IN WHICH MANY THINGS HAPPEN
With all the irony of luck, Colonel Grand brought fair weather. It was
as if he had ordered the sun to shine and it obeyed him.
When the mud-covered wagons rumbled into town after their tortuous
twenty-mile journey, the sun was high and the skies were clear and all
the world seemed to be singing with the birds.
David had prepared Mrs. Braddock and Christine; they looked for the
Colonel on the station platform as the train rolled in. He was there,
waiting, as if directed by Providence, at the foot of the steps which
Mrs. Braddock was to descend. He had eyes for no one until she appeared
in the car door. Then his ugly smile projected itself; his silk hat
came off and he bowed low. One knowing the innermost workings of
Colonel Grand's mind would have understood the profoundness of that
bow. He was giving her time to collect herself; he was, on his own
part, deliberately evading the look of repugnance he knew so well would
leap into her eyes at the first glimpse of him.
She did not see the hand he extended, but with a cool nod of her head,
stepped unaided to the platform. Another man would have felt the
rebuke. Colonel Grand, with the utmost deference in his manner, quietly
relieved her of the traveling bag, his hat still in his hand. He sent a
smile of greeting up to David and the angry-eyed Christine.
"Bring Christine's bag, Jack," he called out. "I have a hack waiting on
the other side of the depot. It is too muddy for walking."
Mary Braddock drew herself up, her eyes flashed and her lips parted to
resent this easy proprietorship. But she saw that a group of performers
were staring at them in plain curiosity. She closed her lips in bitter
determination, and walked off at his side. Close behind came her
daughter and the young Virginian.
Joey Grinaldi addressed himself to the little knot of strollers.
"I never did see such a look as she gave 'im," said he. "My eye! It was
a stinger. Take my word for it, she's going to take the bit in 'er
mouth afore you know it, and show that hyena wot she's made of."
"Hyena, dad?" scoffed his daughter. "He's not even that. He's a
rep-_tile_."
"Well, he brought the sunshine," said one of the women half-heartedly.
"But it's still muddy," retorted Joey with dogged pessimism. They
trooped off after him, each one lighter hearted in spite of a dull
reluctance, simply because Colonel Grand had brought not only the
sunshine but a life-saving opulence.
Thomas Braddock, muddy, unkempt and sour, had managed to sleep off some
of the effects of the liquor he had poured into himself the night
before. True to his word, he had traveled by wagon. The treasurer of
the circus had seen to it that he was tossed like a bundle of rags into
the ticket wagon, there to roll and jostle from wall to wall over
twenty miles of oblivion.
He was waiting at the show grounds for the return of the street parade
when he saw his wife and Christine approaching, followed at some
distance by Colonel Grand and the faithful David.
"Well," said he harshly, as the women came up to him, "you were too
good to travel as I did, eh? Had to borrow money to ride in palace
cars, eh? Fine thing for you to do, you two,--setting an example like
that. I suppose Bob Grand put up for you. I notice you didn't mention
his name to me, you--"
Christine and her mother had talked long and earnestly together on the
train coming down. The girl's cheeks had burnt during that serious
conference, to which no outsider was admitted. Her mother had listened
to an eager, piteous appeal from the lips of the girl; it was the cry
of a maiden who suddenly realizes that she is conscious of a modesty
heretofore dormant. Together they were now taking up a very portentous
question with Thomas Braddock, with small hope of having him see the
matter from their point of view.
Mary Braddock had no retort ready for his ruffianly insinuation. "Are
you too busy, Tom, to come over to the cook-tent with us for a few
moments? I want to speak very seriously about something that has been
on my mind for some time."
Colonel Grand and David were sauntering off in the direction of the
animal tent.
"Why ain't that loafer in the parade where he belongs?" demanded
Braddock, glaring red-eyed at the retreating David.
"How should I know? Ask Colonel Grand. He appears to be giving
directions nowadays," said his wife bitterly.
"Well, what do you want of me? Let's have it, please. I'm busy."
"Not out here, Tom. Come over to the cook-tent."
Braddock glanced at her sharply. It occurred to him that she was
unusually calm and serious. He turned after a moment and led the way to
the cook-tent, which was always unoccupied at this time.
