clare!" exclaimed Gwendolen,
protestingly. "Of course, I'm not a theosophist, but I'm broad-minded
enough to realize that what's true in Benares or Boston must be true in
New York. If reincarnation is really going on in this world, I can't
believe that any exception is made in favor of our Knickerbocker
families."
Again I laughed aloud, nervously. It was pleasing to me to discover
that Gwendolen had a mind open to startling truths, but I regretted the
fact that I must henceforth constantly fight against the temptation to
tell her my great secret. The imminence of my peril in this regard was
illustrated at once, for she turned to me suddenly and asked, with great
vivacity of manner:
"Where is the baby, Clare? Won't you let me see him at once? I came to
visit him, you know; not you or Tom. He's got such a lovely name!
'Horatio' is so fine and dignified! What do you call him for short, my
dear?"
"I have not given him a nickname, Gwendolen," I answered, coldly. "If
you wish to, we'll go to the nursery at once. As I told you in my
letter, we've had difficulty in getting the baby a nurse. Just at
present, I'm obliged to spend most of my time with him. But I gave you
fair warning, you know."
"I'm so glad that I can have the run of the nursery," cried Gwendolen,
gaily, springing to her feet. "I do so love really nice children,
Clare! Is he a jolly baby? Will he take to me, do you think?"
I answered her question as we reached the door of the nursery: "I am
sure I can't say, Gwen. Horatio is very eccentric and pronounced in his
likes and dislikes. But if he goes to you at once, follow my advice and
don't toss him up and down violently. He says--that is, he doesn't like
to be shaken after taken."
*CHAPTER X.*
*AN UNCANNY FLIRTATION.*
And thou, too--when on me fell thine eye,
What disclos'd thy cheek's deep-purple dye?
Tow'rd each other, like relations dear,
As an exile to his home draws near,
Were we not then flying?
--_Schiller_.
I must acknowledge that the enthusiasm displayed by the baby when he
caught sight of Gwendolen filled me with mingled astonishment and
annoyance. He sat bolt upright in his crib, waved his hands joyously in
the air, and crowed lustily. I realized that the poor little chap was
laboring under a delusion, that he had mistaken Tom's fascinating cousin
for a new nurse; but, even so, why should he act as if he were
intoxicated with happiness? I could not check the conviction that Jack
was making an exhibition of very bad taste by his warm reception of
Gwendolen. That I was jealous of her was not true--that would have been
absurd--but it was not pleasant to realize that the baby could rejoice
openly in the advent of one who, as he believed at the moment, was to
take my place in the nursery. Jack's horrible psychical disaster had
greatly endeared him to me, and I could not help feeling hurt at his
eagerness to go to a perfect stranger. There was something not
altogether infantile in the way in which he threw his chubby little arms
around Gwendolen's neck and tucked his smiling little face into her
cheek, chuckling contentedly, while the girl laughed aloud.
"Isn't he just the sweetest little thing that ever lived!" cried
Gwendolen, with spontaneous enthusiasm. "Did you see him jump right
into my arms, Clare? Such a thing never happened to me before. Is he
always so cordial to strangers?"
"As I told you, Gwendolen, Horatio goes to extremes in his likes and
dislikes. He evidently approves of you." For the life of me, I could
not prevent my voice from sounding cold and harsh. But the girl was too
thoroughly interested in the baby to note the lack of cordiality in my
tones.
"'Oo clear 'ittle angelic creature," she was murmuring to him, as she
seated herself in the rocking-chair, with Jack cuddled in her arms.
"Will 'oo always love 'oo cousin Gwen?"
Here was a kind of baby-talk that Jack seemed to like, for his every
sound and movement expressed approval of Gwendolen's nonsensical
endearments. But, I must admit, it annoyed me. Logically, I could not
blame Gwendolen for displaying a sudden fondness for the baby. She had
no way of knowing that she was holding my first husband on her lap. I
was glad that she was ignorant of the fact, but, while my mind fully
exonerated her, my heart protested against her fetching ways with the
child. Jack as a baby had never appeared to such advantage. He smiled
and laughed, winked his eyes, made funny little holes with his mouth,
and waved his tiny fists in the air in a kind of oratorical way that was
irresistibly amusing.
