That supper was one of the incidents in David Jenison's life always to stand out clear and undimmed. The party of five sat at a table in a remote corner of the dingy little eating-house. At no time were they free from the curious gaze of the people who filled the place, a noisy bumptious crowd of country people making the most of a holiday. The glamour was over them. Some one had recognized "Little Starbright" in the simply clad, demure young girl; the word was passed from table to table. She was stared at and whispered about from the time she entered the place until she left.
David, alert and dogged, soon forgot the boorishness of the country-folk, however, in the painful study of conditions near at hand. Colonel Grand, the host, was most affable. More than that, he was tactful. While there was an unmistakable air of proprietorship in his manner, he had the delicacy or the cleverness not to allow it to become even remotely oppressive. He managed it so that the conversation was carried on almost entirely by the two men. Now and then the three palpably unwilling guests were drawn into it, but with such subtlety on the part of their host that they were surprised into a momentarily active participation. Thomas Braddock, cleanly shaven and rather uncomfortably neat as to the matter of linen, was garrulous to the point of noisiness. He confined his remarks to the Colonel, or, in a general way, to the tables near by, with an occasional furtive glance at his wife's set, unsmiling face by way of noting the effect on her. The topics were commonplace enough: the weather, the prospects ahead, the improvements to be made in the show as business got better.
Mrs. Braddock, who sat at the Colonel's left, was so noticeably pale and repressed that David wondered if she would be able to go to the end of the wretched travesty without fainting. Unutterable despair hung over her lowered eyelids; it stood out plainly in the lines at the corners of her mouth. Christine seldom looked up from her plate. She sat next to David. He felt the restraint and embarrassment under which the girl suffered. Her cheek went red on more than one occasion when her father's coarse humor offended her delicate sensibilities; she paled under the veiled, insinuating compliments of the other. Once David's hand accidentally touched hers, below the edge of the table. His strong fingers at once closed over hers and for many minutes he held them tight, unknown to any but themselves. The dark lashes drooped lower on her cheeks; he could almost detect the flutter in her throat.
The ghastly meal drew to a close. The Colonel, leaning forward, was gazing through half-closed lids at the profile of the woman beside him. His long, white fingers fumbled with an unused spoon beside her plate. Once she had hitched her chair a little farther away from his,—an abrupt proceeding that had not failed to attract David's attention.
"Well, we will have many of these jolly little spreads," he was saying in his oiliest tones. "Birds of a feather, you know. Ha, ha! That's rather a clever way of putting it, eh, Jack?"
Braddock laughed boisterously. He had lighted a cigar regardless of the waiter's polite announcement that smoking was not allowed.
"Yes, we will dine together frequently. I like these gay little affairs," went on the Colonel, not even attempting to conceal his shrug of disgust for Braddock. "I am leaving for home to-night, but I expect to return in two or three days. You must all join hands in breaking me into the circus business. Don't let me be a—what is it you call it? A rube, that's it. We'll be the show's happy family. Every circus has a 'happy family.' Yes, 'pon my soul, I like the life. I do enjoy these quiet, impromptu little suppers."'
David was suddenly conscious that Braddock's eyes were upon him. He met the gaze, curiously impelled. The man's face was almost purple; the look in his eyes was not of anger, but of a shame that sprung from what little there was of manhood left in him. Braddock looked away quickly, and an instant later announced that it was time to get back to the "lot."
In front of the restaurant they came upon Artful Dick Cronk. The pickpocket made no attempt to speak to them, but when his eye caught David's, he closed it slowly in a very expressive wink.
Braddock hurried on ahead, explaining that he was obliged to look after something at the grounds.
"I'll look after them," said the Colonel affably. "With Jack's assistance," he supplemented. Christine clutched her mother's arm. The Colonel and David dropped behind, for the narrow sidewalk was crowded. In this fashion they made their way to the show grounds. Mrs. Braddock and Christine did not once look behind. Colonel Grand chatted amiably with his young companion, but never for an instant was his gaze diverted from the straight, proud figure of the woman ahead.
He entered the dressing-tent with them. There he quietly said good-by to the three of them. The tears of indignation were still standing in Christine's eyes. He willfully misinterpreted their significance. A hateful tenderness came into his voice, but it did not disturb the sneer on his lips.
"Don't cry, little one; it is only for a few days," he said.
Christine's face flamed.
"It's—it's not because you are going away!" she cried in angry astonishment. "I wish you would never come back! Never!"
He smiled broadly. "Dear me! And I thought we were getting on so nicely. Pray control yourself, my dear. I had no idea you could be so ferocious. Who does she get it from, Mary?"
Mrs. Braddock started as if stung. Her eyes dilated. It was the first time he had called her by her Christian name.
"How dare you?" she cried, her breast heaving with suppressed anger.
He shook his head dejectedly. "I have much to learn, it seems."
She opened her lips to say more, but reconsidered, and abruptly turned away, drawing Christine after her into the women's section.
