THE LONELY ROAD
The day of the circus was not a happy one for Mary Hart. She watched
Sue go down the street, and her heart went out toward her friend. What
a darling she was! How pretty she looked, and how well the plumed hat
set off her delicate, high-bred face, and the little air she had of
owning the world and liking her possession! Now that there were no
mincing steps beside her, she walked with her own free, graceful gait,
head held high, eyes bent forward, ready for anything.
"She ought really to be a princess," thought humble-minded Mary; and
in her glow of admiration she did not see the troubled look in Sue's
bright eyes.
The day went heavily. The boys, too, went off to the circus in the
afternoon. Mary might have gone with them, but she had been given her
choice between this treat and the concert that was coming off a week
or two later, and had chosen the latter. If she and Sue could have
gone together with the boys, that would have been another matter. She
longed to tell the boys her secret, and beg them to keep an eye on
Sue, in case she should get into any trouble. Several times the words
were on the tip of her tongue, but the thought of her promise drove
them back. She had promised in the solemn school-boy formula, "Honest
and true, black and blue"; and that was as sacred as if she had sworn
on any number of relics. There was a dreadful passage in "Lalla
Rookh": "Thine oath! thine oath!"
She and Sue had decided long ago that they would not take oaths, but
that a promise should be just as binding. The promise lay heavy on
Mary's heart all day. She found it hard to settle down to anything.
Sue's face kept coming between her and her work, and looked at her
from the pages of her book. Her imagination, not very lively as a
rule, was now so excited that it might have been Sue's own. She saw
her friend in every conceivable and inconceivable danger. Now it was a
railway accident, with fire and every other accompaniment of terror.
She could hear the crash, the shrieks, and the dreadful hiss of
escaping steam; could see the hideous wreck in which Sue was pinned
down by burning timbers, unable to escape. Now a wild beast, a tiger
or panther, had escaped from his cage and sprung in among the
terrified audience of pleasure-seekers. She saw the glaring yellow
eyes, the steel claws. This time she screamed aloud, and frightened
Lily Penrose, who, luckily, came over at that very moment to ask
advice about the cutting of her doll's opera-cloak. Mary forced
herself to attend to the cloak, and that did her good; and there was
no reason why Lily should not be made happy and amused a little. Then
there were some errands to do for her mother, and then came her music
lesson; and so, somehow or other, the long day wore away, and the
time came for the arrival of the circus train from Chester. The time
came, and the train with it. Mary heard it go puffing and shrieking on
its way. She stationed herself at the window to watch for Sue. Soon
she would come by, twinkling all over, quicksilvering with joy as she
did when she had had a great pleasure--making the whole street
brighter, Mary always thought. But Sue did not come. Five o'clock
struck; then half-past five; then six. Still no Sue. In an anguish of
dread and uncertainty, Mary pressed her face against the pane and
gazed up the fast-darkening street. People came and went, going home
from their work; but no slight, glancing figure came swinging past.
What had happened? What could have happened? So great was Mary's
distress of mind that she did not hear her mother come into the room,
and started violently when a hand was laid on her shoulder.
"My dear," said Mrs. Hart, "I think the boys must have missed the
train. Why--why, Mary, dear child, what is the matter?" for Mary
turned on her a face so white and wild that her mother was
frightened.
"Mary!" she cried. "The boys! Has--has anything happened? The train--"
"No, no!" cried Mary, hastily. "It isn't the boys, mother. The boys
will be all right. It's Sue--my Sue!"
Then it all came out. Promise or no promise, Mary must take the
consequences. On her mother's neck she sobbed out the story: her
foolish "solemn promise," the day-long anxiety, the agony of the last
hour.
"Oh, what can have happened to her?" she cried. "Oh, Mammy, I'm so
glad I told you! I'm so glad--so glad!"
"Of course you are, my dear little girl," said Mrs. Hart. "And now,
stop crying, Mary. Thank goodness, there's your father driving into
the yard this moment. Run and tell him; he will know just what to do."
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MARY STATIONED HERSELF AT THE WINDOW."]
The glory was over. The scarlet cloths and the gold spangles had
disappeared behind the dingy curtains; the music had gone away in
green bags; and the crowd poured out of the circus, jostling and
pushing. Sue was walking on air. She could hear nothing but that
maddening clash of sound, see nothing but that airy figure dashing
through the ring of flame. To do that, and then to die suddenly, with
the world at her feet--that would be the highest bliss, beyond all
other heights; or--well, perhaps not really quite to die, but swoon so
deep that every one should think her dead. And then, when they had
wept for hours beside her rose-strewn bier, the beautiful youth in
pale blue silk tights, he with the spangled velvet trunks, might bend
over her--having read "Little Snow-white"--and take the poisoned comb
out of her hair, or--or something--and say--
"Ow!" cried Clarice, shrilly. "That horrid man pushed me so, he almost
tore my dress. I think this is perfectly awful! Say, Sue, let's go and
see the Two-headed Girl. We've lots of time before the train."
