CONCERNING LAUGHTER
The next afternoon Baron received a very cordial letter from Thornburg.
The manager was delighted with the fine account of the Fairyland
opening that had been printed in the _Times_. That was the sum and
substance of his letter. There was nothing about the compact to which
Baron was a party.
“Just the same, he’s got something up his sleeve,” Baron mused. And
his next thought was: “But I’ve kept my word. If she doesn’t want to
go there’s no reason why I should urge her to. She’s getting along all
right where she is.”
* * * * *
Two weeks slipped by, and then one day at noon as Baron was emerging
from the lobby of the _Times_ building he heard a familiar voice in the
street. The Thornburg automobile stopped and the manager pushed the
door open.
“Been to lunch yet?” called Thornburg.
“Just going,” was the response. Baron would have prevaricated if he’d
had time to think; but now it was too late and he made the best of the
matter as Thornburg pulled him into the car.
“Come with me,” said the manager, and then he became silent as he
threaded the machine through the down-town congestion.
He did not speak again until they were in a comparatively quiet
restaurant whose patronage was drawn chiefly from theatrical people who
did not come in until late in the evening.
Both men observed that they were to have the place practically to
themselves, and then Baron was promptly given to understand what it was
that Thornburg wanted.
“That’s really a fine little girl,” said the manager, frankly regarding
Baron across the table.
“You mean Bonnie May. Yes, she certainly is. The fact is, you can’t
begin to realize how uncommonly fine she is until you know her better.”
“Well, that’s just the point. When _am_ I going to know her better?
When is she coming to us?”
Baron gave his whole attention to the waiter for a minute. He was
trying to think of a response that wouldn’t concede too much. He held
the strong cards now. It would be foolish to relinquish them.
The waiter was gone now.
“The fact is, Thornburg,” said Baron, “she doesn’t seem at all eager to
accept your invitation. I’ve told her about it, and explained what a
fine place you’ve got, and all that--and she just changes the subject.
You know I didn’t agree to force her to act. That’s just what we both
agreed not to do.”
“Childish timidity--the first time,” said Thornburg. “If you’d bring
her over once she’d get over feeling that way.”
“She’s just about as timid as a sunbeam. She’d go anywhere if she
thought she’d enjoy it. The fact is, she’s absolutely satisfied where
she is, at present. Let the matter rest awhile. When things become
monotonous I’ll call her attention again to your invitation.”
Thornburg shook out his napkin violently. “That sounds like beating
about the bush,” he said. “You know how to get a child started. ‘Oh,
look!’ you say to them. Get them excited. Then they’ll do anything.”
“I don’t want to get her excited,” replied Baron dryly.
“Yes, that’s just it!” retorted the other. “A little excitement would
be good for her. I see the advantage of having her at your place part
of the time, but I see the advantage of having her with us, too. It
would be a shame if she ever got to thinking highly of some of this
polite flubdub--” He checked himself in embarrassment and brushed
imaginary crumbs from his waistcoat.
“Won’t you enlighten me as to what you mean by ‘polite flubdub’?”
Thornburg became almost defiant. “Being chilly, for one thing. And not
seeing people. That kind of business. It used to be all right, but it’s
out of date now. Class distinctions and that sort of thing--that’s
all done away with. You might as well hang a knitted tidy up in an art
display. Nothing but the goods counts these days.”
“No doubt you’re right,” responded Baron briefly. He felt it would be
impossible for him to admit that he saw any special application in what
Thornburg had said.
A silence followed. Baron permitted a considerable degree of arrogance
to stifle his friendlier thoughts. Thornburg had spoken offensively;
which was rather less excusable than “polite flubdub.”
Yet, Baron reflected, nothing in Thornburg’s manner could alter the
fact that it might be greatly to Bonnie May’s advantage to accept the
hospitality of the manager and his wife.
The impression of the child in the theatre not long ago recurred to
him--the imperative call upon her which the skill of the players had
exerted.
“You’re right, Thornburg,” he said finally. “I’ve been procrastinating--
that’s all. I’ll speak to her again. The next time I’ll even say ‘Oh,
look!’--or words to that effect. In your own expressive phrase, we’ll
give her a chance to decide which of us ‘has the better attraction to
offer.’”
* * * * *
This new promise weighed heavily on his conscience that afternoon when
he went home; for Bonnie May, unusually radiant, was waiting for him at
the door.
“Mr. Baggot was here to-day,” she began. “He left his play. And he
talked to me about it. He said you might keep it as long as you liked.”
“All very kind of Mr. Baggot.” Baron thoughtfully disposed of his hat
and cane. When he turned to the child again there was a little furrow
between his eyes.
“Bonnie May,” he began, “do you remember my telling you some time ago
that Mr. and Mrs. Thornburg would be glad to have you visit them?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“They thought possibly you might have forgotten. They asked me to
remind you.”
“Thank you. And he’s made the prettiest copy of it, with red lines
drawn under the words you don’t have to learn. Can’t we go up-stairs
and see it? I put it in your room.”
