THE MANSION IN SHADOW
When Bonnie May did not return to the mansion that night the fact
was not commented upon by any member of the family. It was not quite
remarkable that she should spend the night with the Thornburgs. That
was where she had gone, of course.
It is true that Mrs. Baron was decidedly uncomfortable. The rupture
that had occurred was more serious than any that had preceded it.
Possibly she had gone too far. There was the possibility that Bonnie
May might nurse a very proper grievance and decide that it was
pleasanter to live with the Thornburgs than to continue her residence
at the mansion.
In brief, she might refuse to come back. That was Mrs. Baron’s fear. It
was a fear which hurt the more because she was unwilling to speak of it.
However, when the next day passed and night came, Baron took no trouble
to conceal his anxiety--for still Bonnie May had not returned.
He called up the Thornburgs by telephone. Was Bonnie May there? He
asked the question very affably. Yes, came back the reply--in an
equally affable tone--she was there. Would he like to speak to her?
No, she need not be troubled; he merely wished to be sure she was there.
Baron believed, without expressing his belief to any one, that it would
be a mistake to manifest anxiety about the late guest--or probably
the temporarily absent guest. So it came about that one day followed
another, and Bonnie May did not come back, and the several members of
the family pretended that nothing was specially wrong.
It was Mrs. Baron who first thrust aside a wholly transparent pretense.
“That’s the trouble with that Thornburg arrangement,” she said at
dinner one day, apropos of nothing that had been said, but rather of
what everybody was thinking. “I don’t blame her for being offended; but
if the Thornburgs were not making efforts to keep her she’d have been
back before now. On the whole, we were really very good to her.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t worry,” declared Baron briskly. “She’ll be back. If
she doesn’t come before long I’ll go over there and--and tole her back.”
A second week passed--and she had not returned. And now her absence
was making a distinct difference in the mansion. The dinner and
sitting-room conversations became listless; or during the course of
them a tendency toward irritability was developed.
One day Mrs. Baron sought her son alone in his attic. Said she: “Do
you suppose she’s not coming back at _all_?” She looked quite wan and
bereft as she asked the question.
Baron felt remorseful. “Of course she is,” he assured her. “I’m going
over to the Thornburgs’. I’m going to see about it.”
Bonnie May was acting foolishly, he thought. The Thornburgs were not
keeping faith. Yet it was a difficult matter for him to make a clear
case against either Bonnie May or the Thornburgs, and he was by no
means comforted by a little event which transpired one morning.
He encountered the two actors as he was leaving the mansion, and his
impulse was to speak to them cordially. But in returning his greeting
they manifested a well-simulated faint surprise, as if they felt sure
Baron had made a mistake. They nodded politely and vaguely and passed
on.
In his mind Baron charged them angrily with being miserable cads,
and he was the more angry because they had snubbed him in such an
irreproachable fashion.
Even Baron, Sr., became impatient over the long absence of Bonnie May.
Realizing that his usual practise of watching and listening was not
to be effective in the present instance, he leaned back in his chair
at dinner one evening and asked blandly: “What’s become of the little
girl?”
And Mrs. Baron made a flat failure of her effort to be indifferent.
Her hand trembled as she adjusted her knife and fork on her plate.
“Why, I don’t know,” said she. “You know, she has two homes.” But she
was afraid to attempt to look anywhere but at her plate.
Baron was astounded by the utter dejection which his mother tried to
conceal. Why, she loved the child--really. She was grieving for her.
And that evening he emerged from the house with much grimness of manner
and made for the Thornburgs’.
The dusk had fallen when he reached the quiet street on which the
manager lived. Street-lamps cast their light among the trees at
intervals. In the distance a group of children were playing on the
pavement. Before the Thornburg home silence reigned, and no one was
visible.
Yet as Baron neared the approach to the house he paused abruptly.
He had been mistaken in believing there was no one near. In the
heavy shadow of a maple-tree some one was standing--a woman. She was
gazing at the lower windows of the Thornburg residence. And there was
something in her bearing which seemed covert, surreptitious.
He, too, looked toward those windows. There was nothing there beyond a
frankly cheerful interior. He could see no one.
What was the woman looking at? He glanced at her again, and a bough,
swaying in the breeze, moved from its place so that the rays from a
near-by lamp shone upon the figure which appeared to be standing on
guard.
