STILL UNCLAIMED
Baron was on his way to see Thornburg.
On six days and seven nights Thornburg was one of the busiest men
in town. But there was one day in the week when he liked to pose as
a man of leisure. From ten or eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, and
until the latter part of the afternoon, there were few people about
the theatre to disturb him or to claim his attention. And during these
hours it was his practise to lean back in the comfortable chair in
his private office in the theatre and look through old letters and
souvenirs, if there were no callers, or to exchange current gossip or
old reminiscences with the people of his profession who dropped in to
see him. Usually these were managers or agents who happened to be in
town, and sometimes there were veteran players who were retired, or who
were temporarily unemployed. And occasionally there were politicians
who liked to keep on affable terms with the source of free passes.
When Baron entered the manager’s presence he found that usually engaged
person quite at liberty.
The little office was a place which was not without its fascination to
most people. On the walls there were framed photographs of Jefferson
as Rip Van Winkle, of Booth as Richard III, of Modjeska as Portia, and
of other notable players. In many cases the pictures bore sprawling
autographs across their faces, low enough not to hurt. Between these
authentic ornaments there were fanciful sketches of dancing girls in
extravagant costumes and postures, and a general ornamentation scheme
of masks and foils and armor.
So complacent and open-minded was Thornburg when Baron appeared that
the latter came to a swift, seemingly irrelevant conclusion.
“Nobody has claimed her! She’s going to stay!” were the words that
formed themselves in Baron’s mind. The dull, monotonous aspects of
the old mansion were to be changed. A new voice, like a melody rising
above droning chords, was to greet his ears at morning and night. A
thing of beauty was to take its place before the background of dull,
long-established things.
No one had come to Thornburg to demand of him the child who had
disappeared from his premises--Baron could read as much in the
manager’s expression. Wonderful! Truly wonderful!
“You haven’t had any word yet?” he began.
Thornburg was used to Baron’s ways. He had a friendly contempt for the
dilettante young man about town and newspaper writer who could have
made a place for himself, as everybody agreed, if he had chosen to do
so, but who indulged himself by following his own ill-directed bent,
merely because he was--well, because he was Baron--or _a_ Baron.
“Not a word,” he replied, smiling indulgently, as if the matter were
really not at all surprising.
Baron read the other’s thought. “But a child like that!” he exclaimed.
“People are sometimes strange,” said Thornburg. “Now, if she had been a
trained dog, or a cat with an unusual pedigree, or a horse with power
to draw loads--then she would have been hunted up quick enough. But you
see, she’s only a child.”
Baron shook his head. He was rejecting all this as inadequate.
“She’s still with you?” continued the manager.
“Yes. I’m hoping she’ll remain with us.”
“She like it there?”
“Like it?” echoed Baron. He couldn’t answer the question. He thought
of something more pertinent to say. “It means that she will have a
home--if we can keep her.”
Thornburg nodded slowly. “I don’t think anything better could happen to
her than for you to keep her,” he said. “I suppose she’ll get the kind
of care a little girl of her kind needs. If she’s just a waif of the
theatre she probably has a lot to learn about--oh, about life and real
things.”
“Very likely,” Baron agreed. He added: “I was hoping you might throw
some light on the case--as to who she is and where she came from.”
Thornburg shook his head. “No, I couldn’t,” he said.
“About her coming to the theatre----”
“A woman brought her to the theatre and asked to be admitted.
She belonged to the profession--the woman. We usually pass them
in if there’s any room. There happened to be just one seat left
down-stairs--in the back row--and I told her she could have that. I
supposed she would hold the little girl on her lap. I was provoked when
I saw she had let her wander up into the box where you were. In fact, I
spoke to her about it.”
“And you don’t know who the woman was--even by reputation?”
“Oh, there are thousands of such people--people who are ‘of the
profession.’ Vaudeville people, circus performers, members of little
stock companies, third-rate travelling troupes--they all ask for free
seats.”
Baron reflected. “I suppose,” he said at length, “such people are often
in financial straits?”
“My goodness, yes! Almost always.”
“If she--this actress--had really wanted to find the child, she surely
would have made inquiries here at the theatre before now, wouldn’t she?”
“It would seem so--certainly.”
“What I’m getting at is this: It looks a good deal like deliberate
desertion, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, I should say so.”
“And that’s what I simply can’t believe,” declared Baron. “Still,” he
added, “under the circumstances, I ought to be justified in not saying
anything--in assuming that I have a right to keep what has come into my
possession?”
“Well, for the time being, certainly. Of course, there may be
developments sooner or later. She must belong to somebody; I mean, she
must have a home somewhere.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“But of course you can’t be sure of that.”
“I am. She’s my authority.”