Colonel Grand turned to David. "Young man," he said sharply, "I don't like the way you look at me. Stop! Not a word, sir! I have taken up the show business seriously. I find that our animal tamers are entirely competent. What we need here is a tamer for vicious and ungentle bipeds. There is a way to tame them, just as there is a way to break the spirit of the lion or the tiger. It shall be my special duty to deal with these unruly human beings. I hope you grasp my meaning. It would not be to my liking to begin my experiments on a young gentleman of Virginia."
"Sir, you've already begun!" cried David in a choking voice. "You may do what you like with me, but you've just got to let her alone. You—"
Colonel Grand held up his hand. David seemed to be gasping for breath.
"That's the very thing I like about you, Jack," said his late host derisively. "I can always depend upon you to look after the ladies. They will be absolutely safe while you are with them. There is a distinct advantage in having a real gentleman about. You see, I can't always be on hand to—to protect them from such bullies as Thomas Braddock."
His allusion to Braddock was strikingly impersonal.
"I am making you my first lieutenant—no, my aide-de-camp, Jack. All you are required to do is to obey orders. Don't run the risk of a court-martial, my lad. It occurs to me that an uncle of yours has had an experience of that—but, never mind. Your first duty, sir, is to convince the ladies that I shall expect them to be in better humor when I return from the East."
The words came from his lips with biting emphasis; the smooth oily tone was gone. There was no pretense now; he was showing his fangs.
David could only glare at him, white to the lips. He could not speak. He could only look the hatred that welled in his heart. But down in that heart he was telling himself that some day he would crush this monster.
Colonel Grand studied the clean-cut, aristocratic face for a moment. A conciliatory smile came to his lips.
"Don't forget that I am doing you a good turn," he said. "Christie is a very pretty girl. She's fond of you. If you're smart, you'll make the most of her. You ought to thank me instead of—ah, but I see you do thank me." He willfully misjudged the expression on David's face. "I see no reason why you can't spend a most agreeable season with us. Jack."
"Colonel Grand," said David very slowly, controlling himself admirably, "if it were not that I now regard it as my sacred duty to stay with this show, I would defy you, sir, and denounce you, let the consequences be as disastrous to me as you like. I am not afraid of you. I can go back home—to jail—with my head up and my heart clean, if you choose to send me there. I am not afraid of even that. But I am afraid of something else. That is why I am ready to bear your insults, to humble myself, to submit to your—your commands. Not for my own safety, but for the safety of others. Permit me, sir, as a gentleman, to assure you that you can depend on me to carry out at least a part of your instructions as faithfully as God will let me. I mean by that, sir, your instructions to protect the ladies!"
He turned on his heel and left the Colonel standing there, a flush mounting to his flabby cheek.
"Braddock," he said, a few minutes later, "I'm going to break that Jenison boy if it takes me a year—yes, ten years."
"What's up?" demanded Braddock, rolling his cigar over uneasily. "Been sassing you?"
"People of his class do not sass, as you call it," said Colonel Grand shortly.
"Well, shall I kick him out of the show?" asked the other, perplexed. Remembering David's money, he supplemented quickly: "Say in a week or two?"
"No. That is just what I don't want you to do. He stays, Braddock. Understand?"
"All right," agreed the other hastily. "I like the kid. He's good company for Christie, too. Tony sort of a chap, ain't he? I can tell 'em every pop. I said to my wife that first night—"
"Yes, yes, you you've told me that," interrupted Grand impatiently. "You keep him here, that's all. When I'm through with him you may kick him out. There won't be much left to kick."
For a long time after the departure of his new partner, Thomas Braddock's attitude of extreme thoughtfulness puzzled those who took the trouble to observe him. At last, when his cigar was chewed to a pulp and the night's performance was half over, light broke in upon him. He fancied that he had solved the Colonel's designs regarding David Jenison. His face cleared, but again clouded ominously; he conversed with himself, aloud.
"By thunder, if he thinks I'm going to let him gobble up that kid's money, he's mistaken. Why didn't I think of this before? I might have known. It's the long green he's after. I wonder who told him about the two thousand." He scratched his head in sudden perplexity. "I wonder what's got into Dick Cronk. He's too blamed good, all of a sudden. That brother of his might try the job, but—no, he'd bungle it. Besides, he'd probably stick a knife into Davy if the kid made a motion." He began chewing a fresh cigar; his pop-eyes were leveled with unseeing fierceness at a certain patch in the "main top"; his brain was seeing nothing but that packet of banknotes. How to get it into his possession: that was the question that produced the undiverted stare and the lowering droop at the corners of his mouth.
"I've got to get that wad," he was saying to himself, over and over again, with almost tearful insistence. Driven by the value of propinquity, he finally made his way to the dressing-tent. The performers were surprised to find him unnaturally sober and quite jovial. A certain nervousness marked his manner. He chatted amiably with the leading men and women in his company; the fact that he removed the cigar from his lips while conversing with Ruby Noakes and the Iron-jawed Woman, created no little amazement in them. He was especially gentle with his wife, and superlatively so with his daughter, both of whom were slow to show the slightest sense of responsive warmth. He proudly, almost belligerently, proclaimed Christine to be the loveliest creature that ever stepped into the sawdust ring. In spite of that fact, however, it was his plan to have her retire at the end of the season, when, if all went well, she was to go to a splendid school for young ladies.
