BONNIE MAY OPENS THE DOOR
There was a polite, somewhat nervous exchange of remarks at the
table during the remainder of the dinner-hour. It was the kind of
conversation that is employed sometimes not only to conceal thought,
but to divert attention from the fact that there is anything to think
about.
Nevertheless, every member of the family was thinking hard--and
uncomfortably.
Baron, Sr., was trying patiently to determine what subtle thing had
gone wrong. Mrs. Baron, he knew, was not disagreeable without at least
an imaginary cause.
Victor and Flora were thinking along somewhat similar lines. Why had
their mother deliberately offended an inoffending guest? They knew
their guest was readily to be classified as a “precocious” child, and
Mrs. Baron had always manifested a strong dislike--almost a dread--of
precocious children, whose remarks are sometimes so disconcerting to
those who are not very liberal-minded.
But it was not at all likely that Bonnie May would remain a member
of the household longer than a day or so. Indeed, it seemed quite
probable that she would be called for at any moment. Such a child
would not be permitted by relatives or guardians to go begging.
Yet Mrs. Baron’s conduct might have been accepted as that of one who
begins the tutelage of an adopted daughter. Had their mother jumped to
the conclusion that Bonnie May had come to live with them permanently,
and was she willing to contemplate such an arrangement?
Beneath their small talk, therefore, they were indulging in decidedly
wild hopes and fancies.
When the family were about to leave the table, Mrs. Baron called the
housekeeper. The others appeared not to notice particularly, but
secretly they were all attention.
Said Mrs. Baron:
“Mrs. Shepard, this little girl’s name is Bonnie May. She is to stay
with us this evening. Will you see that the spare room in the attic is
made ready? and if you can add to her comfort in any way, I’m sure you
will.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Mrs. Shepard. The good, simple creature was trying
to hide her amazement. The child had been a guest at the table--and
she was to be put up in the attic to sleep! The attic was really a
third floor; but it was used mainly for storing things, and for the
houseman’s quarters. She regarded Bonnie May briefly--and her eyes
twinkled! The child was smiling at her amiably.
“Mother!” was Flora’s hesitating remonstrance, and Victor paid such
studious heed to the folding of his napkin that it was evident he was
trying to hide his discomfort. In a moment he spoke--quite casually:
“I’m afraid it will be lonesome up there for her, mother. Suppose you
let her have my room to-night. I won’t mind giving it up.”
“Nonsense! There’s no need of your being disturbed.” Mrs. Baron’s
forehead was still creased by menacing horizontal lines.
The guest interposed. The family was rising, and she stood with her
back to the table. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Baron,” she said evenly,
“I’ll go back and make friends with Mrs. Shepard. You know I dearly
love the people who take the--the character parts. They’re usually so
comfortable!”
“Well, run along.” She tried not to speak impatiently. She felt that
there was general disapproval of her mood.
The guest went into the kitchen. At the door she turned. “It was a
lovely dinner,” she said politely. Then she disappeared.
Silence followed, and the family dispersed. Mr. Baron was going out
somewhere. Victor strolled musingly up into the library. Flora followed
her mother up into the sitting-room. There was a good deal of mental
tension, considering the very slight foundation for it.
In the kitchen Bonnie May’s glad bearing vanished. She became strangely
pensive for a little girl. Mrs. Baron did not like her! That was
evident. Yet what had she done, save to take her own part, as she had
always had to do?
Mrs. Shepard did not realize that the child was troubled. When children
were troubled, according to Mrs. Shepard’s experience, their lips
trembled or their eyes filled with tears. There were no such signs to
be read in Bonnie May’s face. She was standing there in that dazed
fashion because she was in a strange place, of course.
“Wait until my work’s done and I’ll bake you a little cake!” said Mrs.
Shepard. She was delighted with the idea. It occurred to her that it
would be a great pleasure to bake a little cake for the child.
“A little cake?” responded Bonnie May dubiously. “It’s kind of you,
you know, but really I’ve just dined.” She put all troubled thoughts
away from her. The kitchen was really a wonderful place. She examined
various utensils with interest. They had all been _used_. She had seen
many of these things before, but they had always been shiny and new.
The property-man had taken care of them.
A little bell above Mrs. Shepard’s head tinkled energetically. The
housekeeper sighed heavily and began wiping her hands hastily.
“What is it?” inquired Bonnie May.
“The front-door bell,” was the answer.
“Oh! how interesting. Let me answer it--do!”
And before Mrs. Shepard could carefully consider the matter, she gave
a reluctant consent. She would have explained what one should do under
certain contingencies, but there hadn’t been time. Bonnie May was gone.
As the child passed through the hall she heard the family moving
about up-stairs. Their voices seemed quite remote; they were almost
inaudible. Bonnie May thought it quite probable that they had not heard
the summons at the door.