"He's perfectly sweet!" cried Gwendolen, glancing at me with dancing
eyes. "I don't think that I ever cared much for a baby before, Clare,
but Horatio has cleared the first bunker beautifully. Is he always like
this?"
I laughed aloud, nervously. I hadn't the courage to say anything
uncomplimentary of the baby at that moment, not knowing how far I could
trust Jack's self-control, and so I remarked, in a non-committal way:
"He's a very good baby, on the whole, my dear. Of course, he isn't to
be blamed for protesting if things don't go just right with him."
"Of course 'oo aren't, 'oo lovely 'ittle caramel," murmured Gwendolen,
her cheeks pressed against Jack's baby face. "I've always been so sorry
for babies, Clare, because they couldn't talk. It must be trying when a
pin is sticking into you somewhere to have your gums rubbed by a
misguided nurse, or to be rocked violently when the heat of the room has
made your head ache."
The baby gave vent to a most astounding yell of delight, a very
precocious exhibition of emotion that made Gwendolen laugh merrily. But
his vivacity quite upset me. I feared, momentarily, that his enthusiasm
would find speech an imperative necessity, and that Gwendolen would
discover to her consternation that what was theory in Boston had become
practice in New York. Thereupon I acted in a most tactless way. I bent
down and removed Jack from Gwendolen's arms to mine.
"Put me back, or I'll denounce you," whispered the baby, in my ear.
Then he began to howl in the most exaggerated infantile manner. I was
annoyed to realize that my cheeks had flushed with anger and that a
feeling of hot jealousy had swept over me. Gwendolen, sympathetic and
impressionable, had noticed the outward manifestations of my inward
turmoil and had hurried toward the door.
"I'll go back to my room, Clare," she said, as she passed me. "When
you've put him to sleep, come to me. I want to tell you what I think of
him. _Au revoir_, 'oo dear, sweet 'ittle marshmallow!"
Jack and I were alone in the nursery, and I seated myself wearily in the
rocking-chair, holding the uneasy baby on my lap.
"What did you do that for, Clarissa?" he growled, kicking violently with
his expressive legs. "I was in for the time of my life--this life, I
mean--and you deliberately snatched me from that lovely girl's arms and
practically drove her from the room. Do you not realize that you have
been very cruel, my dear? Surely you can't be ignorant of the fact that
I lead a very colorless life. Suddenly the tiresome humdrum of my
existence is broken by a chance for a perfectly harmless flirtation. Do
you rejoice at your little baby's momentary relief from ennui? Not at
all; you treat me with the most tyrannical harshness, grudging me the
slightest change in the horrible monotony of this infernal nursery.
What's that girl's name?"
"Gwendolen Van Voorhees," I murmured. "She's Tom's cousin."
"She called herself Cousin Gwen and expressed the hope that I might
always love her," mused Jack, gazing with eyes too old for his face at
his dimpled, restless fists. "I don't like Tom, Clarissa, but his
cousin does him credit. I shall always love her. No, don't rock, my
dear. I don't want to go to sleep. If you don't mind, Clarissa, I
should like to lie very quiet and think about Gwendolen. Isn't it a
beautiful name? I'm sorry my name's Horatio. Don't rock, not even a
little bit. I'm very nervous, am I not? I'd give half a dozen slips and
my silver rattlebox for a smoke, Clarissa. Do you think that a
cigarette would hurt me?"
"You remember, Jack, that cocktails didn't agree with you," I argued,
soothingly. "I'm sure that tobacco would be very bad for you."
"Of course you are," grumbled the baby, resuming his impatient gestures
with his legs. "You think that everything worth having is bad for me,
Clarissa. I suppose that you intend to cut me off entirely from Cousin
Gwen?"
"Don't be unreasonable, Jack," I implored him. "Gwen can come here just
as often as she cares to. But you must realize, Jack, that I have no
confidence left in your veracity or discretion. You don't keep your
promises to me and you seem to have no realization of the terrible
results that might come from a discovery of your identity."
