THE CIRCUS
THE circus was to be held in a big tent on the green. William had
watched them putting up the tent the day before. He had hung around
with wistful eyes fixed upon it. Here was the Wonder of Wonders, the
Mystery of Mysteries--a circus. He had seen the posters of it. It
would be there that very day, with its lions and tigers, its horses
and dogs, its golden-haired, short-skirted beauties, its fascinating
red-nosed kings of laughter, its moustached masters of the ring, its
quips, its thrill, its mystery, its romance, its gilt and tinsel and
light--a circus! It is a strange fact that William had lived for the
eleven years of his life and never seen a circus. But he was determined
that the omission should be rectified. It was dusk when he saw them
pass. Through the bars of the cages looked out weary, spiritless lions
and tigers, but to him they were veritable kings of the jungle. There
was an elephant and two camels, and, chained to the top of the van, a
monkey, shivering in a green jacket.
"Gosh!" ejaculated William in rapture and admiration.
There were several closed vans, but to William it was as if they
were open. Clearly in imagination he saw the scene within. There sat
laughing clowns and beautiful women with filmy skirts that stuck
out round their knees. He could imagine the clowns pouring forth an
endless succession of jokes, each with suitable contortions. The
beautiful women would be laughing till their sides ached. He wished he
had a clown for a father. Imagination almost faltered at the blissful
thought. A ragged man leading one of the horses looked curiously at
him--a small boy leaning against a lamp-post with all his soul in his
eyes.
Slowly and reluctantly he went home to supper and bed. He dreamed of
horses and lions, and tigers and clowns, and a life of untrammelled joy
and jollity.
"There's a circus on the green," he announced at breakfast.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," ordered his father.
William looked at him coldly. A clown would not have said this. He
wondered on what principle parents were chosen. He sometimes wished he
had been given some voice in the choosing of his. There were one or two
improvements he could think of. He swallowed with slow dignity. Then:
"There's a circus on the green," he announced again.
"Yes, dear," said his mother soothingly. "Ethel, pass the marmalade to
your father. What were you saying, dear?"
Whereupon William's father proceeded with a monologue upon the Labour
question that he had begun a few minutes previously. William sighed. He
waited till the next pause.
"I'm _goin'_ to the circus," he announced firmly.
That brought their attention to him.
"I don't see how you can, dear," said his mother slowly. "It's only
staying for this afternoon and evening, and it's the dancing-class this
afternoon----"
"_Dancin'!_" repeated William in horror. "Shurly you don't expect me to
go to _dancin'_, with a circus on the green?"
"I've paid for the twelve lessons," said Mrs. Brown firmly, "and Miss
Carew is very particular about your not missing without a real excuse."
"Well, there's this evening," said William.
"You know Grandfather and Aunt Lilian are coming," said Mrs. Brown,
"and they'd be most hurt if we went out the first evening."
"Well, they're comin' to stay a _week_," said William with the air of
one who exercises superhuman patience; "shurly they won't mind if I'm
out for _one_ night? Shurly they aren't as fond of me as all that? I
should think Aunt Lilian would be _glad_ I'm out from the things she
said about me last time she came. You know she said----"
"You can't go alone," said Mrs. Brown wearily. "It doesn't begin till
eight. It's an absurd hour to begin. You can't stay up so late, for one
thing, and you can't go alone, for another----"
"Why NOT?" said William with growing exasperation. "Aren't I _eleven?_
I'm not a _child_. I----"
William's father lowered his newspaper.
"William," he said, "the effect upon the nerves of the continued sound
of your voice is something that beggars description. I would take it as
a personal favour if it could kindly cease for a short time."
William was crushed. The fact that he rarely understood his father's
remarks to him had a good deal to do with the awe in which that
parent was held. Clowns, he thought to himself smoulderingly, didn't
say things that no one knew what they meant. Anyway, he was going to
that circus. He finished his breakfast in dignified silence with this
determination fixed firmly in his mind. He was going to that circus.
_He was going to that circus._
"Fold up your table napkin, William."
Slowly and deliberately he performed the operation.
"I bet clowns don't have the beastly things," he remarked
dispassionately.
With which enigmatical remark he departed from the bosom of his family.
He was escorted to the dancing-class in the afternoon by his elder
sister Ethel. He signified his disgust at this want of trust in him
by maintaining a haughty silence except occasionally unbending so
far as to ejaculate in a voice of scornful indignation, "_Dancin'!_
Huh!--_Dancin'!_"
During the dancing-class his attention wandered. Miss Carew's patience
changed gradually to wearied impatience.
"Slide the right foot, children, _right_ foot, William Brown! Now
_chassé_ to the left. I said _left_, William Brown. Now three steps
forward. _Forward_, William Brown. I didn't say stand still, did I?