She felt a new kind of elation at being permitted to officiate in even
a very small domestic function. She was going to admit some one who
really came from out of the unknown--whose every word and movement
would not be known to her beforehand.
Then the mansion seemed to become strangely silent, as if it were
listening uneasily to learn who it was that had come out of the
darkness and sounded a summons to those within.
Bonnie May caught her breath. Her face was fairly glowing when she
opened the door.
A gentleman stood there; a man who was very substantial-looking and
by no means formidable in appearance. The hall-light fell on him. It
seemed to Bonnie May that he was quite middle-aged. He was well-dressed
in a rather informal way. A short-cropped black mustache had the effect
of retreating slightly between two ruddy cheeks. His eyes expressed
some degree of merriment--of mischief, and this fact gave him standing
with Bonnie May immediately.
“Good evening,” said Bonnie May in her most friendly manner. She
waited, looking inquiringly up into the twinkling eyes.
“I came to see Miss Baron. Is she at home?”
“Will you come in? I’ll see.”
She led the way into the big drawing-room, which was in complete
darkness, save for such rays of light as penetrated from the hall. “I’m
afraid I’ll have to ask you to light the gas,” she added. “It’s too
high for me to reach.”
“Maybe I’d better wait in the hall until you go and tell Miss Flora.”
“Certainly not. Light the gas, please.”
He obeyed, and as the light fell suddenly upon his face she saw that
there was a mischievously meditative gleam in his eyes.
Still holding the burnt match in his fingers, he turned to her. “I
don’t believe I’ve met you before?” he said.
“I only came to-day. Will you sit down?”
“You--living here?” The caller appeared to be in no hurry to have his
arrival announced. He listened a moment to the faint voices above, and
seemed reassured.
“Why, yes--I think so. You see, I always live wherever I happen to be.”
She smiled brightly, to rob her words of any seeming unfriendliness.
She regarded him more in detail. He was a big-bodied man, with a
proper tendency to dwindle away neatly from the shoulders down.
His hair was of the sort that refuses to be quite nice. It was
astonishingly thick and dark, with an occasional glint of silver in it,
and it was close-cropped. She liked the way he stood, too; his chest
well out, his head back, and as if nothing could disturb his balance.
Bonnie May had seen so many men who stood as if they needed propping
up, or as if they would be more secure if they had four legs to stand
on.
He returned her careful scrutiny, and the look of approval in her eyes
brought a ruddier glow to his cheeks and a merrier look to his eyes.
He sat down and held out both his hands, smiling so broadly that she
could see many white, lustrous teeth.
She put her hands into his without hesitation. She felt extraordinarily
happy.
“Tell me,” she whispered, “are you the--the Romeo in the cast?”
He released her hands and brought his own down upon his knees with
vehemence. His eyes were almost shouting with merriment now.
“Wasn’t Romeo in kind of bad standing with his prospective
parents-in-law?”
“Something like that. He couldn’t see Her, except up in a balcony.”
He nodded his head. “Well, then, I’m the Romeo!”
Again she regarded him critically. “You seem a little old for the
part,” she suggested.
“Do you think so?” He was thoughtful for a moment. “Maybe that’s what
Mrs. Baron thinks. She won’t even let me stand under a balcony, when
she can help it.”
“Isn’t she quaint!” This with smiling indulgence. “But of course you
don’t pay any attention to that?”
“Oh, yes I do; we--we have to!”
Bonnie May looked puzzled. “I can’t understand it,” she said. “You look
like the kind that they always play the loud music for.”
“The--loud music?” he echoed.
“As if you were the oldest son, come back in the last act to lift the
mortgage.”
They smiled into each other’s eyes, and then Bonnie May drew close to
him. She whispered: “I’ll see if I can’t get her out of the balcony.”
She turned toward the door. “Shall I just tell her that Romeo is here?”
He stared after her in delighted amazement. “Lord help us, no! Say it’s
Mr. Addis.” His face radiated a joyous light even after she went out of
the room and softly closed the door.
She went up-stairs softly singing. At the door of the sitting-room
she paused. Within, Mrs. Baron was reading one of those irreproachable-
looking books which are always about something very remote. She did not
look up at Bonnie May’s approach.
Miss Baron occupied a soft seat in the bay window, and it was clear
that she was troubled a little.
The child beckoned, and Flora’s face instantly brightened.
Mrs. Baron was fully aware of all that transpired. She believed the
guest was afraid of her. She felt a mild gratification.
When Flora came out into the hall Bonnie May whispered: “I want you to
come down-stairs with me.” She took Flora’s hand and patted it quite
blissfully.
They got to the foot of the stairs just in time to see the outlines of
a masculine form mounting the front steps. The frosted glass in the
door permitted this much to be seen.
“Some one else!” commented Bonnie May, and she turned to Flora. “Do you
have so much company every evening?” she asked.
“So much company!” echoed Flora; she looked puzzled.
