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.”