Part 14

"Boston is amusing," she was saying, in her pleasantly emphatic way, "but it's so erratic, don't you know. My nerves always begin to ache after I've been there a few weeks. They are so fond of fads, Clare, those clever Bostonians! They take up everything, you know, and always go to extremes."

"It's American history now, is it not?" I asked.

"Yes," answered Gwen, gazing at the fire musingly. "That's coming in again. But they're perfectly crazy about theosophy just at present. You'd be amazed, Clare, to discover how much I know about Nirvana and adepts and metempsychosis, and all that kind of thing. Several of my most intimate friends have become vegetarians and live mostly on baked beans. It's awfully funny--they take it all so seriously."

"And what do you really think of it, Gwen?" I asked, nervously.

"Think of what, of which, my dear? Of living on beans, do you mean?"

"No. Beans are only a side issue, or, to speak with Tom's scientific accuracy, a side dish. What do you think, for instance, of reincarnation?"

"I don't know what to think about it, Clare," she answered, reflectively, pushing her dainty little feet toward the fire and gazing into my face with earnest eyes. "Do you know, there are times when I really imagine that there's something in it! Of course, it's absurd in a way, but it does solve a great many problems, does it not? It conforms beautifully to the laws of evolution and the conservation of energy, and there are so many things that can't be explained by any other theory! But it always makes me shudder to think of it. Imagine, Clare, being born again in Turkey, for example. Wouldn't it be shocking?"

I laughed, rather hysterically.

"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.

I was recalled to myself by Tom's voice saying:

"What do you suppose has become of them, my dear? Gwendolen! Horatio! Where are you?"

Ah, but the pathos of it all! Gwendolen! Horatio! Where are you? Were you wilfully, heartlessly selfish, indifferent, in your strange ecstasy, to the sorrow that you brought to others, or were you powerless in the grasp of fate, forced through psychical affinity to disappear thus weirdly from the sight of men?

You must see, dear reader, that what I have written cannot come to an end that will satisfy either your mind or your heart. I began with an exclamation point; I must conclude with an interrogation mark. And in that obligation I find that my tale resembles every human life. We come to earth with a cry, and we leave it with a question. So far as man is concerned, evolution has been merely a zigzag progress up from protoplasm to a problem.

And how has Tom withstood the unmaterialistic revelation that I have been forced to make to him and to the public? Has he been shaken in his faith in the teachings of Buechner, Haeckel and Herr Plaetner? Of course, being a man, he is slow to admit that his nursery has vouchsafed to him more enlightenment than his library, but he has grown very gentle and sympathetic when I talk to him about the possibility that the dreams of the brooding East may be nearer the ultimate truth than the syllogisms of the practical West. You see, it was a condition, not a theory, which confronted Tom that morning in our empty nursery.

Nevertheless, he tells me that he has just hired a young detective, who is said to have a genius for solving mysteries that his older colleagues have abandoned as beyond their skill. Let me assure you, dear reader, that if Tom's latest employee gets on the track of Gwendolen Van Voorhees and little Horatio Minturn, I shall see to it that the public be instantly informed of the fact.

* * * * * * * *

*A PURITAN WITCH*

_*A Romantic Love Story*_

*By MARVIN DANA*

_*Author of "The Woman of Orchids," etc.*_

*THRILLING * TENDER * ABSORBING*

This is a romance that abounds in the best qualities of the best fiction: action that is essential and vigorous, sentiment that is genuine and pure, a plot that is new and stirring, a setting that is fitting and distinctive. The artistic conception of the story happily unites realism and romance. The reader's interest is aroused in the first chapter; it is increased steadily to the climax of a happy ending.

*THE ILLUSTRATIONS ARE FROM DRAWINGS IN PHOTOGRAVURE*

*By P. R. AUDIBERT*

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.25

*THE SMART SET PUBLISHING CO.*

*452 Fifth Avenue, New York City*

* * * * *

*The Vulgarians*

*BY EDGAR FAWCETT*

Author of "The Evil that Men Do," etc.

An account of a trio from the West, who become immensely wealthy. Their entry into New York is full of both humor and sentiment.

In this story the author has achieved the best expression of his genius. Parvenus of immense wealth are here made real before the reader, and not only real, but lovable as well. The story is at once ingenious and simple, entertaining and profound. It is a most valuable picture of American life, drawn from facts, and must stand as an important contribution to literature.

COMMENTS OF THE PRESS

_Boston Transcript_.--"An excellent example of the author's skill."

_Mail and Express_.--"Typical of the author's talent in all its phases."

_Willington News_.--"An excellent story of American life."

_Town Topics_.--"Mr. Fawcett has evidently lost none of his cunning as a novelist; this story is full of power and vigorous effects."

Illustrated by Archie Gunn

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.00

*THE SMART SET PUBLISHING CO.*

*452 Fifth Avenue, New York City*

* * * * *

*The Fighting Chance*

*THE ROMANCE OF AN INGENUE*

*By Gertrude Lynch*

The story is a modern romance dealing with prominent public characters in Washington political life, depicting a vivid picture of a phase in the life of an honest statesman. The theme is treated with great skill by an author whose personal experience enables her to write luminously of department life. The love interest in the story is fascinating, while the plot is absolutely distinctive--as original as it is satisfying.

COMMENTS OF THE PRESS

_Utica Press_.--"A cleverly written story and has some fine characters."

_N. Y. Journal_.--"The story is as interesting as it is valuable."

_Salt Lake Tribune_.--"A fine story."

_Boston Transcript_.--"There is enough excitement and love interest in 'The Fighting Chance' to entice anyone who is alert for a good story."

_Town Topics_.--"One of those delightful comedies in which the fighting consists of wit combats, and the story is told with a vividness that makes it possible to visualize all the scenes and characters amid natural surroundings. The action is cleverly dramatic and the denouement is skilfully held in suspense."

Illustrated by Bayard Jones

Crown 8vo, Cloth, $1.25

*THE SMART SET PUBLISHING CO,*

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