“Well, never mind,” Bonnie May hastened to add. “Some one is expecting
you in the drawing-room. And please let me receive the new visitor!”
She opened the drawing-room door, and watched while Flora wonderingly
entered. Then she pulled the door to cautiously. She had heard a low,
forlorn note of surprise in Flora’s voice, and Mr. Addis’s eager,
whispered greeting.
Then she opened the front door in time to prevent the newcomer from
ringing.
[Illustration: “You seem a little old for the part,” she suggested.]
A young man of a rather assertive Bohemian appearance stood before her.
“Hello!” was his greeting. The tone denoted surprise, rather than
familiarity. He hastily added: “Excuse me--is Victor--Mr. Baron--in?”
Bonnie May perceived that he was not quite comfortable, not at all
self-possessed. He seemed to her a strange person to be calling on any
of the Barons. Still, he seemed rather human.
“I’ll see,” she said. “Please step inside.” She would make him wait in
the hall, she decided.
“Tell him, please, that Baggot has called--that I’ve brought the first
act of my play.”
“A play! Oh!”
Again she hurried up the stairs; this time with unconcealed eagerness.
When she entered Mrs. Baron’s room she hesitated. “If you’ll excuse
me--” she faltered. “I’m looking for Mr. Victor.”
Mrs. Baron sat more erect, the open volume in her lap. “Forming a
little organization down-stairs?” she asked.
“Some one’s called for Mr. Victor. I wanted to tell him.”
“Very well. He’s in the library.” She nodded toward the adjoining room.
Victor was alone in the library. He was in the attitude of one who is
about to write, but he was not writing. He was glowering at the paper
before him.
He sprang to his feet eagerly when Bonnie May appeared.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “Flora has, too. We meant to
come and find you before long and get you away from Mrs. Shepard. We
didn’t want to seem too eager, you know. We wanted to wait until the
governess----”
Bonnie May did not wait for him to finish; indeed, he seemed to have
difficulty about finishing. “Mr. Baggot has called,” she said. “It’s
about a play.” She was breathing uneasily. “And couldn’t I sit with you
and listen, please?” she added.
“Oh! Baggot! Baggot is one of my crosses, Bonnie May. Couldn’t you
shut the door in his face? It would be quite proper. He is one of
those silly fellows who think they are destined to write great plays.
Couldn’t you go down and put him out?”
She looked at him steadily without a word. She was smiling a little
scornfully.
“Very well. Suppose you go and ask him to come up--this time.”
“And--do let me come too! They’ve often let me listen when new plays
were being read.”
“Such wanton cruelty!” He shook his head slowly, as if it were quite
incredible. “Oh, well you may come, too,” he added.
Mrs. Baron glanced up from her book again when Bonnie May and Baggot
passed through the room. She spoke to Baggot in the most casual
manner. Bonnie May concluded that he must be a somewhat frequent
visitor. Mrs. Baron was quite frank in her indifference to him. “I
think you’ll find Victor in the library,” she said. She glanced
pointedly at the manuscript in his hand and frowned. “And would you
mind closing the door when you go in?”
Mrs. Baron achieved her cruelties sometimes with such a naïve
directness that they seemed to many people like a kind of high breeding.
Baggot stepped gingerly into the next room, followed eagerly by Bonnie
May. He was closing the door softly when Baron greeted him.
“Hello, Baggot. Done something great again, of course?”
“Yes, I have!” retorted Baggot angrily. He wouldn’t endure Baron’s bad
manners, no matter how he might receive the bad manners of Baron’s
mother. “You’re going to say so, too. I’ve got the first act finished.
I’ve only got to fill in the scenario of the other acts, and I’ve got
the greatest play that ever came out of America.”
Baron smiled wearily. “And I’m to listen while you read the first act
of the greatest play, etc.?”
“Yes--and you’re to agree with me, too. I don’t see anything great in
your sneering at me all the time!” He pulled up a chair and sat down so
that his knees almost touched Baron’s.
Obviously, they were a pair of young men on very intimate terms.
Bonnie May slipped into a remote corner of the room and climbed into a
big chair. Her hand supported her chin; her eyes were luminous. She did
not mean to miss a word.
And Baggot began to read. His face was almost tortured with nervous
energy. He handled the pages as if they were in hopeless confusion, yet
he brought order out of them swiftly.
The reading proceeded ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour. Baggot
read with profound confidence and belief. His staccato tones fairly
hurled the words of the play at his auditors. Baron had put away his
cynic attitude. He had become deeply impressed. He had even forgotten
that it was his favorite pose not to seem deeply impressed by anything.
Bonnie May was like one in a beautiful dream. She was not only
listening to the play; she was living it.
And then her dream was broken in a manner which filled her mind with
almost blank astonishment.
Mrs. Baron appeared in the doorway.
“Bonnie May,” she announced, “I think it’s high time for a little girl
to be in bed.”