Now, take your partner's hand--your _partner's_, William Brown--Henry
is not your partner." William's real partner glared at him.
William performed evolutions tardily, faultily, and mechanically. He
saw not a roomful of small boys and girls, shining with heat and
cleanliness, dominated by Miss Carew's commanding voice and eager gaze.
He saw not his own partner's small indignant face; he saw a ring, a
ringmaster, a clown, lions, tigers, elephants--a circus!
He was aroused by a sudden wail from his small partner. "I don't want
to dance wif William! I don't like dancing wif William. I want to dance
wif someone else. William does everyfin' wrong!"
William gazed at her with a reddening countenance. The dancing-class
stopped dancing to watch. The maiden found a small handkerchief hidden
in a miniature pocket and began to sob into it. "I could dance _nice_
wif someone nice. I can't dance wif William. He does it all wrong."
"_Me?_" said William in horror. "I've not done anything. I dunno what
she's cryin' for," he explained to the room helplessly. "I've not done
nothin' to her."
"You're enough to make any little girl cry," said Miss Carew sharply,
"the way you dance!"
"Oh, _dancin'_," said William scornfully. Then, "Well, I do it all
right in the end. I'm only a bit slow. I'm thinkin' of sumthin' else,
that's all. That's nothing for her to cry for, is it? Cryin' because
other people dance slow. There's no sense in that, is there?"
The sobs increased. It was a warm afternoon, and Miss Carew's
exasperation changed to a dull despair.
"Will any kind little girl take William Brown for a partner, and give
Mary a rest?"
There was no answer; William was aware of a distinct sense of
mortification.
"Well, I don't _want_ any of 'em," he said huffily. "I'll dance slow
by myself. I'd sooner dance by myself than with an ole cryin' girl.
I'll"----a brilliant idea struck him. "I'll go home, shall I? I shan't
mind going home." His cheerfulness grew. "Then she," he indicated his
late partner, "can do it quick by herself and give up cryin'. I'll go
home. I don't mind goin' home."
"No, you _won't_," said Miss Carew. "I'll give--I'll give a chocolate
to any little girl who will dance with William Brown."
A stout little girl, famed for her over-indulgence in sweets,
volunteered. William received her with an air of resigned patience.
"Well, don't _cry_ over me," he said sternly. She was less disposed to
suffer in silence than his previous partner.
"He's treading on my toes," she announced in shrill complaint when the
dancing was once more in full swing.
The goaded William burst forth. "Her feet are all over the place. I
can't keep _off_ them. She moves them about so quick. She puts them
just where I'm going to tread on purpose. I don't _want_ to tread on
her ole feet. Well, I can't do what you say and not tread on her feet,
'cause when I do my feet, how you say do them, they go on her feet
'cause she's got her feet there first 'cause she's quicker than me
an'----"
Miss Carew raised her hand to her brow.
"William," she said wearily, "I really don't know why you learn
dancing."
"I learn dancin'," said William bitterly, "'cause they _make_ me."
The various tribulations of the dancing-class almost drove the thought
of the circus from his head. But he saw the tent as he went home. It
was in darkness, as the afternoon performance was over, and the only
sign of life he could see was a thin dog chewing a turnip at the tent
door. He supposed that the clowns and princess-riders were having tea
in the brilliantly-lit interiors of the closed caravans. He could
imagine their sallies of wit and mirth; he listened for their roars of
laughter, but the caravan walls were thick and he could hear nothing
but a noise that might have been a baby crying, only William supposed
it could not be that, for no baby who was lucky enough to live in a
circus could surely be so misguided and ungrateful as to cry.
"I guess no one ever made _them_ learn dancin'," he said feelingly.
He found that Grandfather Moore and Aunt Lilian had already arrived.
William had never met his grandfather before, and he gazed in
astonishment at him. He had met old people before, but he had not
thought that anything quite so old as Grandfather Moore had ever
existed or ever could exist. He was little, and wrinkled, and
shrivelled, and bald. His face was yellow, with tiny little lines
running criss-cross all over it; his bright little eyes seemed to have
sunk right back. When he smiled he revealed a large expanse of bare
gum, with three lonely-looking teeth at intervals. He had a few hairs,
just above his neck at the back, otherwise his head was like a shining
new egg. William was fascinated. He could hardly keep his eyes off him
all tea-time.
Aunt Lilian's life work was looking after Grandfather Moore. It filled
every minute of her time. She was a perfect daughter.
"May he sit with his back to the light?" she said. "You know you're
better with your back to the light, dear. Bread and milk, please.
Yes, he always has that, don't you, dear? Are you quite comfortable?