There, in sullen amazement, he listened to the plea of his wife and
daughter. He raged back at them as they pleaded; he met Mary's calm,
patient arguments with sneers and brutal laughter; he put a stop to
Christine's supplications with an oath that shocked and distressed her
more than anything that ever had happened to her in all her life.
"What do you take me for?" he roared, time and again, for want of
better weapons to meet his wife's determined assault. In the end, he
struck the table a mighty blow with his clenched fist, but he was very
careful to have the table between them. More than once he had followed
the impulsive movement of her hand in a sort of craven alarm, born of
the conviction that he might have driven her at last to the point where
a pistol would put an end to his wretched dominion. "Now, this ends
it," he shouted. "I won't hear anything more about it. She's got to
wear tights as long as I say so. What the devil's got into you two all
of a sudden? Lookee here, Christine, don't ever let me hear you make
such a fuss as this again. By thunder, I'll--I'll lick you, that's what
I'll do. I've never laid a rough hand on you yet. I've allus treated
you as a kind father should. But don't drive me to forget myself. You
got to wear tights and do this act as long as we run this show. We--"
"But, father, please, I--I am getting too big," sobbed Christine.
"Too big!" he roared. "Great Scot! Why, you little whipper-snapper,
you're just beginning to get big enough to look well in 'em. Too big!
Say, you're just getting a shape that's worth noticin'. I suppose that
peanut aristocrat friend of yours has told you it ain't swell or proper
to wear tights. He'll get his back broke some of these days, if he puts
ideas into that silly head of yours. Too big! Say what's the matter
with you, Christine? Why, they're just beginning to talk about what a
fine shape--"
"Thomas Braddock!" exclaimed his wife furiously. The girl had dropped
down on one of the seats, burying her flushed face in her arms.
"Well, confound it," he mumbled, vaguely conscious of a shamed sense of
the old manhood. "I didn't mean to upset her like that. But, lookee
here, Mary, I don't want no more of this nonsense about her doing a
side-saddle menage act. She's a world beater at the other thing. I
won't listen to this guff. That ends it. You go on doing this work with
Tom Sacks, Christie. I don't give a rap whether the Jenison 'Joy' likes
it or not."
Christine sprang to her feet, her face convulsed.
"I shall ask Colonel Grand to help me. He owns part of the show. His
interest and mother's together are greater than yours--"
"Christine!" cried her mother, stunned.
His face went grayish white; the cigar hung loosely in his parted lips,
and a thin stream of saliva oozed from the opposite corner. He tried to
speak but could not. She unconsciously had struck a blow that hurt to
his innermost, neglected soul.
"I'll show you who's boss of this show," he managed to articulate at
last. Suddenly his knees gave way under him. He sagged heavily forward,
dropping to the board seat. With one last desperate, stricken glare in
his eyes, he lowered his head to his arms. A mighty sob of utter
humiliation rent his body.
Mary Braddock hesitated for an instant, then impulsively laid her hand
on her husband's shoulder. A wave of pity for this wretch surged into
her heart.
"Don't, Thomas! Be a man! Everything will be well again, boy, if you'll
only make a stand for yourself. I will help you--I will always help
you, Tom. You know I--"
He shook off her pitying hand and struggled to his feet. Without a
glance at her or at their terrified daughter, he flung himself from the
tent and tore across the lot as though pursued by demons. By the time
he found Colonel Grand and David in the animal tent, however, his blind
rage had dwindled to ugly resentment; the overwhelming shame his own
child had brought to the surface shrank back into the narrow
selfishness from which, perhaps, it had sprung.
Five minutes before, he had wanted to kill. Now he was ready to
compromise.
"Grand," he said hoarsely, "I'm going to sell out--I'm going to get out
of this. I'm going to Cincinnati to-night and look up Barnum's man.
He's ready to buy."
Colonel Grand eyed him shrewdly. He could see that something had shaken
the man tremendously. The Colonel believed in strong measures. He knew
precisely how to meet this man's impulses. In his time he had seen
hundreds of desperate men.
"Tom, you're drunk," he announced coldly. "When you are sober you'll
kick yourself for the thought. Go and lie down awhile. I won't talk
with you while you're in this condition."
"Drunk?" gasped Braddock. "Bob, so help me, I'm not drunk," he almost
whined.
"Then you must be crazy," observed the other, walking away.
