AT THE CIRCUS.
RHODA MORRIS felt the parting with her mother and brother very keenly.
She bore up bravely as long as they were with her. But as the train
that was bearing her away from them steamed out of the station, her
long-restrained tears burst forth. Fortunately, she had the carriage
all to herself, and she could indulge her grief unrestrained by curious
eyes, and for a while it had its way.
But by-and-by Rhoda began sobbingly to wonder how long her journey
would be, and whether they were getting near Rilchester. It was the
first station the train stopped at, she had been told, so she could
not make a mistake. And at the thought of meeting these strangers, she
dried her eyes, and sat up near the window, that the air might take
away the traces of her tears. It would never do to go to her new home
looking as though she was broken-hearted. Mrs. Middleton was ill, and
needed somebody to help her, and so she struggled to put on a cheerful
face before the station was reached.
Somebody had been sent to meet her, and take her to London Street,
which she found was the busiest in the town—all being large shops, and
Mr. Middleton's one of the largest.
She was taken upstairs at once to Mrs. Middleton, who was lying on a
couch, looking very ill, and not a little fretful. She was inclined
to find fault with Rhoda's size at first, and said she should never
be able to trust her with the baby out of doors, until her husband
reminded her that she had been recommended for her steadiness and
trustworthiness, and not for her size and looks.
Then Rhoda learned that it was a large household, not at all like Mrs.
Wright's, for there were two other servants kept, and her duty would
be to look after the baby and little boy—Master Ralph, a mischievous
little fellow about eight years old, but very delicate, and therefore
requiring a good deal of thought and management on the part of his
attendant. There was a nice large nursery, and Rhoda would have to keep
this clean and tidy, but this was all the housework expected of her,
she was told. But the children she must take almost entire charge of,
for when they were with their mother, they worried her so much that she
could not possibly get well. Mr. Middleton told her this as he took her
up to the nursery, and introduced her to Ralph and the baby, who was in
the temporary charge of the housemaid.
"I shall call you Rose," announced Ralph, as soon as his father had
left the room; "you've got red cheeks, and you don't look cross, and—"
"Now, Ralph, be quiet," said Mary, the housemaid; "Rhoda is not to be
plagued to death by you; she's come to nurse the baby."
The baby was a dear little mite, and Rhoda kissed and fondled her the
moment she took her.
"Do you like babies?" asked Ralph, watching the performance.
"Oh, yes! Such dear little babies as this. Do you go to school, Master
Ralph?"
"Yes, sometimes," said Ralph, twisting a piece of paper he held in his
fingers. "I go when I like, you know," he added.
This Rhoda found to be literally true. And the work there was to get
him to go when he did not choose was something wearing indeed. He would
have been a nice boy if he had not been spoiled by over-indulgence. But
as it was, he sometimes made his mother's life miserable for hours by
his persistent waywardness.
Fortunately for Rhoda, he took to her from the moment he saw her. She
gave in over the question concerning her name, because she did not
think it worth contending about, and Ralph ostentatiously called her
Rose upon every occasion.
When she wrote her letter to Frank, Rhoda could tell him and her mother
that she thought she should be very comfortable when she got used to
the ways of her new home.
Rhoda was one of those people who can adapt themselves to
circumstances, and she not only made herself happy, but those about her
felt the influence of her cheerful, contented spirit. It was this that
attracted the wayward little Ralph, and soon gave her so much power
over him that no one in the house could do with him as Rose could. By
dint of coaxing and persuading, telling him stories, and singing her
old school songs to him, she could always keep him happy and amused in
the nursery. But the difficulty of getting him to go to school was by
no means decreased, and anything in the way of a future pleasure was
held out to him as a reward for going to school without crying.
One day, when he was out walking with Rhoda, he caught sight of some
large gaily pictured bills being posted on a wall. In a moment he grew
eagerly excited.
"Rose, Rose!" he exclaimed, tugging at her dress, and pointing to the
gaudy red and yellow pictures. "The circus is coming again. Look! Look!"
"Yes, I see," answered Rhoda, pausing to please the little boy.
"Wouldn't you like to go and see it?" he demanded.
Rhoda knew how she was expected to answer and humour him, and to get
him to come along she said,—
"Yes, that I should."
"Then you shall go, Rose," announced Ralph, loftily. "I'm going this
time; my papa said I should before, and I'll take you."
"Oh, thank you," said Rhoda, laughing; "but come along now, Master
Ralph, or we shall be late for dinner."
As soon as they got home, Ralph ran in search of his father.
"Papa, papa, the circus has come again!" he called.