"Is this a curtain-lecture, Clarissa?" growled Jack. "I tell you
flatly, my dear, that I can't stand much more. I've about reached the
limit of my self-control. There's a deadly dullness to this kind of a
life that is slowly driving your sweet 'ittle baby-boy, Cousin Gwen's
caramel and marshmallow, to desperation."
"But what can you do, Jack?" I asked, frightened by the peculiar tones
in his voice. "My role is as hard to play as yours, is it not? We must
both be brave and circumspect, my dear."
"Bah!" exclaimed the baby, rudely, clutching at my chin with his absurd
little hands. "You may rock a little now, Clarissa, very gently.
Perhaps I could get a nap if you'd stop scolding me for a few moments."
*CHAPTER XL*
*A MYSTERIOUS ELOPEMENT.*
Empty is the cradle; baby's gone!
--_Old Song_.
From one standpoint I have come close to the end of my narrative; from
another, I am still at its beginning. But, with Tom's permission, I
have placed the foregoing facts before the public in the hope that the
statement may be read by somebody in Europe, Asia, Africa or America,
who is able to assist us in solving a hard problem. The New York
newspapers have mingled fact and fiction, realism and romance, in the
articles bearing upon what they call "The Great Minturn Mystery," in a
manner most annoying to my husband and myself. The only really
sympathetic and enlightening account of the awful affliction that has
fallen on our erstwhile happy home was printed by a Boston journal whose
editor is a Buddhist. But I'm getting too far ahead of my story!
Yet I have nothing to relate that you, who keep abreast of the times, do
not already know. You remember reading in your morning newspaper, a few
months ago, of the strange disappearance from Mr. Thomas Minturn's town
house of his baby, Horatio Minturn, and a guest, the well-known society
favorite, Miss Gwendolen Van Voorhees. You have perused, I suppose,
subsequent journalistic presentments of the case, telling how futile had
been the search for our lost ones. Tom, as the public knows, has
offered enormous rewards for the slightest clue that should serve to
throw even a glimmer of light upon the most astounding disappearance of
modern times. We have employed the most famous detectives in all parts
of the world in our vain efforts to find some trace of the fugitives--if
such Jack and Gwendolen may be called. But, up to the present moment,
we have learned nothing that can help us in any way in our weary quest.
In desperation, and as a last resort, I have written and published this
account of the events that led up to our great loss. When the editor of
a magazine insisted that I should choose a title for my amazing
presentment of our weird experience, a lump came into my throat and
tears bedimmed my eyes. Had not Jack himself, with a most uncanny
foresight, chosen the title of my unwilling deposition? "Clarissa's
Troublesome Baby!" Alas, how little did I realize at the time of his
suggestion how appropriate would be this caption to my melancholy tale!
"Where's Gwendolen?" Tom had asked of me at breakfast upon the morning
of the fateful day that was to shatter for all time my second husband's
materialistic tendency of thought. "In the nursery, as usual, I
presume?"
"She'd rather play with the baby than eat or sleep, Tom," I answered
laughingly. "In the present dearth of nursemaids, Gwendolen's
enthusiasm for Horatio is most opportune."
Tom laughed as he lighted his after-breakfast cigar.
"Let's go to the nursery, Clarissa, and bid them good morning. I
haven't seen Horatio for forty-eight hours. I'm glad that Gwen likes
him so well, but I really feel that I am entitled to a glimpse of the
youngster now and again."
Thus did Tom and I gaily mount the stairway to our doom. We rushed, so
to speak, with laughing faces, to the very edge of a precipice, and
toppled over, with a quip half spoken upon our white lips.
As we entered the nursery, crying playfully to Gwendolen to abdicate the
throne she had usurped, we were struck silent and motionless by the
sudden discovery that the room was empty. Tom was, of course, less
shocked than I by Jack's deserted nest. There came to me, as I stood
there, cold and trembling, on the threshold of the nursery, the
conviction that I was confronting the scene of another miracle, an
environment within which I should never again be annoyed by psychical
mysteries.