The Rose in the Ring Part 13

As they started for the deserted ring, Joey took the boy's arm and said, with a diffidence that was almost pathetic:

"Jacky, I--I want you to be nice to my gal. She's never 'ad no chance to a.s.sociate with a real toff. It ain't 'er fault, poor gal; it's the life we leads. These 'ere circus people are as good as gold, Jacky; I'm not complaining about that. But they ain't just exactly wot I want my gal to grow up like. Not but wot she's growed up already so far as size is concerned. But she's not quite eighteen. She's been in the show business since she was two. Her mother and 'er grandmother afore 'er, too. But the business ain't wot it used to be. I want 'er to get out of it. I don't want 'er marrying some wuthless 'Kinker' or even a decent 'Joy.' Mrs. Braddock 'as done worlds for 'er, mind you, but it's the men she's a.s.sociated with that I objects to. They're--they're too much like me. That's wot I mean, Jacky. Would you mind just conversing with 'er friendly like from time to time? Just give 'er a touch of wot a real gentleman is, sir. It ain't asking too much of you, is it, Dav--Jacky? I ain't ashamed to ask it of you, and I--I kind of hoped you wouldn't be ashamed to 'elp tone 'er up a bit, in a way. She's more like 'er mother than she is like me. And 'er mother was as fine a columbine as ever lived, she was that refined and steadfast."

David gave his promise, strangely touched by this second appeal to the birthright that placed him, though helpless and dependent, on a plane so far above that of his present a.s.sociates that even the most scornful of them felt the distinction. He recalled the profane respectfulness of the boss canvasman earlier in the day--a condition which would have astonished that worthy beyond description if he had had the least idea that he _was_ respectful.

CHAPTER VI

DAVID JENISON'S STORY

David's first week with the show was a trying one. In the first place, he was kept so carefully under cover, literally as well as figuratively, that he seldom saw the light of day except at dawn or through the s.p.a.ce between sidewall and top. At night he rode over rough, muddy roads in the tableau wagon, stiff and sore from the violent exercise of the day,--for he was training in earnest to become a clown. He was learning the clown's songs, and singing with the chorus in such pieces as "I'll never Kiss my Love again behind the Kitchen Door," "Paddle your own Canoe," and others in Joey's repertory.

Throughout the forlorn, disquieting days he stayed close to the dressing-tent, always in dread of the moment when Blake or some other minion of the law would clap him on the shoulder and end the agony of suspense. Blake, as a matter of fact, more than once came near to finding his quarry. Twice, at least, David was smuggled out of sight just in time to avoid an encounter with his stubborn pursuer.

At last, after five days, Blake gave it up and turned back to Virginia, hastened somewhat by the cleverly exploited newspaper strategy of George Simms, the show's press agent. Simms managed it so that a press dispatch came out of Richmond in which it was said on excellent authority that the boy had been seen in the neighborhood of his old home within the week, and that posses were now engaged in a neighborhood hunt for him. Blake was fooled by it.

After it became definitely known to Simms that Blake was back in Richmond with his a.s.sistant, David was permitted to emerge gradually from his seclusion. The first thing he did was to go with Joey Grinaldi to a savings bank where, under the name of John Snipe, he deposited two thousand dollars, retaining five hundred for emergencies. Part of this he turned over to the clown, part to Ruby and the rest to the trusty contortionist. Twice during the week Braddock bullied him into giving up twenty-five dollars to "fix it" with town officials. At least once a day he was importuned to deliver the "leather" into the safe keeping of the proprietor, who solemnly promised that it would be returned.

Moreover, in drunken magnanimity, he guaranteed to pay three per cent interest while the money was in his ticket-wagon safe, sealed and inviolate if needs be. On the subtle advice of Joey Noakes David did not tell Braddock that he had deposited the money; it would have been like the "boss" to fly into a rage and deliver him up to the authorities.

Braddock drank hard during the days following the departure of Colonel Grand, who stayed with the show no longer than twenty-four hours--an unusually brief visit, according to Joey.

The rainy weather continued and business got worse and worse. There was an air of downright gloom about the circus. Men, women and children were in the "dumps," a most unnatural condition to exist among these whilom, light-hearted adventurers. When they lifted up their heads, it was to deliver continuous anathemas to the leaden skies; when they allowed them to droop, it was to curse the soggy earth.

The new clown saw but little of Mrs. Braddock and Christine. Braddock's failure to extract money from him made that worthy so disagreeable that his wife and daughter were in mortal terror of his threats to turn the boy adrift if he caught them "coddling" him.

David's close a.s.sociates were the Noakeses, the contortionist and two or three rather engaging acrobats. As for the women of the company, he had but little to do with them, except in the most perfunctory way. He was always polite, gallant and agreeable, and they made much over him when the opportunity presented itself. They were warm-hearted and demonstrative, sometimes to such an exaggerated degree that he was embarra.s.sed. He was some time in getting accustomed to their effusive friendliness; it dawned on him at last that they were not graceless, flippant creatures, but big-hearted, honest women, in whom tradition had planted the value of virtue. He was not long in forming an unqualified respect for them; it was not necessary for Joey Grinaldi to tell him over and over again that they were good women.

If Christine saw him while she was in the ring, David was never able to determine the fact for himself. He tried to catch her eye a hundred times a day; he looked for a single smile that he might have claimed for his own. Once he caught her in his arms when she stumbled after leaping from the horse at the end of her act. It was very gracefully done on his part. She whispered "Thank you," but did not smile, and therein he was exalted. There was no day in which he failed to perform some simple act of gallantry for her and Mrs. Braddock, always with an un.o.btrusive modesty that pleased them. Sometimes he left spring flowers for them; on other occasions he bought sweetmeats and pastry in the towns and smuggled them into their hands, not without a conscious glow of embarra.s.sment and guilt. He was ever ready to seize upon the slightest excuse to be of service to them, despite the fact that they resolutely held aloof from him. The entire company of performers understood the situation and cultivated a rather malicious delight in abetting his clandestine courtesies.

