AN EXIT AND AN ENTRANCE
It was rather a pity that Bonnie May yielded to an impulse to go out
and have a little talk with Mrs. Shepard after she had finished her
dinner.
It was a pity, because she also yielded to an impulse to talk
confidentially to the sympathetic old servant, and as a result she
received an entirely erroneous impression.
“I’m going away for a visit,” said Bonnie May, by way of opening.
“A visit!” repeated Mrs. Shepard. “Why, ain’t you here just for a
visit?”
“Oh--yes! Of course!” was the response, given rather blankly.
“You mean you’re going for a visit somewhere else.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
There was silence for a time, while Bonnie May tried to realize the
full truth of what Mrs. Shepard had said. Yes, she was merely a visitor
in the mansion, certainly. And they had probably been regarding her in
that light all the time.
A fear she had entertained earlier in the day recurred to her. “And I
expect they may be getting tired of me,” she threw out tentatively.
Mrs. Shepard was what is usually called a sensible woman. “Oh, well,”
she replied, “you know how that is. When you are a visitor, people
always treat you politely, but, of course, they expect you not to wear
your welcome out.”
“Of course,” assented Bonnie May. She didn’t permit Mrs. Shepard to see
that she had suddenly grown horribly uncomfortable.
“You know, when people see too much of each other, they--they get tired
of each other,” added the sensible servant.
“The most natural thing in the world,” agreed Bonnie May. She felt
that she suddenly hated Mrs. Shepard with a dreadful hatred. She did
not at all realize that Mrs. Shepard was innocently laying down a
general proposition which she had no thought of applying to any one in
particular.
Still, she meant to behave graciously. “If I should ever come back
again, you won’t mind if I come out and bake a little cake once in a
while?” she asked. She was achieving her most friendly smile.
Mrs. Shepard turned toward her with energy. “I certainly won’t,” she
declared. There were no general propositions in her mind now. She was
saying to herself: “Was there ever such a cunning little thing?” “And I
do hope you’ll come back--soon!” she added.
Bonnie May nodded brightly and entered the dining-room. She paused to
adjust an article or two on the table. She tried to assume the manner
of one who is quite light-hearted. She was preparing herself to play
her part properly when she joined the family up-stairs.
They were all assembled in the sitting-room, and each was silent and
self-centred when Baron dropped the evening paper to the floor and
addressed Bonnie May when she entered the room, in the manner of one
who has forgotten something.
“You’re not ready to go with me to the Thornburgs’,” he said. “You know
we ought to be starting before long.”
The effect of this casual utterance was quite electrifying. The
elder Baron dropped his paper, also, and removed his glasses. Flora,
searching through a box of letters with some more or less definite
end in view, permitted several envelopes with their contents to slip
to the floor. She turned a gaze of marked disfavor upon her brother.
Mrs. Baron merely swallowed with difficulty and looked decidedly
uncomfortable.
Bonnie May felt the tension in the atmosphere. They were trying to be
nice and polite about it, she decided. “I only have to put my hat on,”
she said. She succeeded wholly in creating the impression that she was
delighted with their planning, as usual.
Mrs. Baron arose with a little tremor in her limbs. Her attitude became
that of one who is tenderly maternal and pathetically old. She bent
over and took the child’s hands in hers. “My dear,” she said, “are you
quite sure you are willing to go?”
Bonnie May looked into her eyes and smiled. She was grateful for this
proof of kindness. They were the nicest people, truly! They weren’t
going to permit her to feel offended. “Oh, yes!” she said brightly.
Mrs. Baron released her hands and turned away.
“I think it will be very nice to go,” added Bonnie May. “You know,
when people see too much of one another, they--they get tired of one
another!”
“I dare say!” responded Mrs. Baron. She was determined the ungrateful
little thing shouldn’t see how wounded she was. “Well, if you’re to go
to the Thornburgs, I ought to see that you are presentable.”
She and the child disappeared, Mrs. Baron leading the way and Bonnie
May looking back over her shoulder with a smile.
“Extraordinary!” said the elder Baron.
“She’s certainly a puzzle to me,” said Baron. “Maybe the Thornburgs can
do better with her.”
“Oh, don’t judge her just by that one tactless speech!” exclaimed
Flora. “Don’t forget what a little thing she is.”
Then silence fell in the room, and the typical Baron existence was
maintained until the mistress of the house returned, guiding Bonnie
May serenely before her--Bonnie May in her best dress, and in a saucy
straw hat decorated with silk pansies, and with a ridiculous little
hand-satchel depending from her hooked forefinger.
“All right,” said Baron, leading the way toward the stairs. He had an
idea that words had better be used sparingly.