Mr. Middleton very soon made his appearance, and listened to Ralph's
account of the pictures with due attention.
"You'll take me, papa, and Rose too, won't you?" concluded the little
boy.
"We'll make a bargain, Ralph. The circus is coming next week, and if
you go to school this afternoon and every day without crying or making
any fuss, you shall go and see it."
"And Rose too?" demanded Ralph.
"Well, I don't know about Rose," said Mr. Middleton.
"But if I was very, very good, papa, and didn't cry once, or go to
mamma to let me stop at home, would you let Rose go then?"
A whole week's peace for Mrs. Middleton was too precious not to be
bought at such a price as this, and so his father said,—
"Yes, Rose shall go to the circus somehow, if you are good the whole
week through. But mind, if you once go crying to your mamma, she will
lose her treat."
Ralph went up to the nursery looking very grave.
"I've got to be good and go to school without crying for a whole week,
Rose, or else you won't go to the circus," he said. "Do you want to go
very much?" he asked, wondering whether his resolution to be good, and
not even ask to stay at home, could possibly hold out for as long as a
week.
Rhoda, who understood the reason for this, was all at once eager in her
desire to see the wonders of the circus.
"I never was inside one in my life," she said. "I've seen the beautiful
horses and ponies going through the streets in procession, but that
isn't like seeing them inside the big tent."
"Then you shall go next week. I 'will' be good," said Ralph,
resolutely. "You'll help me, Rose, won't you?" he added.
"Yes, dear, I will," said Rhoda, kissing him.
The good resolution was kept that afternoon, for Ralph went off to
school without the least fuss.
The next morning, however, there was a hard struggle. He wanted Rhoda
to go and ask his mamma to let him stay at home, for he had made up his
mind that the circus procession would parade the streets that day. And
Rhoda had some difficulty to convince him that it would not come to the
town until the night before the performance was to commence.
"Are you sure, Rose—are you quite sure? You are not telling a story?"
said the little boy, earnestly.
Rhoda could scarcely keep from laughing. But she managed to say quite
seriously,—
"Have I ever told you a story now, Ralph?" For she had always taken
care never to make him any promise that she could not perform.
"No, you haven't, so I'll believe you now," said the boy. And he
submitted to the washing and dressing process without further demur.
Everybody was astonished to find that Ralph had gone to school without
the usual screaming. And Mr. Middleton congratulated Rhoda on her
conquest of him, although he scarcely expected his good behaviour would
hold out for a whole week.
But it did, and as an extra reward Ralph was allowed to stay at home in
the morning to see the circus procession pass through the town, and in
the afternoon he and Rhoda, with Mary the housemaid, were to go and see
the performance.
Mr. Middleton did not like to trust him with Rhoda alone, but as he had
fairly kept his part of the bargain, he had resolved that Rhoda should
go. And very proud did Ralph feel as he took Rhoda's hand, and led her
into the great tent where the performance was to be held.
They had front seats and a capital view of the whole performance, and
Rhoda enjoyed the spectacle almost as much as Ralph did, clapping her
hands as loudly as anybody at the success of the various performances.
But the spectacle advertised in the largest type was the "Fairy
Queen and her Court," and this was nearly the last of the programme.
Everybody was talking about this and on the tiptoe of expectation when
it was about to begin. At last, the band struck up, and a party of
children, mounted on cream-coloured ponies, and dressed as fairies,
pranced into the ring, and were received with shouts of applause.
In the midst of this procession, the youngest, fairest, and prettiest
little girl of the company—a little creature scarcely more than two
years old—rode on a quiet-stepping but elegantly caparisoned little
pony. The moment she appeared, Rhoda's eyes were fastened upon the
child. She looked half frightened, and cast wistful, imploring glances
at one of the pages who led her pony.
Rhoda leaned right over the balustrade in front when she came round the
second time, and then murmured, "It is, it is; I know the hair and the
moles!"
"What did you say, Rose?" asked Ralph. "Hasn't she got pretty hair?"
"Yes, dear, yes," answered Rhoda, scarcely knowing what she was saying,
and sinking back in her seat as she spoke.
Mary turned and looked at her. "Are you ill, Rhoda?" she said in a tone
of alarm, noticing how pale she looked.
Rhoda shook her head, but her companion made up her mind she was going
to faint.
"You'd better go outside before you get worse," she said; "it's the
smell of the sawdust and the warm place, I expect."
"Yes, I'll go out," said Rhoda eagerly.
