MRS. THORNBURG REVEALS A SECRET
Baron shook his head slowly. He had been thinking about that
advertisement in the _Times_ which Thornburg had answered without any
result.
“Strange,” he mused. “I won’t believe but that somebody is looking for
her--somewhere. Children like that are not dropped down and deserted
like superfluous kittens or puppies. There’s something wrong somewhere.”
Then he remembered that Mrs. Thornburg wished to see him; that,
according to Thornburg, she had “mentioned Bonnie May.”
Possibly she knew something. At any rate, Baron felt that he ought to
call on her. It was just after the dinner-hour--of the day on which
Mrs. Baron had announced her policy of reconstruction--and the evening
was flinging a challenge to all mankind to get out of doors and enjoy
the spring air.
He took up his stick and hat and left the house.
* * * * *
He found Mrs. Thornburg sadly changed since he had seen her last.
She was unmistakably very ill, though the only symptoms revealed
to Baron’s inexpert eye were a pathetic thinness and pallor and a
profound lassitude.
She was alone, Thornburg having just gone out.
“It was good of you to come,” she said when Baron entered. She spoke
as if she had been expecting him. And without circumlocution she
continued: “I wanted to talk to you about the little girl. You haven’t
let anybody have her, have you?”
“No,” replied Baron. Then he added lightly: “I think we’ve changed our
minds about letting her go. It seems likely now that we’ll keep her
with us indefinitely.”
He was glad that her glance rested upon her thin, clasped hands. He
could note the effect of his statement with a steady scrutiny which
need cause him no compunction.
To his surprise she seemed quite pleased. “It makes me glad to know
that she is to be with nice people,” she said, lifting to him now a
softly grateful glance. She explained: “You see, I’m sure I’m too ill
to have her now, even if....” Her lips trembled and her eyes filled.
“But you’ll be better,” said Baron, reading her thought. Clearly she
had despaired of ever being any better. “When you’re able to have her,
she’ll be so happy to visit you. I mean Bonnie May. She’s a wonderfully
sociable little creature. If she were invited to come to see you she
would be delighted. Attentions like that--such as you would pay to
grown people--have a wonderful effect upon her.”
“Yes.... And of course some day she will be coming here to stay.”
“You mean--” Baron was surprised that his suggestion had been received
with a dully uttered, enigmatic remark, rather than gratitude or
eagerness.
“You don’t know what I mean by that?” There was regret in her tone,
reluctance in her glance--as if she knew he was not dealing honestly
and frankly by her.
“No, truly, I don’t.”
“Ah, well.... But I wanted to tell you why I was so eager to have her
when you called before. You see, I wanted to--to atone....”
She sat listlessly, lost in troubled memories, and Baron waited.
“Mr. Thornburg came to me one time, in the one moment of his greatest
need, and asked me to help him. And I failed him.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, and Baron thought
how out of harmony she was: the ailing woman whose whole being was in
a minor key, amid surroundings which suggested only sturdiness and
well-being.
“He was always generous toward me, and patient. He was always giving,
giving, and never asking. I think I got used to that and just took it
for granted. And then one day he came home, excited, as happy as a
child ... and asked me.... It was such a little thing ... and I refused.
“You know, he had been married when I first met him. An actress. It
didn’t last long. She got tired of the life and wanted to go back
to the stage. I think she appealed to his generosity. It would have
been easy to do that. At any rate, he allowed her to go away and take
their little girl. I can’t understand how he brought himself to let
the little daughter go, too. I have an idea he was so troubled because
_she_ wanted to go that he didn’t realize how much the child meant
to him, or would come to mean. She was only a year old then. I never
blamed him for that episode in his life. I just concluded that the
woman was worthless. And when I married him we didn’t speak of his
other marriage--nothing in connection with it. It was just as if it
hadn’t happened. Then, after a year, or about a year, he--he made the
one request of me. The mother had offered to give him the little girl.
He wanted to bring her to me, to have her in our home.
“And that made me jealous and unhappy. I can’t explain ... or defend
myself. I could scarcely answer him when he spoke about it. And when I
didn’t answer he looked at me, and after a little a strange expression
came into his eyes. He was chilled and bewildered. He had been so
happy. He couldn’t understand. He just gave it up, and the next day he
was trying to pretend that nothing had come between us; that I hadn’t
been ungracious and cruel.
“You see, I was thinking of _her_ child, and he was thinking of his
own. Mine was the woman’s--the narrow--point of view, and his was the
father’s. Maybe you can understand a little of what I felt. I couldn’t
have the child here in the house, while its own mother.... It would
have been like giving _her_ a place in our home--the woman, I mean.