But at the door the departing guest turned for a last look, and instead
of the masks of affable politeness she expected to behold there was
instead a look of unmistakable regret on every face. Regret which
amounted to actual grief, so far as Mrs. Baron and Flora were concerned.
Surely they weren’t glad to see her go! There must be a mistake....
She clasped her hands and leaned forward in an attitude of great
earnestness. “You know how I love you!” she cried. Her voice almost
failed her.
Mrs. Baron came forward, all her resentment gone. “Indeed, we do,” she
declared. “There, you’re not to go away feeling badly. I’m very sorry
you feel that you ought to go. And we’ll be very anxious to have you
come back as soon as you possibly can.”
“Oh, thank you so much!” She lifted impulsive arms to Mrs. Baron’s neck
and hugged her. She looked back at the others, and they could see that
there was happiness in her eyes as well as tears.
Then she was gone, in Baron’s wake. The sound of her voice, anxiously
questioning, drifted up the stairs until it was suddenly quieted by
the closing of the front door.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to go out on a street-car,” said Baron. “When
you want to come back, the Thornburgs will probably send you in an
automobile.”
She clasped her hands. “Fine!” said she.
Baron frowned--a fact which she remarked. “I wasn’t thinking about the
automobile,” she hastened to assure him.
“Why the unconcealed rapture, then?”
“Oh, I thought you might be starting out to lose me, as you would a cat
or a dog, you know. I’m glad there’ll be a way for me to get back.”
Baron refused to see any humor in her remark. “I wish you’d quit
looking at it like that,” he said. “Some day you’ll understand better
why I think it is a good thing for you to be friendly with the
Thornburgs. Just now you may rest assured that we’re going to miss
you.” He realized that he was being rather serious, and he tried to end
his observations more cheerfully. “And whenever it pleases you to honor
us with your presence again, you’ll find the latch-string, et cetera,
et cetera.”
* * * * *
There was a very pleasant old garden at the rear of the Thornburg
residence--a fairly roomy region of old trees and vines and rustic
seats and dreams. In the midst of this sylvan scene stood a very old,
friendly apple-tree, and beneath this, in the evening dusk through
which Baron and Bonnie May were escorted out into the garden, sat Mrs.
Thornburg.
Thornburg had received them, and it was his idea that it would be a
fine thing for the two guests to take Mrs. Thornburg unawares.
She regarded the visitors rather wearily at first as they emerged from
the shadows and stood before her. Then she recognized Baron, and her
face brightened wonderfully. There was a child with him, and of course
it would be _the_ child.
She arose from her many-cushioned seat and leaned a little forward,
while Bonnie May regarded her with earnest eyes.
“You see, we’re here!” said Baron, trying to strike a light and
cheerful note.
Mrs. Thornburg scarcely seemed to notice him. “Yes,” she said dreamily.
She did not remove her eyes from Bonnie May’s.
It was the child who completed her scrutiny first. She glanced about
her appraisingly. “A very beautiful exterior you have here,” she
remarked, somewhat loftily.
Mrs. Thornburg smiled rapturously at this. A warm hue stole into her
cheeks.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said. She glanced at Baron now, with joyous
wonder in her eyes. “We think it’s pretty,” she added. “It might make
you think of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy-tales, mightn’t it?” It
was plain that she was feeling her way cautiously. “We might imagine
we were the children who played under the juniper-tree--though I’m not
sure an apple-tree would pass for a juniper-tree.”
Bonnie May nodded amiably. “Or it might remind you of a Shakespeare
setting,” she suggested.
The woman regarded her anew with a look of wonder, and pique, and
delight; and then it was evident that she had reached the limits of her
restraint. With hands that trembled she drew the child slowly toward
her, until she had the radiant face pressed against her breast.
“Dear child, do try to love me, won’t you?” she pleaded, and Baron saw
that her face twitched, and that her eyes were offering a prayer to the
soft sky in which the first stars of evening were just blossoming.
Then, almost stealthily, he left them.
* * * * *
Baggot was waiting for him in front of the house when he reached home.
To be exact, the young playwright was sitting on the front step,
nervously puffing a cigarette.
“What took you out this time in the evening?” he demanded.
“I’ve been taking Bonnie May for a visit.”
“Oh!--her. I wanted to ask you. Who is she?” Baron was unlocking the
door. “Her name is Bonnie May,” he said.
“Oh, I know that. I mean, who is she? A grandchild, or something?”
“I haven’t any grandchildren. Suppose we go into the house.”