Mrs. Braddock eyed him narrowly. She was searching for the cause of this sudden ebullience, this astounding surrender to her own views regarding their daughter. As for Christine, she was more afraid of him than she had been in all her life. This new mood suggested some vague, undefinable trouble for her mother. The girl's rapidly developing estimate of her father was taking away all the illusions she had been innocently cherishing up to the last few weeks. To her horror, she was beginning to look for something sinister in all that he undertook to do or say.
Unable to face the speculative anxiety in the eyes of his wife and child, Braddock edged off to the men's section of the tent. His furtive, nervous glances about the small apartment escaped the notice of the men who were changing their apparel. To his own disgust, a cold perspiration began to ooze out all over his body—the moisture of extreme nervousness and indecision. He took a stiff pull at his brandy flask.
His shifting gaze ultimately rested on David Jenison's neatly deposited clothing. The boy was in the ring. His "street-wear" lay on a "keester" somewhat apart from the heterogeneous pile of men's apparel on the adjacent boxes. David's "pile" was close to the outside wall of the tent. Braddock marked its location in respect to a certain side pole. He began to tremble; a weakness fell upon him; the resolution partly formed in the big tent, and which had drawn him resistlessly to this very spot, gained strength as his blinking eyes swerved their gaze from time to time in the direction of the "pile." All the while he was talking volubly and without a sentient purpose.
After fifteen minutes he sauntered from the section, cold with apprehension but absolutely determined on the action which was to follow. Leaving the tent, he strolled off toward the ticket wagon, carefully noting the position of the men who were loading the menagerie tent for the trip ahead. A cautious detour brought him back to the dressing-tent, and directly in front of the spot where David's clothing was deposited.
The trembling increased. His mouth filled with saliva. He felt of his hair. It was wet. As he stood there shivering and irresolute, the band struck up the tune that signified much to his present venture,—the tune heralding the approach of the entire company of male performers in the "ground and lofty tumbling act." It meant that the men's section would be entirely deserted for five or ten minutes.
Thomas Braddock was not a thief. He never had stolen anything in his life. He did not intend to steal now. Before he entered the dressing-tent, half an hour ago, he had justified himself unto himself: he was not going to steal David's money. His purpose was an honest one, or so his conscience had been resolutely convinced. He meant to surreptitiously borrow the idle money, that was all. Toward the end of the season, when he was vastly prosperous—as he was sure to be—he would go to David and restore the money, with interest; whereupon the grateful young man would fall upon his neck and rejoice. He needed the money. David did not need it.
What would his wife say if she came to know of this? What would Christine think of him? They were harsh questions and they troubled him. But above these questions throbbed a still greater one—the one that made his body damp with fear: was the money still in the boy's pocket, or was he carrying it with him in the ring?
Of one thing he was sure: David trusted to the integrity of his fellow performers. As for that, so did Thomas Braddock. In all his experience with circus performers he had never known one of them to steal; somewhat irrelevantly he reminded himself that circus women were notably chaste. No; David's money was quite safe in that dressing-tent.
Two full minutes passed before he could whip the conscience into submission. It was, as it afterwards turned out to be, the last stand of the thing called honor as it applied to whiskey-soaked Tom Braddock. Then he shot forward across the black shadows to the side pole he had been glaring at for a quarter of an hour. Through the lacings in the sidewall he saw that the section was empty.
When David put his hand inside the lining of his waistcoat an hour later, he turned pale and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. For an instant he permitted them to sweep the laughing, unconscious group of men surrounding him.
"Joey," he said a moment later, taking the clown aside, "my pocketbook is gone."
"Wot!" gasped Joey. "'Ave you lost it?"
"It has been stolen."
Joey's face grew very sober. "Don't say that, Jacky. It was in your ves'cut—as usual?"
"Yes. The lining is slashed with a knife."
"Jacky, are you sure?" almost groaned the clown. "Why—why, there ain't nobody 'ere as would steal a pin. No, sir, not one of—"
"I know that, Joey," said David. He was very white and his eyes were heavy with pain. "I know who stole it."
Grinaldi looked up sharply. Something darted into his mind like a flash of lightning.
"You—you don't mean—"
"I won't say the name. And you mustn't say it either, Joey. But I am as sure of it as I am sure my heart beats. Casey said he—the man came in here for half an hour—I can't believe he is a thief! Joey, they must never know. We must not mention this thing to any one. I don't mind the money. It is nothing—"
Joey wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Right-o! Not a blooming word. I see your meaning. By Gripes, he's sinking pretty low. But," hopefully, "mebby he didn't do it."