“Yes, we’ll go up-stairs.” He was irritated by her supreme indifference
to the matter which he had tried to bring to her attention. He meant to
have this thing out definitely.
She rushed away in advance of him so impetuously that he paused and
looked after her in amazement. The furrow disappeared and he was
smiling.
And then the whole strange situation struck him with renewed force. Was
she really the daughter of Thornburg, and was he afraid to claim her?
Or was there no connection at all between her and the manager, and did
he, Baron, hold the trump-cards in that game which meant the permanent
possession of her?
If she were Thornburg’s, why shouldn’t Mrs. Thornburg frankly say to
her husband: “I know everything--but I still want her”? It occurred to
him that it might be his duty to suggest just that course to her. But
old habits of restraint were too strong for him. After all, he didn’t
know the Thornburgs very well. He scarcely knew Mrs. Thornburg at all.
Moreover, “it was a very pretty quarrel as it stood.” He had been frank
and aboveboard every step of the way. If others could not or would not
be so, that was no concern of his.
He went up into the attic, which was made golden by a flood of late
afternoon sunlight. In truth he found himself in an atmosphere that was
delightful in its warmth and aloofness and quietude.
Bonnie May hurried toward him, the manuscript in her hands. She was
trembling with eagerness. A foolish little creature in some respects,
surely, thought Baron.
He glanced at the title-page and turned half a dozen pages aimlessly.
And when he glanced at Bonnie May he was amazed by her expression of
wonder, of distress.
“You don’t seem to be interested in it!” said she.
“Not a great deal--just now. I’d have to get into it, you know. When
I’ve more time. Besides,” he tossed the manuscript aside, “I’m deeply
interested in something else just now.”
She quickly evinced a pretty spirit of submission. In response to his
gesture she sat down near the window, opposite him.
“I’ve been thinking about you to-day. Seriously.”
“I hope I haven’t been queering anything?”
“Not a bit of it. We’re all very much pleased with you.”
There may have been something of patronage in the tone. At any rate,
she replied with a little smile: “Thank you. You know an artist
always strives to please.” As he regarded her quietly she added more
earnestly: “It’s strange that I got by, too, when you come to think
about it. I was hardly prepared to play a nice part when I came here.
Anyway, not a part where you have to have so much--what the critics
call restraint. You can take it from me, the nice parts aren’t half as
fat as the nasty parts.”
He did not remove his eyes from her face. He had the thought that she
was very far away from him, after all. From all of them. “I wish,” he
said, “you wouldn’t always talk as if you were only taking part in a
play. Somehow it doesn’t seem quite friendly. We’re trying to make this
a real home for you. We’re trying to be real friends. We’re trying to
live a real life. Why not look at it that way when you’re with me?
Wouldn’t that seem friendlier?”
She looked at him with a little flicker of anxiety in her eyes. “You
see,” she said, “I can’t help thinking all the time that everything I
do must be like a nice ingénue part, and being afraid that you’ll come
home some day and find I’ve been doing some soubrette stuff.”
He shook his head and abruptly assumed a new attitude. “Did you
understand me clearly when I said that Mrs. Thornburg wishes you to
visit her?”
“I think I didn’t pay much attention,” she admitted, looking away from
him. “Did you--wish me to go?”
“I think it would be very nice. If you didn’t like them, you needn’t
ever go again.” He tried to speak lightly.
She brought her eyes to his now, anxiously. “When did you think I ought
to go?” she asked.
Baron brought his chair down with a bump. “I didn’t say you ought to
go, exactly. Don’t put it that way. I only thought it would be nice and
kind of you to go, because they wish it. I’d be anxious to have you
come back quite soon, of course.”
“And--and mother: does she wish me to go, too?”
Her use of that word brought warmth to his heart. “She doesn’t wish
it. Frankly, I think she wouldn’t like it at all. But I think she’d
consent.”
She was greatly relieved. She leaned forward and patted him on the
knee. “I was afraid you might be planning to cut down the company,” she
said.
He looked at her without comprehending readily.
“I mean,” she elaborated, “I thought maybe it was a case of cold feet.”
He flinched. “Oh, Bonnie May!” was his disapproving rejoinder.
“You mean it’s stale?” she asked. The expression in her eyes was
innocent, perplexed.
He slowly shook his head in despair, and then he saw the swift look of
comprehension that brightened her eyes.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “Knock-about talk!”
He sprang to his feet and thrust his chair aside. “For a few moments
I would be very glad if we might use the English language,” he said.
“I was hopeful of arriving at an understanding with you on a certain
simple proposition.”
She began to laugh unrestrainedly, after an instant of shocked silence.
She “stared him out of countenance,” as the saying is. He had never
heard her laugh so hilariously. Yet even then he could not be blind
to the look of appeal in her eyes--appeal, mingled with a defiant
consciousness of guilt.
