HOW A CONVEYANCE CAME FOR BONNIE MAY--AND HOW IT WENT AWAY
True to his promise, Baron set aside that evening to call on the
Thornburgs.
As he emerged from the vestibule and stood for a moment on the top step
he noted that the familiar conflict between the departing daylight and
the long files of street-lamps up and down the avenue was being waged.
In the country, no doubt, this hour would be regarded as a part of the
day; but in the city it was being drawn ruthlessly into the maw of
night. There was never any twilight on the avenue.
Already countless thousands of people had had dinner, and were
thronging the avenue in that restless march which is called the pursuit
of pleasure.
He slipped into the human current and disappeared just a moment too
soon to observe that an automobile swerved out from its course and drew
up in front of the mansion.
A youthful-looking old lady with snowy hair and with small, neatly
gloved hands, pushed open the door and emerged. With the manner of one
who repeats a request she paused and turned.
“Do come in, Colonel,” she called into the shadowy recesses of the car.
A gray, imposing-appearing man with a good deal of vitality still
showing in his eyes and complexion smiled back at her inscrutably. “Go
on,” he said, tucking his cigar beneath the grizzled stubble on his
upper lip, and bringing his hand down with a large gesture of leisurely
contentment. “You’ll be all right. I don’t mind waiting.”
And Mrs. Harrod proceeded alone to make her call.
By the most casual chance Mrs. Baron was standing at her sitting-room
window when the car stopped before the house, and when she perceived
that it was Mrs. Harrod--Amelia Harrod, as she thought of her--who was
crossing the sidewalk, she underwent a very remarkable transformation.
So complete a transformation, indeed, that Bonnie May, who was somewhat
covertly observing her, sprang softly to her feet and became all
attention.
Mrs. Baron’s face flushed--the child could see the heightened color in
one cheek--and her whole attitude expressed an unwonted eagerness, a
childish delight.
The truth was that Mrs. Harrod was one of the old friends who had
seemed to Mrs. Baron to be of the deserters--one whose revised visiting
list did not include the Barons. And they had been girls together, and
intimates throughout their married lives--until the neighborhood had
moved away, so to speak, and the Barons had remained.
It is true that, despite Mrs. Baron’s fancies, Mrs. Harrod had remained
a fond and loyal friend, though she had reached an age when social
obligations, in their more trivial forms, were not as easily met as
they had been in earlier years. And it may also be true that something
of constraint had arisen between the two during the past year or so,
owing to Mrs. Baron’s belief that she was being studiously neglected,
and to Mrs. Harrod’s fear that her old friend was growing old
ungracefully and unhappily.
Then, too, the Harrods had money. Colonel Harrod had never permitted
his family’s social standing to interfere with his money-making. On
the contrary. The Barons were unable to say of the Harrods: “Oh, yes,
they have _money_,” as they said of a good many other families. For the
Harrods had everything else, too.
“Oh, it’s Amelia!” exclaimed Mrs. Baron, withdrawing her eyes from the
street. She gave herself a quick, critical survey, and put her hands to
her hair, and hurried toward her room in a state of delighted agitation.
She had not given a thought to Bonnie May. She did not know that the
child slipped eagerly from the room and hurried down the stairs.
Bonnie May was, indeed, greatly in need of a diversion of some sort.
Not a word had been said to her touching the clash that had occurred
at the table during the Sunday dinner. She did not know that the
machinery necessary to her removal from the mansion had been set in
motion; but she had a vague sense of a sort of rising inflection in the
atmosphere, as if necessary adjustments were in the making. Perhaps
her state of mind was a good deal like that of a sailor who voyages in
waters which are known to be mined.
However, she liked to go to the door to admit visitors, in any case.
There may have been, latent in her nature, a strong housekeeping
instinct. Or, perhaps, there seemed a certain form of drama in opening
the door to persons unknown--in meeting, in this manner, persons who
were for the time being her “opposites.” She assured herself that
she was saving Mrs. Shepard from the trouble of responding from the
kitchen; though she realized clearly enough that she was actuated
partly by a love of excitement, of encounters with various types of
human beings.
On the present occasion she had opened the door and stepped aside,
smiling, before Mrs. Harrod had had time to touch the bell.
“Come in,” she said. And when the visitor had entered she closed the
door softly. “Will you wait until I make a light?” she asked. “I’m
afraid we’ve all forgotten about the light.” The lower rooms had become
quite gloomy.