"I hope he didn't, but—" The boy shuddered. "Joey, I passed him as I came from the ring awhile ago. He was leaning against a quarter pole. The look he gave me was so queer, so ferocious, that I turned away; I couldn't understand it. But I do now, Joey. It's as clear as day to me. He had discovered that instead of twenty-five hundred dollars, there were but six ten-dollar notes in that pocketbook. Do you understand? He was black with rage and disappointment—"
"I see! Well, blow me, I—I—" Here Joey began to chuckle. "He's wondering where the balance of it is. He was trying to look through your shirt, Jacky. He—"
"Do you remember that he followed us in here and watched us change clothes? Well, I noticed that he never took his eyes off me. He was watching to see if I had anything hidden about me—a belt, a package, or—anything. Joey, it's as plain as day."
"And he did kick that little property boy a minute ago. I remember that. He is mad! He's crazy mad, Jacky, we've got to keep our eyes peeled, you and me—and another pusson, too. We got to stand by tonight to protect 'er. He probably thinks that pusson can tell 'im where it is."
But Thomas Braddock was not thinking of his wife in connection with the disappointment that had come to him in that last hour of degradation. He was thinking of Colonel Bob Grand and wondering what magic influence he had exercised over the boy to compel him to deliver so much money into his hands. Down in the darkest corner of his soul he was cursing Bob Grand for a scheming thief, and David Jenison for a hopeless imbecile.
Before the wagons were well under way for the next stand he was dead drunk in the alley back of the hotel bar, having first thrashed a porter who undertook to eject him from the place.
Mrs. Braddock and Christine waited for him at the lot until the men began to pull down the dressing-tent. David was with them. Not far away was Joey Noakes, the center of a group of performers, held together by his wonderful tale concerning the sensational bit of pocketpicking that had occurred early in the evening. A congressman had been "touched" for his purse and three hundred dollars while waiting for a train at the depot. The town was wild over the theft.
In the midst of the narrative, Artful Dick sauntered up to the group, coming, it seemed, from nowhere. The gossiper abruptly stopped his tale.
"They say it's going to rain before morning," said Dick airily. "You guys will get rust on your joints if you stay out in it. Ta-ta! I'm looking for my brother. Seen him?"
He strolled on, as if he owned the earth.
"That feller'll be as rich as the devil some day, if he keeps on," said one of the group.
That was the mild form of opprobrium that followed Artful Dick into the shadows. As he passed by the Braddocks and David, he doffed his derby gallantly. To this knowing chap there was something significant in the dreary, half-hearted smile that the mother and daughter gave him. At any rate, he took a second look at them out of the corner of his eye.
"Brad's up to something," he thought.
The smile he bestowed upon Ruby Noakes, who stood near by with several of the women, was all-enveloping. Ruby's dark eyes looked after him until his long, jaunty figure disappeared in the darkness.
"Too bad he's a thie—what he is," ventured the Iron-jawed Woman pityingly. She addressed the reflection to Ruby, who started and then positively glared at the speaker.
David escorted Mrs. Braddock and Christine to the hotel, where he also was to "put up" under the new dispensation. They had but little to say to each other. A deep sense of restraint had fallen upon them. He understood and appreciated their lack of interest in anything but their own unexpressed thoughts. As for himself, he was sick at heart over the discovery he had made. Not for all the world would he have added to their unhappiness by voicing the thoughts that were uppermost in his mind, rioting there with an insistent clamor that almost deafened him.
Christine's father was a thief!
From time to time, as they walked down the dark, still street, he glanced at her face, half fearing that his thoughts might have reached her by means of some mysterious telepathic agency. Even in the shadows her face was adorable. He could not see her dark eyes, but he knew they were troubled and afraid. He would have given worlds to have taken her in his arms, then and there, to pour into her little sore heart all the comfort of his new-found adoration.
For days it had been growing upon him, this delicious realization of what she had come to stand for in his life. She had crept into his heart and he was glad. Innate gallantry and a sense of the fitness of things had kept him from uttering one word of love to this young, trusting, unconscious girl. He was very young—stupidly young, he felt—but he was old enough to know that she would not understand. He was content to wait, content to watch. The time would come when he could tell her of the love that was in his heart; but it was not to be thought of now.
He walked between them, carrying Mrs. Braddock's handbag. Christine refused to burden him with hers. As they neared the business section of the town—one of the Ohio River towns—they encountered drunken men and merry-makers. A particularly noisy but amiable group approached them from the opposite direction. Christine nervously clutched David's arm. She came very close to him. He was thrilled by the contact. After the revelers had lurched by them, she gave an odd little laugh and would have removed her hand. He pressed his arm close to his side, imprisoning it. She looked up quickly, a sharp catch in her breath. Then she allowed her hand to rest there passively.
They were nearing the hotel when David impulsively gave utterance to the hungry cry that was struggling in his throat:
"Oh, Mrs. Braddock, if I were free to go back to Jenison Hall! I could ask you and Christine to come there and stay. You'd love it there. It's the finest old place in—"
"Why, David!" cried Mrs. Braddock in surprise.
"Forgive me!" he cried abjectly.
"Oh, I should love it—I should love it, David," cried Christine in a low, wistful voice. It seemed to him that there was a strange, mysterious wail at the back of the words.
Mrs. Braddock uttered a short, bitter laugh. "How good you are, David. What would your friends think if you took circus people there to visit you?"
