Bonnie May

When you are told that you have only to telephone to a certain garage, and a very fine, large automobile will be sent around to your house, entirely at your service, a very strong temptation has been placed in your way.

Bonnie May could scarcely believe that she could achieve so much by a mere word or two over the telephone, and it was not at all surprising that she experimented within a day or two after her first visit to the Thornburg home.

The automobile came with almost incredible promptness, and a chauffeur who had the gallant bearing of a soldier did everything but fling a cloak on the ground for Bonnie May to walk on.

She called rather briefly and formally on Mrs. Thornburg on this occasion, but the experience had its special, delighting excitements. The experiment was repeated frequently, and the truth must be recorded that before long Bonnie May was spending her time more or less equally between the mansion and the Thornburg home.

She became something of a personage during those days.

Baggot called on Baron one afternoon, and upon being informed that Baron was out, he asked for Bonnie May, and spent fully an hour with her, leaving her in a high state of complacency.

The next day he called again, and this time he did not ask for Baron. He came, he said, to call on Bonnie May.

But this time she was not in. She spent a good part of her time as the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Thornburg, Baggot was told—which indicates clearly enough how the status of affairs had changed.

Baggot made a note of this information and went away in a thoughtful mood.

The members of the Baron family considered these developments without commenting upon them very much at first. But one day Baron, Sr., took occasion to express an opinion.

“It seems strange to have a mere infant passing between two houses like a bird between two trees,” he said. This was thought to be his mild way of expressing disapproval.

“It’s Victor’s arrangement,” replied Mrs. Baron. This response was made less inadequate by the way her eyebrows went up.

“The fact is,” declared Flora, “we’ve all fallen in love with the saucy little thing.”

“Well?” inquired Mrs. Baron truculently.

“I mean, I don’t think Victor’s idea is a bad one at all. She’s—well, the kind that do extraordinary things when they grow up. We may be glad enough to be in a position where we can ‘get from under’ one of these days.”

“I’m thinking of our responsibility,” was her mother’s rejoinder.

“Yes, so am I. Suppose she made up her mind to be an actress again? The Thornburgs would be just the right kind of friends for her if she did—and Victor says they are very good people. But having an actress in the house—in our house—would be like having a cub bear for a pet. They’re cunning enough when they’re little, but there comes a time when you have to telephone the zoo, or turn in a riot call.”

“You ought to be ashamed!” cried Mrs. Baron. “I’m sure she’s a good child—a very good child.”

The word “reconstruction” came to Flora’s mind, but she didn’t say anything about it. She only smiled, rather tantalizingly, and added: “Just the same, I believe in cyclone cellars.”

So it became no uncommon thing for a huge car to stop before the mansion. “For me!” Bonnie May would exclaim on these occasions; whereupon she would hurry into jacket and hat, and eagerly clasp Mrs. Baron and Flora about the neck, and hurry with real childish eagerness as far as the front door, after which she would demurely cross the sidewalk and take her place in the car with the air of any sedate lady of fashion.

The first little unpleasantness between Bonnie May and Baron arose very soon after this series of irregular exits and entrances began.

“While I think of it,” said Baron casually, addressing the child, “I want to provide a—a fund for you.” He smiled amiably. “See?” He took a quantity of change from his pocket and placed it in a vase. “Whenever you go calling it will be proper for you to put something into your purse. For tips, perhaps. Or for something of that kind. I am sure a young lady ought to have a little money.”

Bonnie May looked curiously into his smiling face, which seemed to have been transformed for the moment into a mask. “I don’t believe I would bother about that,” she replied.

“I’m not bothering.” Baron’s smile stiffened slightly. “I merely wish you to have what you want.”

“But Mrs. Thornburg always gives me money.”

The smile vanished. “That’s very good of Mrs. Thornburg, certainly. But when you are in our house you won’t need her money. When you’re starting out, from this end of the route, you’ll find money in the vase.”

She looked at him intently, not quite understanding the unfriendly note in his voice. “I believe you are jealous!” she said.

“You see too much,” rejoined Baron resentfully.

“It isn’t that. You show too much!”

“Of course, I ought to be grateful for criticism from such a source!”

She regarded him with wonder, her eyes filling with tears. “You’ve no right to speak to me like that. You know I don’t need any money. You have all been so generous.... And it’s only because Mrs. Thornburg isn’t well, and because I don’t know her as well as I know you that I took money from her. She was so happy giving it to me. It would have been rude for me to refuse. But here—here I’ve been with friends!”

She brushed the tears from her eyes and ran from the room. As in other times of stress, Mrs. Shepard and the kitchen became her refuge.

Baron looked after her with an assumption of idle curiosity, but when he heard a distant door close his expression changed to real concern. He was dismayed when he thought how deeply he had wounded the child. He was aware of a sudden resentment against the Thornburgs. He sat down and gazed abstractedly at the carpet. He realized after a time that he was studying the meaningless outlines of a figure in faded colors. “We need a new carpet,” he mused. “We need everything new. And the only new thing we’ve got hold of in years is discovering that everything in the house, including ourselves, is threadbare, and respectable—and ugly.”