“You mean she told you that? It was probably a childish fancy--or
a downright falsehood. You have to take into account all manner of
possible circumstances.”
“I think she told me the truth. She doesn’t seem fanciful, in that way.
She has the most remarkable sort of intelligence--of frankness.”
Thornburg’s eyes brightened with interest. “Has she, really?” he asked.
There was an interval of silence and then the manager laughed. “It
strikes me that you’re an odd sort of a chap, Baron,” he said. “What
was your idea in taking her home--a stray child like that?”
“I don’t think it was so very remarkable. She wanted to go with me, for
one thing. She seemed quite delighted at the prospect of having a real
home.”
The manager turned this statement over in his mind so long that Baron
supposed he was thinking of something else. He sat, his hands clasped
behind his head, regarding one of the pictures on the wall, well over
Baron’s head. Then he aroused himself abruptly.
“What’s your plan regarding her?” he asked.
“I don’t know that I’ve got that far yet. She’ll have the usual
schooling and the sort of training that is customary. When she’s
grown--Well, it’s hard to look far ahead, where a child like that is
concerned. Of course, if Miss Barry ever turns up.... She would have
claims we couldn’t ignore.”
“Who’s Miss Barry?”
“She’s the woman who brought Bonnie May to the theatre. If you know of
an actress by that name----”
“I don’t.”
“She probably hasn’t very much standing. From what Bonnie May said I
judge she belongs to that vast army we never hear much about in the
cities.”
“It’s like this, Baron,” said the manager, with the air of a man who
hasn’t time for useless speculations, “I’m thinking, and I suppose
you’re thinking, that under the circumstances I ought to assume some of
the responsibility for a waif who was lost on my premises. I’d want to
be fair about it, you know.”
“But I wasn’t thinking anything of the kind,” declared Baron.
Thornburg frowned impatiently. “She’ll be a burden to you, of course,”
he argued. “And there’s clearly my share of the responsibility----”
“I didn’t say anything about a burden. The word was yours. Of course
I had to take her home with me. Or at least that’s the way I felt
about it. You simply couldn’t turn a child like that over to an orphan
asylum, or to the police. You would as readily think of asking some
grand dame to turn a handspring as to expect Bonnie May to put on a
uniform with a lot of other unclaimed children, and go through the
usual order of childish occupations. Somebody has got to look after her
in a different way: somebody who understands. But I wouldn’t think of
her being a burden any more than I would think of pigeons or flowers
being a burden.”
Again Thornburg laughed. “Still, most people are pretty willing not to
have white elephants thrust upon them.”
Baron regarded him steadily, in silence. There was a sort of threat
in that--or a prophecy. And there was indicated that attitude of mind
which sees no beauty in a generous deed. And these were reflections
which Baron did not care to put into words.
The manager became uncomfortable under that glance. “You see,” he
explained, “I can’t help thinking.... Is it possible that a little
footlight butterfly will be comfortable very long in a home like--in
a home where everything is--is just so?” He flushed a little from the
effort to avoid offensive inferences or words. “Won’t she be lonesome
and out of place after the novelty of the thing passes?”
Baron liked that. It was frank and honest. “I don’t think she’ll be
lonesome,” he declared. “Mother will see that she gets interested in
things: in music, probably, or anything she manifests a taste for.
She’s too bright to feel out of place, if she’s helped in the right
way.”
“It might work out all right.” Thornburg nodded. “I’ll tell you,” he
added, “suppose you let me help with the job.”
“Help!” echoed Baron. “You mean----”
“By writing a little check once a month.”
“That won’t be necessary. So far as the expense is concerned that will
scarcely be worth considering.”
“Nonsense! You could use it, if only for extra dresses and trinkets.
I’ve no doubt she’ll want a lot of things.”
That was exactly like a theatrical man’s ideas, Baron thought. But
he couldn’t tell Thornburg that his mother would be sure to oppose
anything that would tend to promote childish vanity, especially in the
case of one who was already inclined to overestimate mere appearances.
The gewgaws of the average petted and spoiled child would have to give
place to simplicity and true childishness. Still, he didn’t wish to
offend Thornburg, whose suggestion had doubtless been based upon a
generous impulse.
“It might be managed,” he said. “We’ll speak of that another time.”
He arose and began to shape a casual exit. “There’s nobody now to take
_their_ places,” he said, indicating the portraits of Jefferson and
Booth and the others.
“Not by a thousand miles,” agreed Thornburg. His thoughts seemed to
have been transferred easily to the players who were gone.
But when Baron emerged from the theatre and lost himself in the throng
which the fine May forenoon had attracted from hotels and side streets,
his face brightened with the joy which he felt he need no longer
conceal.
“She’s ours!” were the words that sang within him. “We’re going to keep
her!”