David saw an opportunity to escape the company of both. He was edging
away when Braddock stopped him.
"Say, you! I want to give you a bit of advice. If you go to putting
high-sounding notions in Christie's head, I'll break every bone in your
body. If you don't like the way she dresses in the ring, why do you
look at her all the time?"
Further utterance on his part, or any effort David may have
contemplated in resenting his attack, was prevented by the appearance
of Ruby Noakes, who came running up from the main-top, waving a
newspaper in her hand and crying out in the wildest excitement:
"David! David! Have you heard? Have you seen it? We've been looking for
you everywhere. Here! Look! It's to-day's _Enquirer!_ See what's
happened! Your uncle!"
The vanguard of the "parade" had reached the lot. Cages came creaking
through the wide aperture at the end, and were wheeled skillfully into
place by expert drivers. Gayly dressed horsemen trotted through. Every
one was shouting to David.
His ears rang, everything went black before him. He could not seize the
paper that Ruby held before his eyes, nor were his eyes quite capable
of reading the sharp, characteristic headlines that stood out before
him in the first column of the _Enquirer._ The letters danced impishly,
as if to confuse him further. Jenison--Jenison--Jenison everywhere!
That was all he could see, all he could grasp.
Dick Cronk's prophecy had been fulfilled.
His uncle Frank Jenison was dead. Some one was shouting it in his ear.
There had been a deathbed confession. He was no longer a fugitive! He
was exonerated--he was free!
He laughed hysterically and pressed the damp sheet to his lips. Ruby
Noakes threw her arms about his neck and kissed him for joy. The voices
of the half hundred people crowding about him buzzed in his ears. They
were shaking hands with him, slapping his back and laughing with him,
although he did not know that he laughed.
Above the hum of eager voices rose one that was discordant, hoarse with
passion.
"Clear out! Skip, I say! All of you!"
Thomas Braddock was shoving the glad performers about as if they were
tenpins, raging like the lions which roared their surprise at this
unseemly hubbub in front of the cages.
From sheer excitement, David's head was reeling; his senses began to
slip away; his legs were tottering.
Suddenly the crowd fell away. One man was facing him. The unconscious
smile was still on the boy's lips as he looked into the convulsed face
of Braddock. The power to dodge the blow aimed at his face had gone
with his wits. He only knew that Christine's father was striking; he
could only wait, with hazy indifference, for the blow to land.
"I won't have any disobedience here," roared the frantic manager, as he
struck out in his bestial rage.
"I guess that'll stop it."
David was lying at his feet, stunned by the savage blow.
"When I say a thing I mean it," shouted Braddock, turning to the
stupefied crowd. "He can't hold a jubilee in this here animal tent. Who
owns this show, anyway?"
He drew back his foot to kick the prostrate boy. Half a dozen women
screamed in terror.
"Don't do that, Braddock!" cried a level voice in his ear.
He whirled to face Colonel Bob Grand.
"If you kick that boy I'll shoot you," said the Colonel almost
impassively.
"Do I own this show or not?" was all that Braddock could howl.
"Get him out of here," said Grand, turning to the angry circle of men.
"Sober him up or turn him over to the police."
"What!" choked out Tom Braddock, his eyes bulging. "You say this to me!"
"See here, Braddock, I kept your wife and daughter outside. They didn't
see this cowardly trick of yours. You may have to explain to them why
you did it. You can't explain to the rest of these people. We don't
like brutes."
A dozen men crowded forward with threatening mien. Tom Braddock shrank
back in mortal terror.
"Don't jump on me, boys--don't! I--I'll go out. I'll go peaceable. Let
me get out where there's air. I must have been crazy."
He almost ran to the sidewall and crept into the open air. As he slunk
off among the wagons, he felt himself overwhelmed by a sudden sense of
desolation, a sickening realization that he had no friends, and, worse
than all this,--that no one feared him!
A curious acknowledgment of his own degradation came with the stealthy
impulse to go back later on and search for the stub of cigar that had
dropped from his mouth during the encounter.
In the dressing-tent, a few minutes after the proprietor's brutal
exhibition, David Jenison sat in the center of a wondering,
superstitious group. Not one, but nearly all of them attributed his
good fortune to the working of some spell peculiarly brought about by
the influence of certain "signs." The champion bareback rider recalled
that David had found a horseshoe no longer ago than ten days. The
Iron-jawed woman substituted the black cat charm, while Mademoiselle
Denise held out for the virtues of occasional encounters with Ernie
Cronk, the hunchback, whose hump he must have touched surreptitiously,
no doubt.