He replied with grave dignity. "My friends, Mrs. Braddock, include the circus people you mention. I am not likely to forget that you took me in and—"
"And made a clown of you," she interrupted. He was gratified to see a smile on her lips. The light from a window shone in her face. Her eyes were wet and glistening.
He held his tongue for a moment, wavering between impulse and delicacy. His gaze went to Christine's half-averted face. He was moved by sudden apprehension. Was she beginning to suspect the real attitude of Colonel Bob Grand toward her mother? Was it something more than mere antipathy that filled her heart?
"See here, Mrs. Braddock," he began hastily, "I'm right young to be saying this to you, but I want you to know that I am terribly distressed by what has taken place in—in your life. I know you hate Colonel Grand. I know he is a bad man. His new interest in this show is the outgrowth of an old one."
She started. Her eyes were full upon his face.
"You are not likely to know any more peace or happiness here. Why don't you give it up? Why don't you leave the show? Why—"
"David," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "you don't know what you are saying."
"You could go back to your father," he went on ruthlessly. "I know it would be all right. He would not—"
She interrupted him quickly.
"Who has been talking to you of my affairs?"
He bit his lip. "Why, I—well, Joey Grinaldi. He is your best, truest friend. He told me all—"
Christine was leaning forward, peering past him at her mother's averted face. The girl's clutch on his arm tightened perceptibly.
"Mother," she said wonderingly, "what does he mean? Isn't—isn't your father dead? What is it that Joey Noakes has told you, David?"
David realized and was dumb with a sort of consternation. Mrs. Braddock hesitated for a moment, and then said to him, drear despair in her voice:
"Poor David! You don't know what you have done. No, Christine, my father is not dead. Be patient, my darling; I will tell you all there is to tell."
"To-night?" half whispered Christine, dropping David's arm, moved by the horrid fear that there was some dark secret in her life which was to put a barrier between him and her forever.
"Yes, my dear."
The circus encountered vile weather from that time on. Day after day, night after night, during the last two weeks in June, there was rain, with raw winds that chilled and depressed the strollers. The route of the show ran through the Ohio River valley, ordinarily a profitable territory at that time of the year. July would see the show well started for the northern circuit, where the floods were less troublesome and the weather bade fair to turn favorable. So bad were the floods in one particular region that the concern was obliged to cancel dates in three towns, lying idle in a God-forsaken river-place for two wretched days and traveling as if pursued by devils on the third. The horses, overworked and half starved, obtained a much-needed rest.
Performers and employees alike grew taciturn and absorbed in speculation as to the immediate future. No one believed that the show could continue against such distressing odds. At no performance were the receipts half adequate to the requirements; each clay saw the enterprise sink deeper into a mire of debt from which there was no apparent prospect of escape. The characteristically ebullient spirits of the performers surrendered at last to the superstitions that persistently obtruded themselves upon the notice of individuals. All manner of "bad luck" signs cropped out to sustain this multitude of beliefs. Every one was resorting to his luck stone or an amulet. Even David Jenison, sensible lad that he was, fell under the spell of superstition. He carried a "luck piece" given him by Ruby Noakes, and not once but many times was he guilty of calling upon it for relief from the general misfortune.
A bloody fight on the circus grounds between the showmen and an organized band of town ruffians came near to bringing the concern to a disastrous end. The riot happened in one of the hill towns along the river, and was due to the ugly humor of the unpaid canvasmen and the roustabouts who went searching for trouble as an outlet for their feelings. Guy ropes were cut by an attacking force of half-drunken rowdies; the canvases were slashed and wagons overturned. The oldtime yell of "Hey, Rube!" marshaled the circus forces. There was a battle royal, in which the local contingent was badly used up, more than one man being seriously injured.
David Jenison fought beside his fellow performers, who rallied to protect the dressing-tent and the terrified women. In the darkness and rain, after the night performance, the opposing forces mingled and fought like wild beasts. The young Virginian, vigorous as a colt, was a hero among his comrades. For days afterwards, every one talked of the stubborn stand he made at the rear of the dressing-tent, where he swung a stake with savage effectiveness in combat with half a dozen rioters who had cut the ropes, allowing the sidewalls to drop while many of the women were dressing.
He was fighting for Christine Braddock, who was waiting in the tent for him, instead of going to the hotel with her mother earlier in the evening. He glorified himself forever in the eyes of the terrified girl; he was never to forget the soft, tremulous words of loving anxiety she used, quite unconsciously, while she went about the task of bandaging the cuts on his face half an hour later in her mother's room, where many of their intimates had gathered for attention.
"We must find Dick Cronk and attend to his wounds," protested David, addressing the others who were there. "He came to my assistance before any one else arrived. I think he dropped from the sky."
Ruby Noakes closed her eyes suddenly to hide the telltale gleam that had leaped into them. She knew that Dick Cronk was fighting for her, and her alone.
"I saw him just now," she said after a moment. "He didn't have a scratch and he is perfectly mad with joy over the whole thing."