Wouldn't you like a cushion? Get that footstool, William. This is
William, dear--little William."
William glared at her.
The old man fixed his wistful bright eyes on William.
"William," he repeated, and smiled.
William felt strangely flattered.
"He's getting a bit simple," sighed Aunt Lilian, "poor darling!"
She was firm after tea.
"You'll go to bed now, dear, won't you? You always like to go to bed
early after a journey, don't you? He always likes to go to bed early
after a long journey," she explained to the company.
She helped him upstairs tenderly and left him in his room.
William was despatched to bed at half-past seven as usual. They were
surprised at his meekness. They thought he must have forgotten about
the circus. They carefully avoided all mention of it. But William's
silence was the silence of the tactician. Open attack had failed. He
was now prepared to try secrecy.
Up in his room he sat down to consider the most unostentatious modes
of exit from the house. There was the possibility of going downstairs
and through the hall on stockinged feet so quickly as to escape notice.
But there was always the chance of somebody's coming out into the
hall at the critical minute, and then all would be lost. Or there
was the possibility of climbing down from his window, but his room
was on the third storey, and he had never yet attempted a descent
from that height. Just beneath his room was Grandfather Moore's room.
From the window of Grandfather Moore's room an old fig-tree afforded
a convenient ladder to the ground. Grandfather Moore had gone to bed
directly after tea. He would surely be asleep now. Anyway, William
decided to risk it. He crept down the steps to Grandfather Moore's
room and cautiously opened the door. The room was lit up, and before
the fire sat Grandfather Moore, fully dressed. It was now impossible
to withdraw. The bright little eyes were fixed on him, and Grandfather
Moore smiled.
"William!" he said with pleasure. Then, "I've not gone to bed yet." He
was obviously revelling in his wickedness.
William came in and shut the door.
"Can I get through your window?" he said shortly.
"Yes," said Grandfather Moore. "Where do you want to get to?"
"I'm going to a circus," said William firmly.
The bright eyes grew wistful.
"A circus!" said the little old man. "I went to a circus once--years
and years ago. Horses and elephants and----"
"Lions an' tigers an' camels an'--an'--an' clowns," supplied William.
"Yes, clowns," said the old man eagerly. "I remember the clown. Oh, he
was a funny fellow! Are you going alone?"
"Yes," said William, crossing to the window.
"Do they know you're going?"
"No."
The little old man began to tremble with excitement.
"William--I want to see a circus again. Let me come too."
William was nonplussed.
"You can't climb down this tree," he said judicially. "I was goin'
climbin' down this tree."
"I'll go downstairs," suggested Grandfather Moore. "You wait for me
outside. I'll come out to you."
But William's protective interests were aroused.
"No; if you're goin', I'll stay with you."
He found the old man's hat and coat and helped him on with them. The
old man was quivering with eagerness.
"There will be a clown, won't there, William? There _will_ be a clown?"
"I _know_ there's a clown," William assured him.
They crept downstairs and through the hall in silence. Fortune favoured
them. No one came out. Mr. Brown, Mrs. Brown, Ethel and Aunt Lilian
were playing bridge in the drawing-room. The hall door stood open.
Outside Grandfather Moore gave a wicked chuckle.
"Lilian--she thinks I'm in bed," he said.
"_Sh!_ Come on!" whispered William.
Outside the tent door he remembered suddenly that he possessed no
money. His last penny had been spent on a bag of popcorn the day
before. Grandfather Moore was crestfallen. He said he had no money,
but a systematic search revealed a shilling in the corner of his coat
pocket, and his face lit up.
"It's all right, William," he said gleefully.
[Illustration: THEY CREPT DOWNSTAIRS AND THROUGH THE HALL IN SILENCE.]
A stream of people were entering the tent. There was the ring, the
sawdust, the stands for the horses, the sea of people, the smell that
is like no other smell on earth--the smell of the circus! William's
heart was too full for words. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was
all too wonderful to be true. And there in the ring was a clown--a
jolly, red-nosed, laughing clown. Grandfather Moore clutched his arm.
"The clown, William!" he gasped in ecstacy.
William sighed--a deep sigh of intense happiness.
They secured good seats in the second row from the bottom and sat in
silence--a curious couple--their eager eyes fixed on that figure o'
dreams with a loose white suit and a chalked face. He held a small
camera and he was offering to take the photographs of the people who
came in. At last a farmer and his wife agreed to be photographed. He
posed them carefully in the middle of the ring, the lady in a chair,
her hands folded in her lap, the man standing by her side, his hand
on her shoulder. Then he told them not to move. He said he was going
to photograph them from behind first. He went behind and disappeared
through the door of the tent. The couple stayed motionless with
sheepish grins on their faces. The suppressed titters of the audience
increased to roars of laughter. It was some time before the rustic
couple realised that the clown was not photographing them carefully
from behind. William enjoyed the joke. He emitted guffaw after guffaw
while Grandfather Moore's shrill cackle joined in.
