LONELY days followed Polly's desertion of the parsonage. Mandy went
about her duties very quietly, feeling that the little comments which
once amused the pastor had now become an interruption to thoughts in
which she had no part. He would sit for hours with his head in his
hands, taking no notice of what passed before him. She tried to think of
new dishes to tempt his appetite, and shook her head sadly as she bore
the untasted food back to the kitchen.
She sometimes found a portfolio of drawings lying open upon his study
table. She remembered the zeal with which he had planned to remodel the
church and parsonage, when he first came to them; how his enthusiasm had
gradually died for lack of encouragement; and how he had at last put
his books in a cupboard, where they grew dusty from long neglect. She
marvelled at their reappearance now, but something in his set, far-away
look made her afraid to inquire. Thus she went on from day to day,
growing more impatient with Hasty and more silent with the pastor.
Mandy needed humor and companionship to oil the wheels of her humdrum
life; there was no more laughter in the house, and she began to droop.
Polly had been away from the parsonage a month, when the complacency
of the village was again upset by the arrival of the “Great American
Circus.”
There were many callers at the parsonage that day, for speculation was
now at fever heat about the pastor. “Would he try to see her? had he
forgotten her? and what had he ever found in her?” were a few of the
many questions that the women were asking each other. Now, that the
cause of their envy was removed, they would gladly have reinstated the
pastor as their idol; for, like all truly feminine souls, they could
not bear to see a man unhappy without wishing to comfort him, nor happy
unless they were the direct cause of his state. “How dare any man be
happy without me?” has been the cry of each woman since Eve was created
to mate with Adam.
Douglas had held himself more and more aloof from the day of Polly's
disappearance. He expressed no opinion about the deacons or their recent
disapproval of him. He avoided meeting them oftener than duty required;
and Strong felt so uncomfortable and tongue-tied in his presence that
he, too, was glad to make their talks as few as possible.
Nothing was said about the pastor's plans for the future, or about his
continued connection with the church, and the inquisitive sisterhood
was on the point of exploding from an over-accumulation of unanswered
questions.
He delivered his sermons conscientiously, called upon his poor, listened
to the sorrows, real and fancied, of his parishioners, and shut himself
up with his books or walked alone on the hill behind the church.
He had been absent all day, when Mandy looked out on the circus lot for
the dozenth time, and saw that the afternoon performance was closing.
It had driven her to desperation to learn that Miss Polly was not in the
parade that morning, and to know that the pastor had made no effort
to find out about her. For weeks both she and Hasty had hoped that the
return of the circus might bring Polly back to them; but now it was
nearly night and there had been no word from her. Why didn't she come
running in to see them, as Mandy had felt so sure she would? Why had the
pastor stayed away on the hills all day?
Unanswered questions were always an abomination to Mandy, so finally she
drew a quarter from the knotted gingham rag that held her small wad of
savings, and told Hasty “to go long to de show and find out 'bout Miss
Polly.”
She was anxiously waiting for him, when Deacon Strong knocked at the
door for the second time that afternoon.
“Is Mr. Douglas back yet?' he asked.
“No, sah, he ain't,” said Mandy, very shortly. She felt that Strong
and Elverson had been “a-tryin' to spy on de parson all day,” and she
resented their visits more than she usually did.
“What time are you expectin' him?”
“I don't nebber spec' Massa Douglas till I sees him.”
Strong grunted uncivilly, and went down the steps. She saw from the
window that he met Elverson in front of the church.
“Dey sure am a-meanin' trouble,” she mumbled.
The band had stopped playing; the last of the audience had straggled
down the street. She opened the door and stood on the porch; the house
seemed to suffocate her. What was keeping Hasty?
He came at last, but Mandy could tell from his gait that he brought
unwelcome news.
“Ain't she dar?”
“She's wid 'em, all right,” said Hasty.
“Yuh seed her?”
“Naw, I didn't done SEED her.”
“What?”
“She want in de show.”
“What you jes' tell me?”
“She's a-trabbelin' wid 'em, Mandy, but she didn't done ride.”
“See heah, Hasty Jones, is dat ere chile sick?”
“I don' rightly know,” said Hasty. “A great big man, what wored clothes
like a gemmen, comed out wid a whip in his hand and says as how he's
'bliged to 'nounce anudder gal in Miss Polly's place. An' den he says
as how de udder gal was jes' as good, an' den everybody look disappinted
like, an' den out comes de udder gal on a hoss an' do tricks, an' I
ain't heard no more 'bout Miss Polly.”
“Why didn't you done ask somebody?”
“Warn't nobody ter ask but de man what wuz hurryin' ever'body to get
out of de tent. I done ast him, but he say as 'didn't I git ma money's
worth?' an' den ebberbody laugh, an' he shove me 'long wid de rest of de
folks, an' here I is.”
“She's sick, dat's what _I_ says,” Mandy declared, excitedly; “an'
somebody's got to do somethin'!”
“I done all I knowed,” drawled Hasty, fearing that Mandy was regretting
her twenty-five-cent investment.