Sue for once demurred; she did not feel like seeing monstrosities; her
mind was filled with visions of beauty and grace. But when Clarice
pressed the point, she yielded cheerfully; for was it not Clarice's
party? But already the glow began to fade from her sky, and the heavy
feeling at her heart to return, as they pushed their way into the
small, dingy tent, where the air hung like a heavy, poisonous fog.
It happened that they were just behind a large party of noisy people,
men and women laughing and shouting together, and the showman did not
see them at first. They had made their way to the front, and were
gazing at the two slim lads who, tightly laced into one crimson satin
bodice, and crowned with coppery wigs, made the Two-headed Girl, when
the showman--an ugly fellow with little eyes set too near
together--tapped Sue on the shoulder.
"Fifty cents, please," he said civilly enough.
Sue looked at him open-eyed.
"Fifty cents," he repeated. "You two come in without payin'. Quarter
apiece, please."
Sue put her hand to her pocket, which held both purses (Clarice had no
pockets in her dresses; she said they spoiled the set of the skirt),
but withdrew it in dismay. The pocket was empty! She turned to
Clarice, who was staring greedily at the monstrosity. "Clarice!" she
gasped. "Clarice! did you--have you got the purses?"
"No," said Clarice. "I gave mine to you, to put in your pocket; don't
you remember?"
"Yes, of course I do; but--but it is gone! They are both gone!"
"Come, none o' that!" said the man. "You've seen the show, and you've
got to pay for it. That's all right, ain't it? Now you hand over them
fifty cents, little lady; see? Come! I can't stand foolin' here. I got
my business to attend to."
"But--but I haven't it!" said Sue, growing crimson to the roots of her
hair. "Somebody--my pocket must have been picked!" she cried, as the
truth flashed upon her. She recalled the dense crowd, the pushing, the
rough lad who had forced his way between her and Clarice just at the
doorway.
"Oh, Clarice," she said, "my pocket has certainly been picked! What
shall we do?"
"What shall we do?" echoed Clarice. "Oh, Sue, how could you? I don't
see why I let you take my purse. There was a ten-dollar gold piece in
it. I might have known you would lose it!" And she began to whimper
and lament.
This was poor comfort. Sue turned from her friend, and faced the angry
man bravely.
"I am very sorry," she said. "My pocket has been picked, so I cannot
pay you. We did not know that we had to pay extra for the side-shows.
I hope you will excuse--"
"Not much I won't excuse!" said the man, in a bullying tone, though he
did not raise his voice. "You'll pay me something, young ladies,
before you leave this tent. I ain't runnin' no free show; this is
business, this is, and I'm a poor man."
Sue looked round her in despair. Only vacant or boorish faces met her
eyes; it was not a high-class crowd that had come to see the
Two-headed Girl. Suddenly a word of Mr. Hart's flashed into her mind
like a sunbeam:
"If you are ever in danger away from home, children, call a--"
"Is there a policeman here?" she asked eagerly. "There must be one
outside, I am sure. Will you call him, please?"
"No; there ain't no policeman!" said the man, quickly. He glanced
warily about him, and added in a conciliatory tone: "There ain't no
need of any policeman, young ladies. I guess we can settle this little
matter right now, between ourselves, friendly and pleasant. You step
right in this way, out of the jam. There's a lady here'll be real
pleased to see you."
He half led, half pushed, the frightened girls into an inner
compartment of the tent, where a stout, greasy-looking woman was
counting greasy coppers into a bag. The woman looked up as they
entered, still counting: "Seventy--seventy-five--eighty--and twenty's
a dollar. What's the matter, Ed?"
"These little ladies got their pockets picked, so they say!" said the
man, with a wink. "They're real ladies; any one can see that with half
an eye. They don't want to rob a poor man like me. Maybe they've got
some jew'lry or something they'd like to give you for the money they
owe. You see to 'em, Min; I got to go back."
With another wink at the woman, and a leer at the children which was
meant to be attractive, he slipped out, and left them alone with the
stout woman.
"Well!" she began, in a wheedling voice, "so you had your pockets
picked, my dears, had you? Well, now, that was a shame, I should say!
Let me see!"
She advanced toward Clarice, who retreated before her, cowering in a
corner and crying: "I haven't got any pocket; it's her! She took my
purse, and now she's lost it. Oh, dear! I wish we hadn't come!"
"Let me see, dear," said the woman.