She had climbed upon a chair in the drawing-room, and touched a match
to the gas-burner before she could be questioned or assisted, and for
the moment the caller was only thinking how peculiar it was that the
Barons went on relying upon gas, when electricity was so much more
convenient.
“Please have a seat,” Bonnie May added, “while I call Mrs. Baron.” She
turned toward the hall. “Shall I say who it is?” she asked.
Mrs. Harrod had not taken a seat. When the light filled the room child
and woman confronted each other, the child deferential, the woman
smiling with an odd sort of tenderness.
“Who _are_ you?” asked the visitor. Her eyes were beaming; the curve of
her lips was like a declaration of love.
“I’m Bonnie May.” The child advanced and held out her hand.
Mrs. Harrod pondered. “You’re not a--relative?”
“Oh, no. A--guest, I think. Nothing more than that.”
Mrs. Harrod drew a chair toward her without removing her eyes from the
child’s face. “Do sit down a minute and talk to me,” she said. “We can
let Mrs. Baron know afterward. A guest? But you don’t visit here often?”
“This is my first visit. You see, I have so little time for visiting. I
happen not to have any--any other engagement just now. I was very glad
to come here for--for a while.”
“You haven’t known the Barons long, then?”
“In a way, no. But you know you feel you’ve always known really lovely
people. Don’t you feel that way?” She inclined her head a little;
her lips were slightly parted; her color arose. She was trying very
earnestly to meet this impressive person upon an equal footing.
“I think you’re quite right. And--how did you meet them? I hope you
don’t mind my asking questions?”
“Not in the least. I met Mr. Victor at a--a kind of reception he was
attending. He was lovely to me. He asked me to meet his mother.”
“How simple! And so you called?”
“Yes. That is, Mr. Victor came and--and brought me. It was much
pleasanter, his bringing me.”
She had wriggled up into a chair and was keeping clear, earnest eyes
upon the visitor. She was recalling Mrs. Baron’s agitation, and she was
drawing conclusions which were very far from being wholly wrong.
“I think Victor’s a charming young gentleman,” declared Mrs. Harrod.
“He’s always doing something--nice.”
“Yes,” responded Bonnie May. She had observed that the visitor paused
before she said “nice.” Her eyes were alertly studying Mrs. Harrod’s
face.
“And your name is Bonnie May. Is that the full name, or----”
“Yes, that’s the full name.”
Mrs. Harrod pondered. “You’re not of the Prof. Mays, are you?”
“Why, I’m of--of professional people. I’m not sure I’m of the Mays
you’re thinking about.” She edged herself from her chair uneasily. “I
hope I haven’t forgotten myself,” she added. “I’m sure I should have
let Mrs. Baron know you are here. I think you didn’t say what the name
is?”
“I’m Mrs. Harrod. I hope you’ll remember. I would be glad if you’d be a
friend of mine, too.”
The child’s dilemma, whatever it had been, was past. She smiled almost
radiantly. “I’m very glad to have met you, Mrs. Harrod,” she said.
She advanced and extended her hand again. “I truly hope I’ll have the
pleasure of meeting you again.”
Then she was off up the stairs, walking sedately. It had meant much to
her that this nice woman, who was clearly not of the profession, had
talked to her without patronizing her, without “talking down” to her.
A strange timidity overwhelmed her when she appeared at Mrs. Baron’s
door. “It’s Mrs. Harrod,” she said, and there was a slight catch in her
voice. “I mean, Mrs. Harrod has called. I let her in.”
Mrs. Baron, standing in her doorway, was fixing an old-fashioned brooch
in place. She flushed and there was swift mistrust in her eyes. “Oh!”
she cried weakly. The sound was almost like a moan. “I thought Mrs.
Shepard----”
“I didn’t tell her I was--I didn’t tell her who I was. I thought you
would rather I didn’t. I was just nice to her, and she was nice to me.”
She hurried away, then, because she wanted to be by herself. For some
reason which she could not understand tears were beginning to start
from her eyes. Mrs. Baron had not been angry, this time. She had seemed
to be ashamed!
She did not know that the old gentlewoman looked after her with a
startled, almost guilty expression which gave place to swift contrition
and tenderness.
Mrs. Baron did not descend the stairs. She was about to do so when Mrs.
Harrod appeared in the lower hall.
“Don’t come down!” called the latter. “I mean to have my visit with you
in your sitting-room.” She was climbing the stairs. “I don’t intend
to be treated like a stranger, even if I haven’t been able to come
for such a long time.” Shadows and restraints seemed to be vanishing
utterly before that advancing friendly presence. And at the top of the
flight of stairs she drew a deep breath and exclaimed:
“Emily Boone, _who_ is that child?” She took both Mrs. Baron’s hands
and kissed her. “I told the colonel I simply wouldn’t go by without
stopping. He had an idea we ought to go to see--what’s the name of the
play? I can’t remember. It gave me a chance to stop. I seem never to
have the opportunity any more. But do tell me. About the child, I mean.