Then she became grave and conciliatory. “I’ll go,” she said. “It’s
nothing, after all. I think I get you. They’ve been after you, and you
don’t want to be bothered any more. I think we ought to get it over
with as soon as possible.”
“We might go over this evening, immediately after dinner,” he suggested.
She fidgeted. “But you know I’ll have to come back to-morrow in time to
practise my music lesson?” she stipulated.
Here was the opportunity to prove his complete fairness--to Thornburg.
“There’s a piano over there. You can practise there, if you care to.”
“No, I’m coming back. I have to take a lesson from Flora, too--and give
_her_ a lesson.”
Baron didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Flora is giving me lessons in reading,” she explained. “You know I’m
to go to school next fall.”
“No one had mentioned it to me. But of course you will. Everybody goes
to school. And about giving _her_ a lesson?” he added weakly.
“I’m not sure I ought to talk about that. But why not--to you? You see,
I’m teaching her how to laugh.”
Baron stared. “Teaching her how to _laugh_!” he echoed.
She was immediately on the defensive. “I certainly am. You must have
seen that she doesn’t know how!”
“Nonsense! You’re talking just plain nonsense!”
“You might think so. A good many people would. But I wish you would
tell me how many people you know who really laugh right.”
“Right! There’s no question of laughing _right_. People laugh when
there’s an occasion for laughing.”
“They don’t really laugh, because they don’t know how. And very few
people know anything about the right occasion to laugh.”
“Meaning----”
“I can make it quite plain. You see, it’s a custom to teach children
how to talk, and some are taught how to sing. I say nothing about the
silly things that are taught to ‘speak pieces,’ Heaven help them. They
are taught these things because they wouldn’t know how to do them right
if they were left to themselves. They try to talk and they try to sing,
and they get it all wrong. And then they are taught.”
“That’s an entirely different matter.”
“Not at all. When they try to laugh they get it all wrong, too, but
nobody thinks it’s necessary to teach them any better. You can see I’m
perfectly right.”
“I think what you say is quite absurd.”
“It’s just new to you, that’s all. You know perfectly well that when
most people try to laugh what they really do is to cackle, or giggle,
or shriek, or make horrible noises until they nearly choke. Women try
not to cry, because it makes them look ugly. But just think how some
people look when they laugh. All they need is a few lessons at the
right time. Then they know how to laugh naturally and freely. You have
to think how you are doing it at first. Afterward you laugh the right
way without thinking at all.”
“‘Ladies and gentlemen, I take pleasure in introducing Mlle. Bonnie
May, laughing expert,’” said Baron derisively.
“A very fine argument,” responded Bonnie May, nodding graciously. “And
about the ‘occasion’ to laugh,” she persisted seriously. “There’s a
whole lot to be said about that. You frame up a speech with a lot of
care--to get out of a scrape, or to make people do something they
don’t want to do--or for something like that. You ought to laugh on
the same principle. Yet when most people tell you about laughing at
anything they put it this way: ‘I couldn’t help laughing!’ You know you
smile sometimes when you don’t mean it, just to help things along; or
you say you pity people, or you say something to encourage them, for
the same reason. In the same way, you ought to laugh sometimes when
you’re not really amused. If you are downhearted or afraid you can
hide it by laughing. And you can make people take a sensible view of
things sometimes, just by laughing at them. But of course, you have to
know how to do it right. If you bray at them, or giggle, they’ll be
insulted, naturally.”
Baron shook his head. “Where did you pick it all up?” he asked.
“I didn’t ‘pick it up,’ exactly. Miss Barry took particular pains to
teach it to me. On account of my work mostly. And I thought a lot of it
out for myself.”
Before Baron had time to make any response to her she sprang to her
feet and picked up the neglected manuscript. All her interests were
immediately centred in it.
She turned a dozen pages rapidly. Then she paused in indecision and
turned back a page or two. She was anxiously searching.
“Here it is!” she cried. She was much relieved. “Please read that to
me.” She indicated a sentence.
Baron perceived that it was a longish passage--a grandiloquent flight
which he read shamefacedly.
She stopped him on the word “harbinger.” “That’s the word,” she said.
“Say that again.”
He complied.
“What does it mean?” she wanted to know.
He had scarcely started to explain when she exclaimed, “Oh, I see! Go
on.”
A voice interrupted them: Mrs. Shepard, announcing that dinner was
ready.
On the way down-stairs Bonnie May amazed Baron by repeating in its
entirety the passage he had read to her--“harbinger,” and all. “It’s
pretty, isn’t it?” said she.
In the lower hall Flora joined them. Baron glanced at her
mischievously. “I’ve been learning a little something about the dark
deeds that are going on around me,” he said.
And Flora, as she preceded the other two into the dining-room, lifted
her face slightly and laughed in a manner so musical and mellow that
Baron looked after her in amazement.
He felt Bonnie May’s hand tugging at his, and looking at her he
perceived that she had laid one finger across her lips in warning.
He understood. He wanted to laugh, too. But he realized that he did not
know how, and that, moreover, this was not the proper occasion.