She felt Clarice all over with swift, practised fingers.
"Sure enough, you ain't got no pocket," she said. "I thought you might
be makin' a mistake, you see. There! why, what's this? Stand still,
ducky! I wouldn't hurt ye for the world; no, indeed--such a sweet,
pretty young lady as you be. Ain't this a pretty chain, now? and a
locket on the eend of it--well, I never! It ain't safe for young
ladies to be goin' round alone with such a lot of jew'lry. Why, you
might be murdered for it, and laid welterin' in your blood. I guess
I'll take this, dear, to pay for the show; it'll be safer for you
goin' home, too. What's this, again? gold stick-pins? Well, now, I
call them dangerous! I don't see what your ma was thinkin' of, lettin'
you come out rigged up like this. I'm doin' you a kindness takin' 'em
off'n ye; they might cost ye your life, sure as you stand here.
There's a terrible rough set o' folks round these grounds, specially
come night."
All the while she was talking she was quietly stripping Clarice of her
trinkets. Clarice was too frightened to speak or move; she could only
moan and whimper. But after the first moment of stupefaction, Sue came
forward with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. "How dare you?" she
cried. "How dare you steal her things? Her father or Mr. Hart--Mr.
George Hart of Hilton--will send you the money to-morrow, everything
we owe. You shall not steal our things, you wicked woman!"
The woman turned on her with an evil look. "Highty-tighty!" she said.
"Ain't we fine, miss? I wouldn't talk so free about stealin', after
you stealin' our show, sneakin' in and thinkin' you'd get it free. No
you don't!" And she caught Sue as she tried to slip past her out of
the tent. "Let's see what you've got, next."
"Police!" cried Sue. "Help! police!"
Instantly the woman's hand was over her mouth, and she was held in a
grasp of iron.
"You holler ag'in, and I'll strip the clothes off yer back!" she
hissed. "Hold yer tongue, or I'll call Ed. He won't stand no foolin'!"
Sue struggled fiercely, but it was of no use. The woman shifted her
easily to one arm, and with the other hand searched her pocket.
"Not even a handkerchief!" she said. "No jew'lry, neither. Well, your
mother's got sense, anyway. Hallo! here's a ring, though. Guess I'll
take that. Le' go, sis, or I'll hurt ye."
"It--it's not my ring!" gasped Sue, shaking her head free. "It's
hers--my friend's. Don't take it!"
"Guess it's mine, now!" said the woman, with a chuckle. She forced
back the girl's slender fingers, and drew off the gold mouse-ring.
"There! now you can go, dears; and next time, you take my advice, and
get some of your folks to take you to the circus. Ah! and be thankful
I've left you them pretty hats. I know a little girl as would be
pleased to death with that hat with the feathers; but you might take
cold if I let ye go bare-headed, and I'm a mother myself."
Trembling, half fainting, the girls found themselves outside the tent.
The grounds were well-nigh deserted, all the spectators being gone.
Here and there a group of stragglers leaned on the railings of the
neighboring fence, smoking and talking. Rough-looking men were at work
about the tents, and some of them looked curiously at the girls as
they hurried along. Neither spoke. Clarice was still whimpering and
crying under her breath. Sue's eyes were blazing; her cheeks felt on
fire. She ran hastily across the grounds, dragging Clarice after her
by the hand. She felt every moment as if they might be seized and
carried back to that horrible den. Suppose the man should be coming
after them now! He might put them in prison, and her mother would
never know where she was. She choked back the sob that rose in her
throat. On, on, as fast as feet could fly! At last the palings were
reached and passed. Now they could stop to draw breath, for they were
on the highroad, and out of sight of the hated inclosure. Panting, Sue
leaned against the fence, and waited till she should have breath
enough to speak some word of encouragement to her companion. No one
was in sight; there was no sound save the crickets keeping time in the
grass. All was as peaceful and serene as if there were no dreadful
things or wicked people in the world. They were not far from the
station now, and once in the train for home, with the friendly
conductor, who knew her and would take charge of them both--
Then, suddenly, a new thought flashed into Sue's mind, and struck ice
into the fever of her blood. How long had they been in that dreadful
place? How was it that no one was to be seen going toward the
station, of all the throng that had come up with them in the train?
"Clarice!" she gasped. "I am--afraid--we may miss the train. We must
run. It isn't far now. Run as fast as you possibly can!"
Clarice answered with a sob; but she began to run as well as her
foolish dress and shoes would let her. But another answer came at that
moment: a whistle, long and clear, loud at first, then growing fainter
and fainter till it died away. In desperation the girls flew on along
the road--to reach the station and find it empty! The long curve of
the rails stretched away toward home. The train was gone!