You can’t really separate people by putting their bodies in different
places. You see what I mean?”
“Yes,” assented Baron, “I think I see quite clearly.”
“And I was sure she was a bad woman. And I felt that if her child were
in the house, her--her real self would be here, too. Her influence,
I mean. Bodies are not everything. Sometimes they’re even the least
things of all. I was afraid that other woman’s very presence would
be here among us on the most sacred occasions: at bedtime, to see
if her child were covered up, and in the early hours of Christmas
morning, jealously looking to see what we’d given her, and jealous of
us, because we were fond of her. She would be a real influence in the
house. It couldn’t be helped.”
“But a bad woman.... Surely a bad woman would forget,” suggested Baron.
“Well, not our kind of a woman, anyway. How could she have deserted
a man who was good to her? And how could she consent to give up her
child afterward? It might be right for her to leave her husband; but
for a mother to give up a little daughter.... No, I couldn’t think of
having here in our home a link to bind us with a woman like that--a
life out in the unknown, on the streets that are strange to us, that
are strange to all faithful, happy people.
“And then when it was too late I began to see his side of it. He was
the father just as much as she was the mother. She was _his_ child
as much as hers--more, if he loved her more. And I began to realize
what it must be to a father to have his little daughter away from him,
perhaps not loved and provided for, possibly facing an evil future. Oh,
the night that thought came to me! And always he was so kind to me, and
patient. He did not speak of his daughter again. And I waited.... I
knew he would speak again some day, and I wanted to grow strong enough
to say to him honestly: ‘Ah, do bring her, and she shall have love
here, here in her own home’....”
She lifted her hands to her cheeks and closed her eyes. It was as if
she must shut out some of the impressions which crowded into her mind.
Baron waited until a measure of calm came upon her. “And--he never did?”
She opened her eyes and regarded him inquiringly.
“I mean, he never spoke of her again?”
She regarded him with a smouldering look in her eyes. Then she leaned
forward, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. “I honestly believe
you don’t know!” she whispered.
And in an instant she had taken from a little box on the table near
which she sat an envelope. She drew from it a single sheet and passed
it to Baron.
He turned a little, so that the light from the table fell upon it and
read:
“_Do be good to the little girl your husband has brought to you. You
ought to be, because he is her father._”
There was no name. Baron handed the sheet back to her. He was thinking
hard. “Who could have written it?” he asked.
“Of course you realize that I don’t _know_,” she replied. “Do you mean
to ask me what I think?”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I think her mother wrote it. I think she must have lost track of the
child, and concluded that Mr. Thornburg had taken her. I think she must
have known of my--my jealousy on that other occasion. I think she wrote
this note hoping that I would refuse to have the child in the house if
I knew who she was. It seems plain that she wants her now.”
Baron was examining the date of the postmark on the envelope. She saw
that furrows were gathering on his forehead.
She explained: “It came some time ago. I had it with me here when you
called that first time.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Baron. “And you knew, then----”
“Yes, I knew then.”
“But you haven’t.... Mr. Thornburg....”
“I didn’t show him this. He doesn’t know. Surely you can understand.
He has acted a lie, in trying to get the little girl into the house
without telling me about her. And I can’t blame him for that, after
what happened that other time. But I can’t bear to let him know
that--that I know.”
“But don’t you see, if Bonnie May is really his daughter, and if he
weren’t afraid to tell you so, he could bring her here without any
further hinderance!”
“No, he couldn’t. Not if the mother wants her.”
Baron arose. “After all, it’s largely guesswork--conclusions reached
in the dark,” he said. “You’ve received an anonymous note. That’s all
the foundation you have for what you’ve told me. And people who write
anonymous letters....”
He reflected dubiously, and then he came to a decision.
“I’ve reason to believe,” he said, “that there is good ground for you
to reject what’s in that note.”
She leaned forward, observing him intently.
Baron was remembering the actress who had called on Thornburg; the
woman who, almost certainly, was she who had taken the child into
Thornburg’s theatre. He was recalling his question to the manager, and
the latter’s vehement, prompt response.
“You mean,” questioned Mrs. Thornburg, “that you don’t think Bonnie May
is really ... that you don’t believe it was her mother who wrote this
note?”
“It’s difficult to be quite sure of anything,” said Baron, “but I would
stake a great deal on that one thing being true--that it wasn’t Bonnie
May’s mother who wrote that anonymous note.”