Only Joey and Ruby and Casey looked wise and said nothing. Dick was the
luck-piece that brought it all about.
David sat on a trunk, holding a wet towel to his red, swollen cheek. He
had been steadied by the advice of these good friends, all of whom
urged him for the sake of others to attempt no violent return for the
blow Braddock had given him. Never was mortal so sore at heart as he,
but he read wisdom in their argument.
"He ain't responsible," said Joey, putting the whole of his summing up
in a single phrase.
The great news had finally found a clear lodgment in David's brain. He
had listened to the reading of the newspaper story by Ruby Noakes. It
was now very plain to him that his present vicissitudes were at an end.
The joy and relief that filled his soul were counterbalanced to some
extent by the fact that Mrs. Braddock and Christine had not come up to
congratulate him. He could not understand this and was hurt.
It is not necessary to repeat the newspaper account in full. The
sensational story took up columns in the paper; the history of the case
was repeated from the murder of old Mr. Jenison to the final tragedy.
Considerable space and speculation were given to the unhappy accusation
of the grandson, who had disappeared as if from the face of the earth.
It was the opinion of the paper, as well as of the officers of the law,
that the proud young man, unable to face the cruel disgrace and
injustice, had made way with himself.
It was announced in heavy black type that his county would not rest
until the body of the last of the Jenisons was found and laid away with
the greatest ceremony. David laughed with the others at this laudable
but tardy appreciation.
As for the story of Frank Jenison's death, it was, according to the
newspaper, "so strange that fiction paled by contrast." Jenison and his
negro accomplice, Isaac Perry, had quarreled in one of the private
card-rooms at Brainard's place in Richmond, where they had met by
appointment. The negro, driven desperate and in great fear of the white
man, finally drew a revolver and began firing wildly at his employer,
who returned the shots. Perry was killed by a bullet which found his
heart. One of the negro's shots, however, had penetrated the abdomen of
Frank Jenison. He was mortally wounded. On being informed by the
surgeons that he had but a few hours to live, the miserable wretch
directed that his confession be written out at his dictation, that he
might put his signature to it and thereby set his unhappy nephew
straight in the eyes of a condemning world.
The full text of this confession was printed. The reader of this tale
has heard enough of it, in one way or another, to determine for himself
the chief facts in connection with the murder of old Mr. Jenison. It
was Frank Jenison who shot him, deliberately laying his plans so as to
direct suspicion to David. The nephew played into his hands in a most
startling manner. A more convincing set of circumstances could not have
been imagined, much less prepared.
Isaac Perry was the first to propose the plan of substituting a forged
will, but at the time neither of them contemplated the assassination of
the old gentleman. It was not until it became known to them that Mr.
Jenison intended to deed over a great part of his estate to David
before his own death that they saw the necessity for hastening the end.
The will was prepared in Perry's room at Richmond. The names of the
witnesses belonged to men who were dead and could not repudiate the
signatures. Then came the signing of the quitclaim deed which provided
an opportunity to substitute the will, and which, as far as Isaac Perry
was concerned, was a _bona fide_ transaction. The little plot of ground
was in truth a portion of his own compensation exacted in advance of
the murder.
Perry was to have done the shooting. At the last minute his nerve
failed him. Frank Jenison then coolly directed his henchman to stand
guard while he committed the diabolical deed. To use his dying words,
his father "was ready to die anyway, so it was a kindness to end life
suddenly for him."
We know how David walked into the trap, and how he crept out of it only
to become an outlaw, hunted and execrated. Perry went to Chicago, where
he was to remain for a few months before coming back to receive his
promised share of the money which Jenison was to realize on the sale of
certain properties as soon as he was clearly established as heir to the
estate.
Remorse began to gnaw at the heart of the murderer. He could not sleep
without dreaming of his slain father, nor could he spend a waking hour
that was free from thoughts of the innocent boy who would be hanged if
the law laid its hands upon him.
Then, one day, there came a stranger who told him of Isaac Perry's
treachery. The thing he feared had come to pass--Perry's defection. He
made up his mind to kill this dreaded stranger, and to follow that deed
with another of the same sort which would deliver him of Isaac Perry.