"He could fall out of a balloon and not even get a lump on his head, that feller could," grumbled the contortionist, who had two very black eyes and several "lumps."
Braddock, partially sobered by the serious consequences likely to arise from the riot, spent an uncomfortable day in the town. The circus manager succeeded in half-way convincing the authorities that his people had been set upon and were in no way responsible for the affray. Threats of suit against the town for damages had the desired effect: the authorities were eager to let the aggregation depart.
But in that sanguinary conflict David Jenison had won more than his spurs; these volatile, impressionable people, in disdain for their own positions in life, were saying, "Blood will tell." Down to the lowliest menial the sentiment regarding him underwent a subtle but noticeable change. He was no longer the guileless outsider: he was exalted even among those who once had scoffed.
Anxiety, worry and a mighty craving for exoneration, with a glorious return to the land of his people, triumphant in his innocence, were telling on the proud, high-spirited youth. A gauntness settled in his face; there was a hungry, wistful look in his eyes; his ever-winning smile responded less readily than before; sharp lines began to reveal themselves, flanking his nostrils. His heart was bitter. The weeks had brought him to a fuller realization of the horrid blight upon his fair name; he had come to see the wreck in all its cold, brutal aspects. The realization that he was a hunted, branded thing, with a price on his head, sank deeper and deeper into his soul. Hunted! Chased as a criminal! He, a Jenison of Virginia!
Nor was he permitted at any time to feel that he was safe from arrest. Thomas Braddock, savagely disappointed on that shameful night, made life miserable for the young clown. Only a sodden hope that there was still a chance to secure the treasure kept him from actually doing bodily harm to David, to such an extent that he might be forced to leave the show. That hope, and the ever-present dread of the still absent Colonel Grand, moved Braddock to tactics so ugly that a constant watch was being observed by those who sought to shield not only the Virginian but the man's wife and child.
The proprietor was sinking lower and lower in the mire of dissoluteness. There was no longer any pretense of sobriety. He drank with vicious disregard for the common aspects of decency. He was ugly, quarrelsome, resentful of any effort on the part of his friends to guide him out of the slough in which he was losing himself. More than one kindly disposed person had been knocked down for his "interference," as Braddock called it. David Jenison shrank from contact with him, revolting against the language he used, despising him for the threats he held over him, distressed by the snarling requests for money. No day passed that did not bring to David an almost irresistible impulse to escape this loathsome man by deserting the show. A single magnet held him: Christine. He endured torment and obloquy that he might always be there to defend her and the sad-eyed, broken woman who had defended him.
If it had not been for the plight of these loved ones he might have persuaded himself to go back to Virginia and give himself up for trial. Time had encouraged him in the belief that his innocence would prevail. He had talked it over with Joey and Dick Cronk. Both of them had advised him to stand to his original determination to find Isaac Perry before putting himself in jeopardy.
Colonel Grand's prolonged absence was the cause of much speculation and uneasiness. The entire company lived in dread of his return, yet each individual was eager to have it over with. No man liked the new partner; every one knew where his real interest lay. Thomas Braddock cursed him in secret for remaining away while the show was tottering on its last legs. Mrs. Braddock never spoke of the man, but it was not difficult to interpret the anxious, daunted expression in her eyes as, day after day, she appeared at the tent; nor was the temporary gleam of relief less plain when she convinced herself that he was not on the grounds.
There was method in Colonel Grand's aloofness. He held off resolutely, with almost satanic cruelty, while Thomas Braddock and the weather brought the show to the last stages of desperation. At the psychological moment he would present himself and exact his pound of flesh.
Christine's attitude toward her father changed forever on the night of David's luckless appeal. She had the whole story of her mother's life before she went to bed that night. From that unhappy hour of truth she gave all of her love to the abused gentlewoman whose willfulness and folly had resulted in her own appearance in the world. The knowledge that David knew the story, with all others, at first raised a sombre barrier between them, which was broken down by the young man's tender consideration and devotion.
She was no longer the gay, sprightly creature he had known at first. Now she lived well within herself, a curb on her spirits that seldom relaxed except when she was happily alone with her mother and David. Then she breathed freely and cast off the weight that oppressed her.
There was no mistaking David's attitude toward this dainty, bewitching comrade of those troublous, trying days. The whole company saw, approved, and was delighted.
Joey alone spoke to him of what was in the minds of all. "Jacky," he said one blustering evening, "I see how it is with you now; but is it going to endure? Don't blush, my lad, and don't flare up. We all know you're terrible took with 'er. It's nothink to be ashamed of. Wot I'm going to say is this. She's a puffect child yet and you are still a schoolboy. Are you going to be man enough when you gets older and more mature-like to stick by this 'ere puppy love that means so much to 'er now? Are you going to love 'er allus, just as I dessay you'll find she will do by you?"
"But—but Joey," stammered David in confusion—"she doesn't care for me in that way."
Joey closed one eye and puffed thrice at his pipe.
"Jacky, it's not to your credit as a gentleman to be so blooming stupid."
"She's so very young," murmured David.
"Well, love grows up, my lad, just the same as folks does," said the old clown wisely.