And room was made for her to pass the people sitting at the back. Her
pale, scared looks made others think she felt ill, and so every one
made way for her to pass, and she was soon outside the tent, her last
look at the ring being directed to the baby rider in her fairy dress.
Once outside, she had soon made up her mind what to do. Putting her
hand to her pocket, to make sure that she had her purse and the remains
of Mr. Wright's five shillings, she hurried to the post office and
asked for a telegraph form.
She had to make an effort to collect all her wits and make sure that
she made no mistake in the address or message; for what she had seen at
the circus was so startling, so unexpected, that her fingers trembled
with agitation as she wrote each word in its division, large and clear,
that there should be no possibility of any mistake being made. And this
is what she wrote:
"Lilla—is—here—in—a—show—come—and—get—her."
Having despatched her telegram, Rhoda ran home. But instead of ringing
the bell at the private entrance, as usual, she went into the shop—a
thing she had never done before. Mr. Middleton saw her come in, and
noticing her disturbed looks, thought something must have happened to
Ralph, and left his desk to come and meet her.
"What is it? What is it?" he said quickly and anxiously.
"Please, sir, little Lilla Wright is at the show; she's the fairy
queen, and rides on a pony."
"What! My little niece who was lost some time ago?" uttered Mr.
Middleton in astonishment.
"Yes, sir; I knew her the minute I saw her, and I saw the moles on her
chin and her arm as plain as possible."
"Then we must send for her father. I should not know her, and therefore
could not claim her. But we'll send a telegram to him."
"I have, sir; I went round by the post office when I came out of the
show. Do you think he will get here to-night?" asked Rhoda.
"Yes, I should think so. You have certainly done a most sensible thing,
Rhoda. But to make sure that these people don't get rid of the child
before her father can get here, we'll go and give information to the
police, so that they may keep their eyes upon them."
And Mr. Middleton sent for his hat, and he and Rhoda went away to the
police station at once.
The people were coming home from the circus when they got into the
street, and they met Ralph and Mary as they went along. The little boy
instantly darted to Rhoda, and seized her hand.
"What did you go home for?" he asked. "Mary said you were ill, but you
don't look ill now. And where are you going with papa?"
"Never mind where she's going; she'll come back again soon, my boy,"
interposed Mr. Middleton. "You go away with Mary, and tell mamma what
you have seen at the show."
But Ralph pouted and shook himself. "I don't want to go with Mary; I
want my Rose," he grumbled out.
"You go with Mary, and I'll tell you a story when I come home, quite a
new story about a fairy queen," said Rhoda; for the finding of little
Bobbie on the common was a story Ralph never wearied of hearing, and
now the finding of Lilla at the circus show would be a still more
wonderful incident to relate.
After a little more coaxing, Ralph agreed to go home with Mary,
although she, as well as the little boy, wondered where Rhoda could be
going with her master.
"Then you did not tell either of them why you came out?" said Mr.
Middleton, as they went on again.
"No, sir, I couldn't; it—it seemed to take my breath away at first. And
when Mary said I'd better come out, I thought I'd come and tell you at
first, and then I thought of the telegram."
The police listened to Rhoda's account, and then it was arranged that
the circus people should be watched until Mr. Wright's arrival. And
then a couple of policemen should go with him when he went to claim the
child.
The anxious father reached Rilchester about nine o'clock. Mr. Middleton
was at the station, awaiting the arrival of the train, and they went
off to the circus at once and took front seats, for the police had
advised that the father should see if he could recognise the child
before venturing to claim her.
They were in plenty of time for the fairy queen scene, and Mr. Wright
sat with eager eyes fastened on the entrance where he expected his
child to appear. And the moment she came into the ring, he knew her.
"Lilla, Lilla!" he cried.
And before Mr. Middleton could stop him, he was over the balustrade,
and had seized the pony's head and turned it out of the line of
procession.
At the sound of her father's voice calling her by the old familiar
name, the child had uttered a startled little cry.
The astonished attendants had gathered round the pony and child, and
tried to push the father away, but the police were at hand, and Lilla
and her pony were led out instantly. The child was fastened securely
to her saddle, so there was no fear of her falling. But as soon as the
fastenings were undone, she was clasped in her father's arms, and there
was little further need beyond this recognition to convince the police
that he had the right to carry her away.
There was an inquiry before the magistrate the next morning, when the
proprietor stated that he found the child wandering alone, after dark,
along a deserted road, and if he had not picked her up she would have
died of cold before the morning.
This tale of course might be true, or it might not. Nobody could
contradict it, and Mr. Wright was too thankful to have Lilla to wish to
punish her captors.