But the stranger disappeared. He did not come to claim his blood money.
The terror which fell upon Frank Jenison was overpowering. He sent for
Isaac Perry, hoping against hope that the stranger had lied and that
with the negro's support he could defy him. Perry came to Richmond,
expecting to receive his promised reward in coin of the realm. The
half-crazed white man accused him of treachery. The negro lawyer
vehemently denied every allegation, but, becoming alarmed by the
other's manner, fell into a panic of fear and began shooting.
At the end of his confession, Frank Jenison said:
"My soul is black. It is already charred by the fires of hell. I was a
traitor to our beloved cause, although acquitted of the charge by fraud
and deception. I killed my own father. I would have killed others. My
nephew has long borne the stain of guilt that is going with me to a
dishonored grave. I go with the brand of Cain on my soul. There will be
no rest for me in the hereafter. I have not the courage to ask God to
be merciful. But I believe in God. I have tried not to believe in him.
I have denied him all my life. To-day, for the first time in memory, I
can say--and it is with my last breath--I can say that I thank God for
one great act of mercy. He has permitted me to live long enough, with
this bullet in me, to say to the world that my nephew, David Jenison,
is as innocent as I am guilty."
"Well," said Grinaldi the clown, his voice doleful in contrast to the
cheery smile he assumed, when it came time for all to go to the
cook-tent for dinner, "I dessay we'll 'ave to stop calling you Jack
Snipe. Wot's more, David, you'll be going back to Virginia at once and
settling down to be a genuine gentleman. Afore you think of going, my
lad, let it be fully impressed in your 'eart that we all love you and
we all wish you the greatest 'appiness in the world. You 'ave been a
very poor clown, but I dessay 't is more the fault of your bringing up
than anything else. A clown 'as to be born, David, just the same as any
other genius. I suppose it's too soon yet to talk about your plans--wot
you intend to do fust."
"First of all, Joey," said David, his face aglow with the fervor that
was crowding up from the depths of his grateful soul, "I want to say to
you and to all of you, that if I live to be a thousand years old I
shall never forget how good and how kind you have been to me. My home
will always be yours, my friends, just as your home has been mine.
Jenison Hall will bid you welcome, come what may. You will find Joey
Grinaldi there. My home is his, when he chooses to forsake the ring.
And Ruby's, too. God bless and reward all of you!"
"When are you going to leave us, David?" asked one of the women.
David put his finger to the bruised spot on his cheek.
"My career as a clown in Van Slye's show ended when that blow was
struck. You know quite well that I could not have stayed after that,
even though other conditions were unchanged. I cannot eat of that man's
bread; I cannot serve him. I have no trunk to pack, you know. Just that
old satchel of Joey's, in which my linen is carried. So I am walking
out of this tent now, free in more ways than one. When I come again I
shall pay my way at the main entrance. No! Don't ask me to go to the
cook-tent! It is impossible. As for my plans, I--"
He stopped, stilled by a sudden, overwhelming sense of desolation. All
this meant that he would have to leave Christine! His days with the
show were over. His sweet, throbbing hours with her were at an end.
Life for him had changed as with the blinking of an eye. Nothing could
be the same. All the loneliness of despair he had known during those
weeks of fear and trembling was as naught compared to the outlook that
now confronted him, so bleak and so barren that his young soul
sickened. For the moment it seemed to him that she was about to go out
of his life forever.
His heart revolted. There surged up the fierce impulse to cast away his
patrimony, his name, his pride and honor. He would not desert her, even
for a day.
"As for my plans," he began once more, and again stopped.
Joey understood the struggle that was going on within him. The old
clown, in his own capricious life, had been called upon a hundred times
to give up the things he loved, the associations he cherished.
"We'll talk 'em over later on, David," he said, putting his arm over
the boy's shoulder. "Come along with me and Ruby. We'll go to a
restaurant and 'ave a bite together. I--I suppose you'll be saying
good-by to them striped tights and the spotted trunks."
"I should like to buy them, Joey," cried David eagerly.
"They are yours, my lad; take 'em. They belong to me. Now, let's get
out of this. I don't think it's best for Brad to find you 'ere."