Do you know, I’ve never seen such a perfect little human being in my
life! She’s so lovely, and so honest, and so unspoiled. _Who_ is she?”
Mrs. Baron felt many waters lift and pass. Bonnie May hadn’t done
anything scandalous, evidently. And here was her old friend as
expansive, as cheerfully outspoken as in the days of long ago.
She found herself responding happily, lightly.
“A little protégée of Victor’s,” she said. “You know what a discoverer
he is?” They had entered the sitting-room. Mrs. Baron was thinking
again how good it was to have the old bond restored, the old friend’s
voice awaking a thousand pleasant memories.
But as Mrs. Harrod took a seat she leaned forward without a pause. “Now
do tell me about that--that cherub of a child,” she said.
In the meantime, Victor Baron was experiencing something like a
surprise to discover that Thornburg, the manager, seemed a new,
a different, sort of person, now that he was in his own home. He
had quite the air of--well, there was only one word for it, Baron
supposed--a gentleman.
The Thornburg home was quite as nice, even in the indefinable ways
that count most, as any home Baron was acquainted with. There was
an impression of elegance--but not too much elegance--in the large
reception-room. There was a general impression of softly limited
illumination, of fine yet simple furniture. The walls had a kind
of pleasant individuality, by reason of the fact that they were
sparsely--yet attractively--ornamented.
A grandfather’s clock imparted homeliness to one end of the room; there
was a restful suggestion in the broad fireplace in which an enormous
fern had been installed. Baron’s glance also took in a grand piano of a
quietly subdued finish.
Mrs. Thornburg alone seemed in some odd way out of harmony with the
fine, cordial picture in which Baron found her. She was a frail,
wistful woman, and because her body was ailing, her mind, too--as Baron
speedily discovered--was not of the sound, cheerful texture of her
surroundings.
“Ah, Baron!” exclaimed Thornburg, advancing to meet his guest as the
latter was shown into the room. “I’m glad to see you here.”
As he turned to his wife, to introduce the visitor, Baron was struck
by something cautious and alert in his manner--the manner of a man who
must be constantly prepared to make allowances, to take soundings. He
presented an altogether wholesome picture as he looked alternately
at his wife and his guest. His abundant, stubborn gray hair was in
comfortable disorder, to harmonize with the smoking-jacket he wore,
and Baron looked at him more than once with the uncomfortable sense
of never having really known him before. He thought, too, how this
brusque, ruddy man seemed in a strange fashion imprisoned within the
radius of an ailing wife’s influence.
“Mr. Baron is the man who carried that little girl out of the theatre
the other day,” explained Thornburg. He turned again to Baron with a
casual air: “Do you find that your people still want to let her go?”
He was playing a part, obviously; the part of one who is all but
indifferent. Mrs. Thornburg scrutinized the visitor’s face closely.
“Yes, I believe they do,” replied Baron.
“I’ve been talking to Mrs. Thornburg about the case. She understands
that I feel a sort of responsibility. I think I’ve about persuaded her
to have a look at the little girl.”
Mrs. Thornburg seemed unwilling to look at her husband while he was
speaking. Baron thought she must be concealing something. She was
gazing at him with an expression of reproach, not wholly free from
resentment.
“Hasn’t the child any relatives?” she asked. She seemed to be making an
effort to speak calmly.
“I really can’t answer that,” said Baron. “She seems not to have. She
has told me very little about herself, yet I believe she has told me
all she knows. She has spoken of a young woman--an actress--she has
travelled with. There doesn’t appear to have been any one else. I
believe she never has had a home.”
Mrs. Thornburg withdrew her gaze from him. She concerned herself with
the rings on her thin, white fingers. “How did you happen to be with
her in the theatre?” she asked.
“I was in one of the upper boxes. I don’t know how she came to be
there. I believe she couldn’t find a seat anywhere else.”
“And you’d never seen her before?”
“Never.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Both Thornburg and Baron were
looking interestedly at Mrs. Thornburg, who refused to lift her eyes.
“I wonder how you happened to take her to your home?” she asked finally.