"If—if I thought she'd love me when she's old enough to—" began David, his eyes gleaming.
He stopped there, confused and awkward.
Joey eyed him. "You mean by that, that you'd go so far as to marry 'er?"
David flushed. Then his eyes flashed with resentment: "See here, Joey, that's not the way to speak of her. She's a lady. She's not a—" He checked himself suddenly.
"Virginians are very 'igh and mighty pussons, I've been told," said Joey, leading him on with considerable adroitness.
"Perhaps you have also been told that we require no lessons in chivalry," announced David, somewhat pompously.
Joey chuckled softly. "Don't get 'uffy, Jacky. Let's get back to the fust subject. 'Ow is it going to be with you two when you've really growed up? You're a couple of babes in the woods just now."
David was silent for a moment. Then he faced the old clown proudly. "She's perfect, Joey; she's wonderful. I expect to love her always. When she's old enough, I am going to ask her to be my wife."
"Provided you escape the gallows," remarked Joey sententiously.
"Yes," said the boy, setting his jaw, but turning very white. "But she knows I am innocent. Even though I should always live under this shadow, and under another name, I would not feel that I was doing her a wrong in asking her to share my lot with me. Nothing could be worse than what she has to bear now. But, Joey," he concluded firmly, "I am going to clear my name, as sure as I live."
The old clown nodded his head, eyed his protege furtively and lovingly, and lapsed into silence. For a long time neither spoke. It was David who broke the strain.
"Joey, I wonder if you know how much Dick Cronk loves Ruby?" He put the question tentatively.
"I do," responded Joey promptly. "He loves her so much and so honestly that he won't tell 'er about it."
"I feel very sorry for him."
"So do I. He's often told me that he's mad in love with 'er. But he says she can't haf—afford to 'ave anything to do with a pickpocket. He says it wouldn't be right. So he's just going on loving 'er and saying nothink. That's the way it'll be to the end."
"And Ruby?"
"Well, she knows 'ow it is with 'im. I daresay that's why she's allus trying to get 'im to give up wot he's doing now and go out West where he could begin all over again."
"If he did that, would you let her—"
"That's the question, my lad," interrupted Joey very soberly. "I don't think I could let 'er marry a chap as 'ad been a thief. I—I, well, you see, Jacky, I want my gal to marry a gentleman."
His lip twitched and he fell to studying the ground. David did not smile. He looked away, for he understood the longing that was in the heart of this lowly-born jester who did not even pretend to be a gentleman.
"No," said Joey after a long time, "he won't even ask 'er, 'Ow can he, feeling as he does about hisself? You see, he says he's going to be 'anged some day afore he gets through. He's that positive about it I can't talk 'im out of the idee. He says it won't do no good to reform if he's sure to be 'ung in the end. He says it's destiny, wotever that is."
He got up and strolled away, saying it was time to dress for the performance, adding lugubriously that there'd be more people in the band-stand than there'd be in the "blues."
When the night's performance was over, Thomas Braddock came back to announce to the performers that they would have to travel by wagon from that time on, unless they chose to pay their own railroad fare.
"What's good enough for me and my wife and daughter is good enough for the rest of you, I reckon," he said. "We travel by wagon to-night. Mary, you and Christie take the car of Juggernaut. You can take anybody else in with you that you like. I've noticed you don't want me around any more. Maybe you'll take this Jacky boy in with you."
He left the tent, laughing boisterously.
"Now is the time for me to use some of my money," said David, hastening to Mrs. Braddock's side. "I'll get back what Joey and Casey have. You shall not travel in those wagons. I protest against it. The rest of the performers have some of their wages left. They can tide over these bad times. But you have nothing. You are at his mercy. Don't say no, Mrs. Braddock. I mean to do it."
He had his way. Joey and Casey and Ruby produced, between them, nearly four hundred of his precious dollars. The generous boy promptly put the entire amount in Mrs. Braddock's hands.
"It is a loan," she murmured.
"Certainly," he said gravely.
"Ruby, you will go with us," she went on. "My husband must be made to understand that we are to thank you and Joey for this bit of luxury."
Joey Grinaldi sought out Braddock and told him of his determination to share his little store of savings with Mrs. Braddock and Christine. There was a scene, but the clown stood his ground.
"I suppose I can sleep in the gutter," raved Braddock.
"I don't give a 'ang where you sleep, Tom Braddock," shouted Joey, angry for the first time in years.
"Where's that Snipe kid?" demanded the other.
"He's to stay with me," announced Joey.
"The damned little sneak, he could save us a lot of trouble if he'd thaw out and hand over some of the money he's hiding. I'm going to have it out with him. He can't stay on here and let—"
"I wouldn't talk so much, Brad. Better keep a close tongue in that 'ead of yours," said the clown meaningly. Braddock looked at him in sudden apprehension. He began to wonder what the old clown suspected.
He changed his tactics. "If Dick Cronk was only here, I could borrow enough from him to get a place to sleep," he growled petulantly. "But, curse him, he hasn't been near us since that job in Granville, ten days ago."