As they left the lot, David carrying all of his possessions in the
unwieldy satchel, they were met by Colonel Grand.
"David," said he, falling in beside them, "have you sufficient funds to
carry you back to old Virginia? If you need money, I will gladly let
you have it--as a loan."
They were surprised by the offer.
David hated him. "No, Colonel Grand, I can't take your money, even as a
loan. It will be easy for me to raise the amount."
The Colonel gave him an ugly smile.
"As you like," he said. He lifted his hat to Ruby and abruptly turned
back.
Far ahead were two figures that they knew well. Mrs. Braddock and
Christine were hurrying away from the grounds as if desirous of
avoiding a meeting with the young man.
David urged his companions to a more rapid walk. They overtook the
Braddocks at the corner of an avenue which led off to the residence
section of the town.
"You have heard?" asked David, as they turned in response to his call.
"You know what has happened?"
He could see that the girl had been crying. Mrs. Braddock's face was
white and set.
"Yes," said the older woman. "And you are going home, David?" She spoke
quietly.
"I--I don't know yet," he stammered. Christine's face had been averted.
Now she looked at him.
"You--oh, David, you don't really think of staying with us?" she cried,
her eyes glowing.
"You must not think of it, David," whispered her mother hastily. "Your
place is at Jenison Hall. You belong there. Lose no time, my dear boy,
in returning to your home."
They had come to a little park adjoining a church-yard where there were
benches. He led them to one of the seats farthest removed from the
pavement. Joey and Ruby strolled into the churchyard.
"I suppose I shall have to go back," said David gloomily. "For a few
days, at least. They will be expecting me. And the property is mine
now--and all that. But, Mrs. Braddock," he went on feverishly, "I am
coming back. In a week, yes, or less than that. I am coming back to be
with you--to help you. I can't stay away now, Mrs. Braddock. It would
make me too unhappy. I must be near Christine. She's more to me now
than anything else in all this world."
Mrs. Braddock smiled wanly. "You are very young," she said, "and very
impulsive. Do you think it would be kind to Christine if you were to
follow the show for no other reason than to be near her? Would that be
the act of a sincere friend? She would be compromised, I think you will
admit. It was different before. You were one of us. Now you are an
outsider. Even the easiest-going of the performers would resent your
attitude if you were to follow us now. It is an unwritten law among us
that an outsider is always an outsider. We are like gypsies. Even you,
who have been one of us, can have no future standing in our tribe--for
that is what we are, David. You must take your place among those who
look on from afar. As individuals we will always greet you and give you
the best of our love; collectively we cannot take you among us. That is
over. You are--"
"But I may still be a performer," he cried insistently. He had taken
Christine's hand in his, only to have it gently withdrawn by the girl.
"No, David," said Mary Braddock firmly, "it is out of the question. You
are no longer a soldier of fortune. You are a Jenison of Jenison Hall.
We can't build a bridge for that."
"But I won't stand it!" he exclaimed passionately. "I _will_ come back."
"As a clown?" said she, smiling.
"I'll buy a part interest in the show," he said stubbornly.
"You are not of age," she reminded him. "The courts will name a
guardian for you, I fancy. No, my boy, we must face the thing squarely.
We shall be glad to see you if you happen to be where we may meet
naturally."
"But I love Christine," he protested. "You told me last night that you
would put no obstacle in our way to--"
"I told you last night that I would put no obstacle in your way, David,
if you came to me in five years and still could say that you love her
and would make her your wife."
"But we thought then that I might always be near her--with the show,
perhaps," he argued.
"Quite true. But all that is blotted out, don't you see."
Christine was weeping silently.
"You think I'll forget her!" he cried angrily.
"Oh, David!" moaned Christine.
"You think I'll not care for her always--"
"Listen, David," said the mother patiently. "I can think of no greater
joy that could come to me than to see Christine your wife--some day.
But we must face the true conditions. She may always be a circus rider.
I hope to take her away from this life--yes, soon, may it please God.
You think now that you will always care. But I know the world. I know
youth too well. I--"
"But you were not much older than Christine when you were married," he
blurted out. He regretted the unhappy remark almost before it left his
lips. She turned away her face, and no word came in response for a full
minute. Then she ignored the tactless announcement.
