menu_book Chapter 7

Section 7 of Bonnie May by Louis Dodge. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Kari Burns. A Sunday Morning The Barons were the kind of family that have just one morning newspaper left at their door

on Sunday, and who believe that it contains everything that ought to concern them in any way, that whatever is published in any other newspaper is to be regarded with skepticism or lightly discredited. Yet on this particular Sunday morning, Victor Barron arose early and intercepted the paper carrier, and amazed that industrious youth by buying a copy of every journal he carried. With this not inconsiderable burden under his arm, he betook himself to the library and began an eager search for certain information.

He scanned all the advertising columns systematically and then turned to the news departments. A great heap of discarded sections grew about him as he progressed, and little by little a look of troubled anticipation vanished from his eyes. The last section of the last paper was cast away with an air of triumph. He hadn't been able to find a single word about any child who was lost, or who had strayed, or who had been stolen. Good! he exclaimed, and he looked with great relief at the heap of papers about him,

their splotches of color and assertive headlines having no further interest for him. He smiled complacently. In the meantime, in the sunny sitting room upstairs, Flora had broken the news to Mrs. Barron, the news touching Bonnie May and the new dress. It had been a very difficult thing to do, because Mrs. Barron was always at her worst on Sunday mornings. It was on Sunday mornings that she felt most keenly the lapse of the neighborhood from former glories to a condition

of sordid griminess. It was on these mornings that she fared forth to the old church only three blocks away, in which the best people in town had formerly worshipped, but which had been deserted by nearly all the old parishioners. It was Mrs. Barron's contention that it was indelicate, to say the least, for people to desert a church. There were things in the church life, she maintained, which could not be transplanted, and which constituted the very warp and woof of the

domestic as well as the social foundations. She had come to regard herself as a kind of standard bearer in this relationship, and she attended services somewhat ostentatiously with the belief that she was not only lending her influence, but administering a rebuke as well. Ignoring the protests of her family, she had even consented to play the organ for the Sunday school services. As a young lady, she had learned to read music as a matter of course, and though she possessed no musical intelligence and had found it impossible to regain the old manual skill she had once possessed,

she played the simple hymns with a kind of proud rigor because she believed her participation in the services in this direction must impart an authority to the proceedings which the abler playing of some obscure individual could not have imparted. Indeed, Mrs. Barron was a personage on Sunday mornings, a gallant general leading a forlorn hope proudly and firmly. When Flora confessed to her that the dress had been rejected, she was too greatly amazed to say a great deal.

She had also entered upon her stoic mood, her Sunday morning mood. You see, she is simply determined not to get along, she declared with finality. She took the dress into her own hands and regarded it critically. Do you see how carefully the feather stitching is done, she demanded. Yes, agreed Flora. The feather stitching is beautiful. But really, I don't believe she is simply perverse. If you could have seen the dismay in her eyes, Flora smiled at the

recollection. I've seen women like that, Mrs. Barron continued. Women who like to make difficulties, who go into hysterics over little things. It's always just a lack of sense. That's all it is. Yes, or temperament. I expect there's a good deal in what people call temperament. I didn't know children had it so much, but Bonnie May isn't like other children.

Maybe she has a good deal of temperament. They examined the dress together without any very definite purpose. She ought to know she can't go on wearing that silly thing she came here in. was Mrs. Barron's next comment. She must realize that, agreed Flora. She added casually, I think something soft with a little color in it might please her. You might let me try next time.

This was the wrong note again. As if I weren't capable of making a child's dress, protested Mrs. Barron. I only meant it would be fair to divide the work, Flora explained gently. I didn't mean I could do it better. As if her anger had been effectually checked in that direction, Mrs. Barron hit upon another possible grievance. And she's going to Sunday school today, she affirmed in a tone which seemed to take account of difficulties.

We've done our best to dress her decently, and I don't intend to humor a little pagan as long as she's in a Christian household. But in that particular dress, faltered Flora, she had a vision of Bonnie May and her fantastic old frock associating with the prim children of poverty who were now mainstay of the Sunday school. She may walk with Mrs. Shepard. People may believe she belongs to her if they want to. Oh, mother! There was something almost despairing in Flora's

tone. It's the best we can do. I mean to do my duty, and I'm not willing to look ridiculous. us. Again, Miss Barron perceived breakers ahead. If the child conceived the idea that she was being commanded to go anywhere, she would very probably develop new methods of resistance. If she were politely invited to accompany other members of the household to church, she might decide to be altogether gracious. She entertained a lingering regret that the guest could not be persuaded to

wear the new dress, in which certainly she would have been conspicuous enough, but not quite in a flaunting fashion. She even thought of Victor and wondered if he might not be able to prevail upon the child to accede to the wishes of her elders. But upon second thought, she decided not to involve her brother in a phase of the problem which did not touch him. She suspected there would be other faces, more in his line, in due time. In the meanwhile, the object of all the solicitous

thought was leisurely preparing to make her appearance. That she had no fresh remit to put on was not particularly disquieting. The fact that it was a Sunday morning made no difference to her at all. Certainly, she needed fresh linen, but this, she philosophically concluded, would be provided within another day or two. Her shoes were quite new and neat, and she was by no means ashamed of the dress which now constituted her complete wardrobe. On a chair by her bed, she made

discoveries. There was a fresh towel, a little package which obviously contained a toothbrush, a box of tooth powder and, crowning gift, a new hair ribbon of adorable width and hue. She took these things under one arm, and with her free hand, she carefully gathered Flora's long nightgown away from her feet. Then she started to the bathroom. In the hall, she paused to be sure that the way was clear. Silence reigned save for the murmur of voices

downstairs, far indistinct. The hall was glorious with indirect rays of the sun. It had wonderful spaciousness, too. Bonnie May gazed down the broad stairway, duskily bright and warm and silent, and her expression was quite blissful. She turned and looked up to the landing above, reached by a narrower flight of stairs. It seemed splendidly remote, and here the sunlight fell in a righteous flood.