"He's gone away, William!" he piped between his laughter. "He's gone
right away! They think he's taking them from behind!"
At last the joke dawned upon the bucolic couple, and they went to their
places amid applause.
[Illustration: SHE RODE ROUND THE RING BAREBACK--BLOWING THEM KISSES.
WILLIAM BLUSHED VIOLENTLY WHEN HE IMAGINED ONE CAME TO HIM.]
Then began the circus proper. The ring-master came on--a magnificent
creature with long moustachios and a white shirt front. He waved his
whip. Then all held their breath, for in there pranced a coal-black
horse, and on its back one of the visions of beauty, whose pictures had
been on the poster--golden hair, red cheeks, white tights, and short,
white, frilly skirts.
To William she was Beauty personified. In the fickleness of his youth
he decided not to marry the little girl next door after all. He would
marry her instead. He would be a clown and marry her. He watched her
with fascinated eyes. She rode round the ring bareback--she then rode
round standing on the horse's back and blowing them kisses. William
blushed violently when he imagined one came to him.
"Golly!" he breathed.
"Isn't she fine?" said Grandfather Moore.
"Isn't she _just?_" said William.
All the while the majestic ring-master stood in the centre of the ring
twirling his moustachios and flicking his long, curling whip.
Then a man brought her a white horse, and she raced round the ring,
leaping gracefully from horse to horse at full gallop. Oh, the dreadful
moment when William thought she might fall. He would have leapt from
his seat and saved her, dying, perhaps, in the attempt. His thoughts
lingered fondly on the scene. Then she leapt through the paper hoop
again and again, landing gracefully upon the black or white back.
William grew impatient for the time when he should be old enough to
be a clown and marry her. The thought of the dancing-class had faded
altogether from his mind. The thoughts of youth may be long, long
thoughts, but its memories are distinctly short.
Then the clown came on again. How they roared at him. He tried to get
on to a horse and he couldn't; he tried to stand on a chair and he
couldn't; he tried to do conjuring tricks and he dropped everything:
he tried to walk across the ring and he slipped at every step. He fell
over his trousers; he fell over the ring-master; he quarrelled with
the ring-master; the ring-master knocked him down; he said the funniest
things William had ever heard in all his life. William was literally
exhausted with laughing; Grandfather Moore was hoarse. Occasionally his
cackling laugh cracked feebly on the top note.
Open-mouthed and tense they watched a collie dog carry in its puppy,
nurse it, give it a bottle of milk and put it in its cradle; watched
the elephant pick out numbers at the direction of the ring-master;
watched the monkey ride a bicycle and pelt the clown with sawdust. But
the last item was the most stupendous. It was called "The Prairie on
Fire." There were real flames--red, rolling flames; and through them,
and in headlong flight before them, came cattle and horses and buggies,
whose occupants stood up lashing on the horses and casting glances of
terror at the flames. The golden-haired beauty was wringing her hands
in the last buggy but one. The monkey was on the seat with the driver.
"Crumbs!" gasped William.
Grandfather Moore was beyond words.
Almost dazed and drunk with happiness they went out into the darkness
at the end. They walked in silence till they were almost at the gate of
William's house.
Then William spoke.
"I don't care what they do to me. It was worth it--jolly well worth it."
Grandfather Moore gave a chuckle.
"That _was_ a circus, William! I saw a fine one when I was a boy too. I
didn't care what I did to get to a circus."
William felt that he had found a kindred spirit.
"Did you learn dancin'?" he asked with interest.
"Yes."
"Did you like it?"
"_No_," said Grandfather Moore emphatically.
The bond between them grew stronger.
The hall and staircase were empty as they crept cautiously in through
the front-door. Mr. Brown, Mrs. Brown, Ethel and Aunt Lilian were still
playing bridge in the drawing-room. Silently, on tiptoe, they crept
upstairs to bed.
* * * * *
Mrs. Brown was apologetic at breakfast.
"I was so sorry about the circus, dear," she said to William. "It just
came on an awkward day when no one could take you. There's sure to be
one again soon. You shall go to that."
"Thank you, Mother," said William, his eyes fixed upon his plate.
"You didn't mind very much, did you, dear?" she continued.
"No, Mother," said William meekly.
Aunt Lilian beamed across at her charge.
"_Doesn't_ he look well this morning? I don't know _when_ I remember
him looking so well. A good long night does him no end of good. I'm so
glad I persuaded him to go to bed directly after tea."
William's eyes and Grandfather Moore's eyes met for a second across the
table.