“Go 'long out an' fix up dat ere kitchen fire,” was Mandy's impatient
reply. “I got to keep dem vittels warm fer Massa John.”
She wished to be alone, so that she could think of some way to get hold
of Polly. “Dat baby-faced mornin'-glory done got Mandy all wobbly 'bout
de heart,” she declared to herself, as she crossed to the window for a
sight of the pastor.
It was nearly dark when she saw him coming slowly down the path from the
hill. She lighted the study-lamp, rearranged the cushions, and tried to
make the room look cheery for his entrance. He stopped in the hall and
hung up his hat. There was momentary silence. Would he shut himself in
his room for the night, or would he come into the study? At last the
door opened and Mandy hastened to place a chair for him.
“Ah's 'fraid you'se mighty tired,” she said.
“Oh, no,” answered Douglas, absently.
“Mebbe you'd like Mandy to be sarvin' your supper in here to-night. It's
more cheerfuller.”
The side-showman was already beginning his spiel in the lot below. The
lemonade venders{sic} and the popcorn sellers were heard crying their
wares. Douglas did not answer her. She bustled from the room, declaring
“she was jes' goin' ter bring him a morsel.”
He crossed to the window and looked out upon the circus lot. The flare
of the torches and the red fire came up to meet his pale, tense face.
“How like the picture of thirteen months ago,” he thought, and old
Toby's words came back to him--“The show has got to go on.”
Above the church steeple, the moon was battling its way through the
clouds. His eyes travelled from heaven to earth. There was a spirit
of unreality in it all. Something made him mistrust himself, his very
existence. He longed to have done with dreams and speculation, to feel
something tangible, warm, and real within his grasp. “I can't go on
like this!” he cried. “I can't!” He turned from the window and walked
hurriedly up and down the room; indoors or out, he found no rest. He
threw himself in the armchair near the table, and sat buried in thought.
Mandy came softly into the room. She was followed by Hasty, who carried
a tray, laden with things that ought to have tempted any man. She
motioned for Hasty to put the tray on the table, and then began
arranging the dishes. Hasty stole to the window, and peeped out at the
tempting flare of red fire.
When Douglas discovered the presence of his two “faithfuls” he was
touched with momentary contrition. He knew that he often neglected to
chat with them now, and he made an effort to say something that might
restore the old feeling of comradeship.
“Have you had a hard day with the new gravel walk?” he asked
Hasty, remembering that he had been laying a fresh path to the
Sunday-school-room.
Hasty glanced uneasily at Mandy, afraid either to lie or tell the truth
about the disposition she had made of his afternoon.
“Jes' you come eat yo' supper,” Mandy called to Douglas. “Don' yous
worry your head 'bout dat lazy husban' ob mine. He ain' goin' ter work
'nuff to hurt hisself.” For an instant she had been tempted to let the
pastor know how Hasty had gone to the circus and seen nothing of Polly;
but her motherly instinct won the day and she urged him to eat before
disturbing him with her own anxieties. It was no use. He only toyed with
his food; he was clearly ill at ease and eager to be alone. She gave up
trying to tempt his appetite, and began to lead up in a roundabout way
to the things which she wished to ask.
“Dar's quite some racket out dar in de lot tonight,” she said; Douglas
did not answer. After a moment, she went on: “Hasty didn't work on no
walk to-day.” Douglas looked at her quizzically, while Hasty, convinced
that for reasons of her own she was going to get him into trouble, was
making frantic motions. “He done gone to de circus,” she blurted out.
Douglas's face became suddenly grave. Mandy saw that she had touched an
open wound.
“I jes' couldn't stan' it, Massa John. I HAD to find out 'bout dat angel
chile.” There was a pause. She felt that he was waiting for her to go
on.
“She didn't done ride to-day.”
He looked up with the eyes of a dumb, persecuted animal. “And de gemmen
in de show didn't tell nobody why--jes' speaked about de udder gal
takin' her place.”
“Why DIDN'T she ride?” cried Douglas, in an agony of suspense.
“Dat's what I don' know, sah.” Mandy began to cry. It was the first time
in his experience that Douglas had ever known her to give way to any
such weakness. He walked up and down the room, uncertain what to do.
Hasty came down from the window and tried to put one arm about Mandy's
shoulders.
“Leab me alone, you nigga!” she exclaimed, trying to cover her tears
with a show of anger that she did not feel; then she rushed from the
room, followed by Hasty.
The band was playing loudly; the din of the night performance was
increasing. Douglas's nerves were strained to a point of breaking. He
would not let himself go near the window. He stood by the side of the
table, his fists clenched, and tried to beat back the impulse that was
pulling him toward the door. Again and again he set his teeth.
It was uncertainty that gnawed at him so. Was she ill? Could she need
him? Was she sorry for having left him? Would she be glad if he went for
her and brought her back with him? He recalled the hysterical note in
her behaviour the day that she went away; how she had pleaded, only a
few moments before Jim came, never to be separated from him. Had she
really cared for Jim and for the old life? Why had she never written?
Was she ashamed? Was she sorry for what she had done? What could it
mean? He threw his hands above his head with a gesture of despair. A
moment later, he passed out into the night.