It was no other than the queen of equestrians, Mademoiselle Denise (in reality an Irish woman with three children who attended school and a husband who never had attended one, although he was an exceptionally brilliant man when it came to head balancing)--it was Denise who, one rainy evening, brought Christine and David together between performances in a most satisfying manner by taking the former to visit a fortune-teller whose home was quite a distance from the show lot, first having sent David there on a perfectly plausible pretext. The young people met on the sidewalk in front of the house bearing the number Mademoiselle Denise had given to David. To say that he was surprised at seeing Christine under the same umbrella with the older woman would be putting it very tamely; to add that both of them were shy and uneasy is certainly superfluous. Moreover, when I say that David was obliged to inform Mademoiselle Denise that she had given him the wrong number; that a hod-carrier instead of a sorceress dwelt within,--when I say this, you may have an idea that there was no fortune-teller in the beginning. And then, when the head-balancing husband suddenly appeared and walked off with Denise, leaving the embarra.s.sed youngsters to follow at any pace they chose, you may be quite certain that there was a conspiracy afoot.

Christine walked demurely beside David, under a rigid umbrella. They were seven blocks from the circus lot; it was quite dark and drizzly.

For the first two blocks they had nothing to say to each other, except to venture the information that it was raining. In the second block, a very lonely stretch indeed, David, whose eyes had not left the backs of the wily couple ahead, regained his composure and with it his natural gallantry.

"Perhaps you had better take my arm, Miss--Miss Christine," he said stiffly.

She took it, rather awkwardly perhaps but very resolutely.

"I thought I heard something in the bushes back there," she said in extenuation.

"It was the wind," he vouchsafed, but his thoughts went at once to Blake. Involuntarily he looked over his shoulder and quickened his pace. She felt his arm stiffen.

"I'm quite sure it was a cow," she said.

"Are you afraid of cows?"

"Dreadfully."

"And you're not afraid of elephants or camels?"

"Oh, dear, no; they're tame." She seemed in doubt as to the wisdom of expressing aloud the thoughts that troubled her. Twice she peered up into the face of her companion. Then she resolutely delivered herself.

"I _do_ hope father won't see us, David."

"You poor girl," he cried gently. "I'm sorry if this gets you into trouble. Denise didn't tell me. She--"

"Oh, Denise did it on purpose," she said, quite glibly. "I suppose she thinks we're going to fall in love with each other."

David was grateful to the darkness. It hid his blush of confusion.

"But that's perfectly silly," went on the soft voice at his elbow. "I just want to be your friend, David. My mother adores you. So do I, but in just the same way that she does. I--I couldn't think of being so ridiculous as to fall in love with you."

He resented this. "I don't see why you say that," he said, rather stiffly. "But," very hastily, "I'm not asking you to do it. Please don't misunderstand me. I--"

"Mother and I are so sorry for you, David," she went on earnestly.

"We--we don't believe a word of--of--well, you know." She was suddenly distressed.

"How do you know that I'm not guilty?" he cried bitterly. "You have only my word for it. Of course, I'd deny it. Anybody would, even if he was as guilty as sin. I--I might have done it, for all you know."

"Oh, don't--don't talk like that, David!"

"Nearly every one with the show thinks I did it. It doesn't matter to them, either. They like me just as well. It's--it's as if I were a friendless, homeless dog. They're tender-hearted. They'd do as much for the dog, every time. I like them for it. I'll not forget everybody's kindness to me and--and their indifference."

"Indifference, David?"

"Yes. That's the word. It doesn't make any difference what I am, they just say it's all right and--and--that's all."

She caught the intensely bitter note in his voice. Christine was young, but she had fine perceptions. Her lip trembled.

"_n.o.body_ thinks you did it," she cried in a vehement undertone. "Even father--" She stopped abruptly, a quick catch of compunction in her breath.

"If he thinks I'm innocent, why is he so set on keeping me from talking to you or your mother?" he demanded quickly, a sudden fire entering his brain. "That doesn't look as if he thinks I'm all right, does it?

I'm--I'm not a low-down person. If I was, I could see a reason. But I'm a gentleman. Every man in my family has been a gentleman since--oh, you'll think I'm boasting. I didn't mean to say this to you. It sounds sn.o.bbish. No, Christine, your father thinks I'm guilty."

"He does not!" she whispered. "I know he doesn't. I've heard him argue with mother about you. He has told her that he does not believe that you killed your grandfather. I've heard him say it, David. He--he is only thinking of--must I say it? Of the disgrace to us if you should be caught and it came out we were your friends. That's it. He's thinking of us, David. It is so foolish of him. We both have told him so.

But--but you don't know my father." There was a world of meaning in that declaration--and it was not disrespectful, either.

David was discreetly silent. He was quelling the rage that always rose in his heart when he thought of Thomas Braddock's att.i.tude, not only toward him but toward his wife.

"I wish he wouldn't look at it in that way, David," she resumed plaintively. "We--we would be so happy if you could be with us,--that is, more than you are." She was stammering, but not from embarra.s.sment.

It was in the fear of saying something that might touch his sensitive pride.

"I--I love your mother," he cried intensely. "She's the best woman I've ever known--except my own mother. She's better than my aunts--yes, she is! Better than all of them. I could die for her."

She clutched his arm tightly but said nothing. The words could not break through the sobs that were in her throat. Neither spoke for a matter of a hundred feet or more. Then he said to her, rather drearily:

"Did you read what the papers said about the--the murder, and about me?"