She was overdressed, Baron thought. Under an immense velvet hat
weighted down with plumes masses of blond hair were visible. Her high,
prominent cheek-bones were not at all in keeping with the girlish bloom
which had been imparted to her cheeks by a too obvious artifice. She
had caught up her skirt lightly in one hand, as if the attitude were
habitual, and one aggressively elegant shoe was visible.
He had paused only momentarily. Now he proceeded on his way, passing
the woman in the shadow with only half the width of the sidewalk
between her and him.
He had recognized her. She was the woman who had stood in the theatre
that night talking to Thornburg--who had visited Thornburg in his
office. Could she be Miss Barry? Baron wondered.
A maid let him into the house and drew open a sliding door, revealing
the lighted but empty drawing-room. She took his card and disappeared.
He sat for a time, counting the heavy minutes and listening intently
for sounds which did not reach him. Then the manager and his wife
entered the room, both bending upon him strangely expectant glances.
Baron arose. “I’ve taken the liberty--” he began, but Thornburg
instantly swept all formalities aside.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Keep your seat.” Then, obviously, they
waited for something which they expected he had come to say.
But he was listening for the sound of Bonnie May’s voice. He seemed
almost absent-minded to the man and woman who were intently regarding
him.
Then Thornburg, plainly afraid of offending his guest by a too
impulsive or impatient word, fell back upon commonplaces. He concluded
that he must wait to hear what Baron had come to say.
“You’ve heard about Baggot’s good luck?” he asked.
“I think not,” replied Baron, not at all cordially.
“His play. They’re getting ready to put it on in Chicago. His people
have a theatre there that’s not engaged just now. There’s to be an
elegant production--first-class people and everything. Baggot’s gone on
to look after the rehearsals. We ought to have it here by the first of
the year--or earlier, if a number two company is organized.”
“I hadn’t heard,” said Baron. “I haven’t seen Baggot lately.” With
intention he spoke listlessly. Thornburg wasn’t coming to the point,
and he didn’t intend to be played like a fish.
An uncomfortable silence fell again, and again Baron found himself
listening intently.
And then he could bear the suspense no longer. He leaned toward
Thornburg with animation. “Look here, Thornburg,” he said, “I don’t
believe you’re playing fair!”
“You might explain that,” responded the manager curtly.
“You know what the agreement was. I don’t believe she’d stay away like
this unless she’d been restrained.”
Thornburg’s only response was a perplexed frown. It was Mrs. Thornburg
who first took in the situation. She arose, painfully agitated, and
faced Baron. “Do you mean that she isn’t at your house?” she demanded.
Her voice trailed away to a whisper, for already she read the answer in
his eyes.
Baron sank back in his chair. “She hasn’t been for weeks,” he replied.
Thornburg sprang to his feet so energetically that the caller followed
his example. “I thought it was you who wasn’t playing fair,” he said.
And then he stared, amazed at the change in Baron’s manner.
The younger man was rushing from the room. There had come to him
unbidden the picture of the two actors who had snubbed him in front
of his house--a recollection of their studied aloofness, their cold,
skilful avoidance of an encounter with him. They had taken her!
But at the door he paused. “But I telephoned to you,” he said,
remembering. “You told me she was here.”
“She was here the day you telephoned. She went away the next day.”
Baron frowned. “She went away--where?”
“She went in the machine. Of course we supposed----”
Thornburg hurried to the telephone and was speaking to his chauffeur,
in a moment. “Oliver? Come to the house a moment, Oliver--and hurry.”
He replaced the receiver and hurried back to meet the chauffeur.
The soldierly appearing young chauffeur was standing at attention
before them in a moment.
“We want to know if you can remember where you took Bonnie May the last
time she left the house.”
“Perfectly, sir. She asked me to stop at the Palace Theatre. She said
she was expecting to meet a friend there. And she told me I was not to
wait--that she wouldn’t need the car again that afternoon.”
* * * * *
Fifteen minutes later Baron was ringing the bell of the house next to
the mansion. He couldn’t recall the two actors’ names, but he described
them. He wished to see them on urgent business.
But they had paid their bill and gone away. The woman who met Baron
at the door was sure they had said something about finishing their
engagement at the Folly and about leaving the city.
As Baron turned away from the door it seemed to him that the street had
suddenly gone empty--that the whole world was a haunted wilderness.