Then he realized that Bonnie May had come back into the room and that she was almost impatiently trying to thrust her hand into his.

“Oh, do let’s play nice parts,” she remonstrated. “You know, if you once start in melodrama it’s the hardest thing in the world to get into anything better.”

He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “I think I make rather a silly villain,” he admitted.

“You see, I know what troubled you. I thought it out. You thought I could care more for the things the Thornburgs do for me than I do for the lovely way you took me in here and were good to me. Wasn’t that it?”

“Why, something like that.”

“Well, that’s silly. Politeness—that’s all it’s been with them. But the way you took me in, and treated me, and everything.... You don’t think I could be such a little beast as not to understand all that, do you?”

There was no other friction for many days. Indeed, Bonnie May was less frequently absent when Baron came into the house from his journeys about the city. She seemed after all to be developing only a limited interest in the Thornburgs.

Besides, Baron had a new interest thrust upon him. Baggot had arrived at a point in the development of his play which made him an incessant nuisance to all his acquaintances, and to Baron most of all. He could talk of nothing but his drama—“The Break of Day,” it was called—and he insisted upon consulting Baron, or inviting his admiration and approval, half a dozen times a day.

Rehearsals had begun over at the Palace, and the process of cutting, and elaborating, and altering, was almost driving Baggot mad. Mad with resentment, sometimes; or mad with excitement and anticipations.

“You’ll review it for one of the papers, won’t you?” he demanded of Baron on one occasion, indicating by manner and tone that a refusal was out of the question.

“How can I tell?” retorted Baron. “I’ll have to wait until I’m asked.”

“I’ll attend to that.” He was blind to Baron’s contemptuous and sceptical grin. “And I’ll want to extend courtesies to your family, if you don’t mind. A box. You know it helps a lot to have the right kind of people at a première.” He perceived something in Baron’s eyes which disquieted him. “I mean,” he added, “I want to get the opinion of the right kind of people.”

“Thank you,” said Baron. “Of course I can’t answer for the family. They might like to come. They will appreciate the invitation, in any event.” He was wondering why he had ever permitted Baggot to get acquainted with him. Then, afraid that Baggot would read this thought in his eyes, he added evasively: “Bonnie May appears to be the real theatregoer of the family. She will want to come, I’m sure.”

“Oh, Bonnie May!” Baggot seemed to be brushing the name aside. “It’s the family I want. I have a reason. Be sure not to fail me.” He seemed to remember something in connection with the work over at the Palace. In a moment he was gone, without a word of farewell.

He was utterly childish, Baron thought, and certainly it was wrong to disappoint children needlessly.

Yes, he would really try to persuade the family to go.

When occasion arose to speak to Bonnie May alone he tried to make light of the whole affair. “A great honor,” he began, “for you and all of us. A box has been reserved for us for the first performance of ‘The Break of Day.’”

Bonnie May clapped her hands. “How fine!” she said. “Do you think they will all go?”

“I hardly know. Really, it doesn’t seem very important—does it?—a first performance, in a summer theatre, by an unknown company!”

She seemed anxious. “Anyway, I do hope mother will go.”

Baron thought he understood that. If “mother” refused to go, she might not be permitted to go herself.

However, he approached his mother on the subject with a certain amount of earnestness. “I’ve had a sort of hand in the play, in a small way,” he explained. “And Baggot is anxious to have us all come.” He couldn’t resist the temptation to add: “He places a high value on the opinion of what he calls nice people. That means us. You can’t seem indifferent to such recognition, can you?”

Mrs. Baron was deaf to the sarcasm. “Isn’t it one of those cheap summer theatres?” she asked.

“Yes, but really I don’t know that it will be very different from the winter performances. Not as an ethical proposition, anyway.”

“I hardly think I’d be interested,” she decided. However, she did not speak with her usual certainty, and she glanced at her son a bit anxiously. If he really wanted her to go....

On a later occasion Baron again touched the subject. He had just got rid of Baggot, who was in an unusually enthusiastic mood.

“Really, mother, I have an idea that play is going to be quite worth while. If you didn’t mind it very much....”

But Mrs. Baron fancied she was being coerced. “No, I think not,” she said, shaking her head.

“And Bonnie May,” added Baron. “Great goodness, how anxious she is to go! I suppose she thinks she can’t go unless you do.”

Mrs. Baron’s eyes flashed. That was it! Bonnie May’s comfort and pleasure—that, and nothing more.

“I remember that argument,” she said, rather disagreeably. “You forget that she has other friends now—rather better suited to her needs in this case. The Thornburgs can take her.”

But Baron, noting the uncomfortable look in her eyes, left her with the conclusion, unexpressed: “My bet is that the Thornburgs will not take her.”