"You must go your way, David. We will go ours. If God is good to us, we
may come together again, and we may still be happy. You are eighteen,
Christine is fifteen. You do not know your minds, my children. I have
thought it all out. You must be content to wait. Christine must come to
you from a different sphere, David. It is not as it was. She must not
be of the circus."
"Mrs. Braddock," said he, rising to his full height, "I only ask you to
believe that I love her, and that I, at least, will not change. Will
you change, Christine?"
"No," said the girl, giving him her hand as she rose to look into his
eyes with the whole of her young heart glowing in hers. "I will not
change, David."
"Then, Mrs. Braddock, as a Jenison of Jenison Hall I formally ask you
for the hand of your daughter. A gentleman may keep his word of honor
for five years--for a hundred years. I pledge my love, my name, my
fortune to her."
"David," cried the mother, twisting her fingers in the agony of a
despair that could no longer be concealed, "how can we know what the
next five years may bring to us? What will they be to my darling child?
Oh, if I only knew the way to save her--to preserve her, to give her
what belongs to her by all the laws of nature!"
"You must leave the show," he cried. "Give up everything. It is no
place for either of you. Let me help you. Mrs. Braddock, give it up
before it is too late. I know that harm will come to you here."
He pleaded long and earnestly with the silent, depressed woman. In the
end she held up her hand, and he waited.
"Time will tell, David," she said. "When it becomes too heavy to bear I
will cast off my yoke. That is all I will say." She hesitated for a
moment, and then went on, holding out her hand: "Good-by, David. You
are going to-night?" "I suppose so," he said dejectedly. "But, listen;
I am coming back very shortly for a few days. I insist on that. If all
is not going well with you and Christine, I shall know it. I mean to
watch over her in spite of everything."
"We will see you again before you leave," said the mother. "I am sure
we understand each other. Come back, David, if you will, but only for a
day. Let us walk home. You may walk with Christine. Say your good-bys
now. Joey! Are you coming?"
When the train for the East pulled out at eleven o'clock that night
David was aboard. He positively had refused to take back any of the
money he had lent to Mrs. Braddock, preferring to borrow from Joey and
Casey. Christine kissed him good-by at the station.
"I know that my father struck you, David," she whispered, as she put
her hand to his cheek. "That won't prevent your coming back, will it?
You will come, won't you?"
"As surely as I am alive," he said fervently.
There were tears in his eyes as the train rolled away. He had said
good-by to all of them--to Joey and Ruby and Casey, and they had wished
him good luck with that complaisant philosophy which was theirs by
nature.
Some one sat down beside him in the seat. He looked up.
"I guess I'll go part ways with you," said Artful Dick Cronk
comfortably. "I want you to do me a favor. Take this money and step
into the little inn there in your town and pay the woman what I owe
her. I forgot to settle when I left. She was a very good woman. I never
trim a woman, good or bad."
Primarily, Dick Cronk was traveling with David because his brother had
disappeared from the snack stand early in the evening. The watchful
pickpocket scented trouble. Before joining David in the coach, he
traversed the length of the train to assure himself that Ernie had not
slipped aboard in the darkness for the purpose of doing evil to the
Virginia boy when least expected. He was satisfied that Ernie was not
aboard, but it was now necessary for him to go on to the next station
before leaving the train.
"I owe her five dollars and sixty cents. Tell her to keep the change. I
hear you're coming back soon to visit the--er--show. Let me put you
onto Colonel Grand. He's a good loser, that old boy is. He's terrible
disappointed because you've squared yourself with the law. He had
something up his sleeve for you, but this spoils it all. But you
noticed that he took it very pleasantly--polite and agreeable cuss, he
is, when he has to be. Maybe you'd like to know what his game was."
"I think I know, Dick."
"Nix. I guess not. You were to do him a great favor before long. You
were going to run away with Christie Braddock!"
David started. "You are mistaken," he cried indignantly. "I wouldn't
think of such a thing."
"Just the same, kid, that's what he had it fixed for you to do, and you
couldn't ha' got out of it. He's a wonder, he is. That's the only way
he could get rid of Christie; and, with Christie gone, Mrs. Braddock's
spirit would be smashed. He's going to get rid of Tom Braddock purty
soon. Tom don't know it, but his days with this show are numbered."
"What a cold-blooded devil he is!" cried David.
"Hot-blooded's what I'd call him."