Her sensations must have been something akin to those of a mockingbird that inspects the vernal world in May. She released the folds of the nightgown and paraded to and fro in the hall, looking back over her shoulder at the train. She had put the garment on again after Flora's advent with the gingham dress, primarily for the purpose of making the journey from her room to her bath. But there had been a distinct pleasure in wearing it, too.

She thought it made her look like a fairy queen. She felt the need of a tinsel crown and a wand with a gilded star at its end. She was executing a regal turn in the hall when her glance was attracted upward to some moving object on the landing above. A most extraordinary ancient man stood there watching her. Realizing that he had been discovered, he turned in a kind of panic and disappeared into

regions unknown. His mode of locomotion was quite unusual. If Bonnie May had been familiar with not terms, she would have said that he was tacking as he made his agitated exit. As for Bonnie May, she scampered into the bathroom. The flowing train suddenly gripped in her fingers. Downstairs, they were listening for her, though they pretended not to be doing so. They heard her in the bathroom. Later, they heard movements in her bedroom.

and at last she was descending the stairs leisurely, a carefree song on her lips. She invaded the dining room. Mr. Barron had been lingering over his coffee. The various parts of the morning paper were all about him. Good morning, was Bonnie May's greeting. She nodded brightly. I hope I'm not intruding. Not at all, Mr. Baron glanced at her with real friendliness. It had not occurred to him that her dress was fantastic. What he had noticed was that her face

was positively radiant and that she spoke as he imagined a duchess might have done. You might like to look at the colored supplement, he added, fishing around through the various sections of the paper at his feet. I thank you, I'm sure. But isn't it rather silly, she asked deferentially. Is there a theatrical page? Mr. Barron coughed slightly, as he always did when he was disconcerted. There is, I believe, he said. He glanced over his shoulder toward a closed door.

I'm not sure Mrs. Barron would approve of your looking at the theatrical department on Sunday, he added. Really? And you don't think she'd see any harm in looking at the comic pictures? Mr. Barron removed his glasses and wiped them carefully. She would probably regard the comic pictures as the lesser of the two evils, he said. Well, I never did like to be a piker. If I'm going into a thing, I like to go in strong.

She made this statement pleasantly. Mr. Barron put his glasses on somewhat hurriedly and looked hard at the child. He perceived that she was looking at him frankly and with a slight constriction at her throat, as was always the case when she felt she must hold her ground against attack. I rather think you write, he said reassuringly. I'm not sure I know how to find the theatrical page.

Would you mind looking? But Flora interrupted here. She entered the room with the air of one who has blessings to bestow. You're invited to go to Sunday school with us after a while, she informed the guest. You're very kind, I'm sure.

What's it like? Oh, there are children and music, and Flora paused. She was to make her statement attractive as well as truthful. A kind of spectacle, suggested the guest. Hardly that.

But there's somebody to tell stories. It's very nice, I think. It certainly sounds good to me. if they've got any good people I might like to get into it until I find an opening in my own line. Mr. Barron removed his glasses again. Flora, would you undertake to tell me what she means?

he inquired. Miss Barron pinched her lips and looked at him with a kind of ripple of joy in her eyes. Isn't it plain? she asked. She went out of the room then, and he heard her laughing somewhere in the distance. He coughed again and turned to his paper, and so, for the first time in her life, Bonnie May was in a fair way of going to Sunday school. Victor didn't approve of the idea at all when it was presently made known to him. He waylaid his mother in the dining room at a time

when there was no one else about. Why not wait until she can get some things, he asked. Victor, replied Mrs. Barron, holding her head very high, you're assuming that that extraordinary little creature is going to stay here. I assure you she's not. This may be the only chance she'll ever have to place herself in the way of a helpful influence on Sunday. She's going to Sunday school today. Governance, responded Victor, smiling steadily. If you don't quit getting angry with me,

I mean to sue for separate maintenance. Mark my words, after which nothing more was said on the subject. Victor betook himself to the library, however, and indulged in a moment of fidgeting. Breakers were ahead, that was certain. It was forcing things anyway. He took down his Emerson and turned to a passage which his mother long ago had pronounced a thing holding low heathen sentiments. He read, And why drag his dead weight of a Sunday school over the whole of Christendom?

It is beautiful and natural that children should inquire and maturity should teach, but it is time enough to answer questions when they are asked. Do not shut up the young people against their will in a pew and force the children to ask them questions against their will. He could not dismiss from his mind the picture of Bonnie May asking questions in her elfin, yet penetrating way, and he realized that the answers she would get in that place of

ordered forums and conventions might be very far from satisfactory to one of her somewhat fearful frankness and honesty. But suddenly he smiled at the pictures he was drawing in his mind. She seems pretty well able to take care of herself, he concluded. He came upon the heaped sections of newspapers he had examined.

That reminded him. The newspapers were not the only source of information, nor perhaps the most likely source, so far as his immediate needs were concerned. No, there was a certain visit he must make that morning. A little later he emerged from the mansion and stood for an instant on the steps in the brilliant sunlight.

Then he descended the steps and was gone. End of Section 7