“I don’t see why I shouldn’t know who she is. It seems a pity to me
that you can’t say something.” Baggot threw his cigarette into the
street and followed Baron into the house and up into the attic. Arrived
there he renewed his attack.
“While it seems improbable that you can add anything to the very
explicit account you have given me of Bonnie May, I’d like to say that
I’m curious to know who she is.”
Baron turned upon him quietly. “In view of your unchallengeable right
to ask questions about a guest who happens to be in this house, I will
explain that she is an actress by profession, and that being out of an
engagement just now, she is accepting our hospitality.”
Baggot was undisturbed. He exclaimed: “Well, I thought----!”
“You thought----?”
“That I recognized her! Her ways, I mean. You could tell there was
something about her....”
“Well,” concluded Baron, “now let’s see what’s up.” He had turned on
the light, and now he shoved a chair in Baggot’s direction.
“What do you think of the play?” demanded Baggot.
“I haven’t read it yet.”
[Illustration: “Dear child, do try to love me, won’t you?”]
Baggot laughed lamely and his whole bearing expressed contempt. “You
don’t seem to be at all excited about it!” he complained.
Baron made no response to that. He was wondering where Baggot got his
enthusiasm for things.
“Well, the point is,” continued the other, “I’ve got a producer, and
it’s to be put on right away. Over at the Palace. They’ve got a summer
stock company, you know. They’re going to give it a trial performance.”
Baron was surprised. “I congratulate you,” he said. “I supposed such
things were pretty hard to manage.”
Baggot explained with complete frankness. “I know that. You see, I’ve
got an uncle who is financially interested in the Palace. He’s got
confidence in me--in this play, anyway. He made them give me a trial.
And that’s all I ask for. It’ll go like wild-fire. You’ll see.”
He had lighted another cigarette and was puffing nervously. “Where is
it?” he demanded. And when the manuscript was placed in his hands he
drew nearer to the light. With smoke curling up into his eyes he began
to read aloud. He held his head askew, to escape the smoke.
Baron leaned back, his face in shadow, and curiously studied the
intense manner of his companion.
Baggot read: fitfully, speedily, with an occasional aside, which he
dropped entirely when he got well into the action of the drama.
There was something of impersonation in his manner as he read now one
character’s lines and now another’s. He put so much interest into the
reading that it seemed almost like acting. And presently Baron began to
see vivid pictures. He was carried into a strange, pleasant atmosphere.
He was delighted by quaint, unexpected bits of dialogue. He perceived,
little by little, the trend of the whimsical philosophy.
He could scarcely believe that this was Baggot’s work. He forgot to
take account of time. And when the last act was finished, he found that
he had risen to his feet.
“Splendid!” he exclaimed. “Splendid!”
Baggot thrust the manuscript from him and turned to the other with
brilliant, triumphant eyes.
“No fault to find with that,” he challenged. In another moment he had
left the room, and was hurrying down the stairs and away from the
house, too excited to contain himself.
The manuscript remained where it had fallen.
Late the next afternoon Baron returned from a day’s work in the _Times_
office.
He was thinking of Baggot’s play. He meant to read it for himself--to
see how much he had been influenced the day before by Baggot’s almost
hypnotic enthusiasm.
He went up into the attic room--and there, much to his amazement and
delight, he was confronted by Bonnie May.
She blushed with confusion and looked at him almost guiltily.
“Back so soon!” he exclaimed.
“Why, it seemed to me I was away quite a long time.”
“Well, yes--I suppose I’ve been rather busy.” He looked about for
the manuscript, which seemed to have been removed. “Did you find it
pleasant at the Thornburgs’?” he asked. He was succeeding now in
getting back his habitual, quiet manner.
“Oh, yes. Quite pleasant.”
“That’s nice. I somehow imagined they might persuade you to stay a
little longer.”
“No, when I said I ought to be coming home, she sent to the garage and
had the automobile brought around for me.”
Baron nodded. “And she wasn’t disappointed, then?”
“She was very nice about it. She asked me to come again. She told the
man that any time I telephoned to him he might come with the machine
and get me--here, you know. Any afternoon. It seems Mr. Thornburg
never uses the machine in the afternoons, and she doesn’t care for it
herself. She was just as nice as she could be. And of course I’m going
back. But you know I really belong here.”
“Yes, certainly,” assented Baron. “Yes, I understand that.” He was
still a bit puzzled. He added tentatively: “Wasn’t everything very
beautiful there?”
“Beautiful? In what way?”
“The house--the grounds--everything.”
“Oh--the settings! Yes, they were quite pretentious. But they never
count for so much, really. It is the action and the dialogue that
really count. And I like the action and the dialogue here much better.”