CHAPTER XXIAN EXIT AND AN ENTRANCE
Itwas 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 ortwo 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 bentover 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 ina 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 thestairs 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, inthe 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 bethechild.
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 feelingher 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.”
Dear child, do try to love me, won’t you?“Dear child, do try to love me, won’t you?”
“Dear child, do try to love me, won’t you?”
“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 wellinto 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 theTimesoffice.
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.”