Baron laughed uneasily. “I’m wondering myself,” he said. “Nobody seems
to approve of what I did. But if you could have seen her! She’s really
quite wonderful. Very pretty, you know, and intelligent. But that isn’t
it, after all. She is so charmingly frank. I think that’s it. It’s
unusual in a child.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Mrs. Thornburg. “Unusual in any one, I should
say.”
“Why, perhaps it is,” agreed Baron simply. He was not a little puzzled
by something in Mrs. Thornburg’s manner.
“And why don’t you want to keep her?” she wanted to know.
“We meant to. But it turns out that she and my mother are--well,
antagonistic.”
“That’s unfortunate, isn’t it? Please pardon me--you see, I’m really
handicapped. But--what kind of woman is your mother?” She put the
question so softly that it did not seem offensive.
Baron hesitated. “Perhaps it will explain if I say that she is elderly?
There haven’t been any children in the house for a good many years. She
believes--what is the familiar saying?--that children ought to be seen
and not heard.”
Mrs. Thornburg hesitated. “That wouldn’t be quite the reason,” she
said. “Your mother is--is orthodox, I suspect, in her friendships and
ways. I’m sure you see what I mean.”
“Yes,” admitted Baron. “I think you are getting closer to the facts
than I did.”
A pretty, delicate hue warmed the woman’s face, and her voice softened
almost to tenderness. “I think I know,” she went on. “The little girl
of the stage, out of some unknown place in Bohemia--she must seem quite
disturbing, hopelessly out of harmony....”
“You put the case much better than I did. Yet you know all that’s
scarcely fair to Bonnie May. She’s not really bold and impertinent, in
the usual sense of those words. She hasn’t had the kind of training
other children have. She has never associated with other children. You
can see that instantly. She assumes that she has the same right to her
opinion that older people have to theirs. She never means to offend.
I have an idea she’s really quite affectionate. I have an idea if you
once won her over----”
Mrs. Thornburg turned toward her husband and leaned forward in her
chair, her eyes filled with a soft, generous impulse. When she spoke
her voice vibrated with feeling.
“Bring her home!” she said.
Baron fancied there was an expression of triumph in the manager’s
bearing. “You mean now--to-night?” he asked.
“Why not to-night? I’m eager to have her; really eager, now that I’ve
decided.”
“It’s quite simple,” declared Thornburg. “I suppose you’ll have to--to
get a few things ready?”
Her whole being became tremulous--she who had had no children of her
own, and who knew nothing about them. “Nothing to-night, to speak of.
To-morrow....” She clasped her hands and looked into vacancy, as if
visions were coming to her.
But Thornburg was already in an adjoining room at the telephone,
ordering his machine.
Baron regarded Mrs. Thornburg thoughtfully. He was surprised and
touched by her intensity. Then she looked at him, mutely appealing.
There was a long moment during which two minds tried to meet across a
barrier of emotion and a lack of mutual knowledge. Then Mrs. Thornburg
spoke.
“You know,” she explained, “we’ve both been disappointed, deeply
disappointed, because we hadn’t any of our own.”
When Thornburg’s automobile stopped before the Baron mansion, half an
hour later that evening, and the manager and Baron got out, something
happened.
Mrs. Baron, her gray hair stirring slightly in the spring breeze, stood
on the front steps for all the world like an alert sentinel.
“Well, Victor?” she demanded, as her son advanced toward her. Her voice
was sternly challenging.
“This gentleman has come to take Bonnie May away,” replied her son. He
derived a certain satisfaction from her disturbed state.
“Where to?”
“To her new home, with Mr. and Mrs. Thornburg.”
“Do you mean you’ve brought that machine to take her away to-night?”
“Why, yes--certainly.”
“Well, you can just send it away. You won’t need it to-night.”
“I don’t believe I understand, mother!”
Baron had approached the lowest step and Thornburg had taken a position
close to him. Mrs. Baron, from her superior height, frowned down upon
them as if they were two kidnappers who must be held at bay.
“You probably don’t,” replied Mrs. Baron. “It isn’t necessary that you
should, either. But you’ll grasp my meaning when I tell you that child
shall not be taken away in the dead of night, as if she were being
stolen, and she shall not leave this house until she has been decently
clothed and made ready to go. I never heard of such an outrageous thing
in my life.” She turned with fear, yet with severity, toward Thornburg.
When she spoke again it might have seemed that she regarded the manager
as a kind of trained wolf over whom her son might possess an influence.
“Victor, tell him to go away!” she commanded. “When I want him to come
back I’ll let you know.”
She turned with the air of a queen who had been affronted. In an
instant she had disappeared. The door had been quite unmistakably
slammed behind her.