When Joey left him he was cursing everything and everybody. On the way to the hotel Christine and David walked together. She clung very tightly to his arm. Leaving the grounds, she had whispered in his ear:
"David, I adore you—I just adore you."
"I'd die for you, Christine. That's how I feel toward you," he responded passionately.
A sweet shyness fell upon her. The chrysalis of girlish ignorance was dropping away; she was being exposed to herself in a new and glowing form. Something sweet and strange and grateful flashed hot in her blood; the glow of it amazed and bewildered her.
"Oh, David," she murmured timorously.
"My little Christine," he breathed, laying his hand upon hers. She sighed; her red lips parted in the soft, luxurious ecstasy of discovery; she breathed of a curiously light and buoyant atmosphere; she was walking on air. Little bells tinkled softly, but she knew not whence came the mysterious sound.
An amazing contentment came over them. They were very young, and the malady that had revealed itself so painlessly was an old one—as old as the world itself. Their hearts sang, but their lips were mute; they were drunk with wonder.
They lagged behind. Far ahead hurried the others, driven to haste by low rumbles of thunder and the warning splashes of raindrops. The drizzle of the gray, lowering afternoon had ceased, but in its place came ominous skies and crooning winds. Back on the circus lot men were working frantically to complete the task of loading before the storm broke over them. Everywhere people were scurrying to shelter. David and Christine loitered on the way, with delicious disdain for all the things of earth or sky.
A vivid flash of lightning, followed by a deafening roar of thunder in the angry sky, brought them back to earth. The raindrops began to beat against their faces. Sharp, hysterical laughter rose to their lips, and they set out on a run for the still distant hotel. The deluge came just as they reached the shelter of a friendly awning in front of a grocery store. The wide, old-fashioned covering afforded safe retreat. Panting, they drew up and ensconced themselves as far back as possible in the doorway.
She was not afraid of the storm. Life with the circus had made her quite impervious to the crash of thunder; the philosophy of Vagabondia had taught her that lightning is not dangerous unless it strikes. The circus man is a fatalist. A person dies when his time comes, not before. It is all marked down for him.
Of the two, David was certainly the more nervous. His arm was about her shoulders; her firm, slender body was drawn close to his. His clasp tightened as the timidity of inexperience gave way to confidence; an amazing sense of conquest, of possession took hold of him. He could have shouted defiance to the storm. He held her! This beautiful, warm, alive creature belonged to him!
"Are you afraid,—dearest?" he called, his lips close to her ear.
"Not a bit, David," she cried rapturously. "I love it. Isn't it wonderful?"
She turned her head on his shoulder. His lips swept her cheek. Before either of them knew what had happened their lips met—a frightened, hasty, timorous kiss that was not even prophetic of the joys that were to grow out of it.
"Oh, David, you must not do that!" cried the very maiden in her.
"Has any one ever kissed you before?" he demanded, fiercely jealous on a sudden.
She drew back, hurt, aghast.
"Why, David!" she cried.
He mumbled an apology.
"Christine," he announced resolutely, "I am going to marry you when you are old enough."
She gasped. "But, David—" she began, tremulous with doubt and perplexity.
"I know," he said as she hesitated; "you are afraid I'll not be cleared of this charge. But I am sure to be—as sure as there is a God. Then, when you are nineteen or twenty, I mean to ask you to be my wife. You are my sweetheart now—oh, my dearest sweet-heart! Christine, you won't let any one else come in and take my place? You'll be just as you are now until we are older and—"
"Wait, David! Let me think. I—I could be your wife, couldn't I? I am a Portman. I am good enough to—to be what you want me to be, am I not, David? You understand, don't you? Mother says I am a Portman. I am not common and vulgar, am I, David? I—"
"I couldn't love you if you were that, Christine. You are fit to be the wife of a—a king," he concluded eagerly.
"I have learned so much from you," she said, so softly he could barely hear the words.
"It's the other way round. You've taught me a thousand times more than you ever could learn from me," he protested. "I'm nobody. I've never seen anything of life."
"You are the most wonderful person in all this world—not even excepting the princes in the Arabian Nights."
"I'm only a boy," he said.
"I wouldn't love you if you were a man," she announced promptly. "David, I must tell mother that—that you have kissed me. You won't mind, will you?"
"We'll tell her together," he said readily.
"We—perhaps we'd better not tell father," she said with an effort.
The words had scarcely left her lips when a startling interruption came. A heavy body dropped from above, landing in the middle of the sidewalk not more than six feet from the doorway. Vivid flashes of lightning revealed to the couple the figure of a man standing upright before them, but looking in quite another direction. Christine's sharp little cry came as the first flash died away, but another followed in a second's time. The man was now facing the doorway, his body bent forward, his white face gleaming in the unnatural light. David had withdrawn his arms from about Christine and had planted himself in front of her. Pitchy darkness returned in the fraction of a second.
Distinctly they heard a laugh. Then out of the clatter and swish of driven water came the cheerful cry:
"Hello, Jack Snipe!"
"Who are you?" called out David.
"Ha! Who goes there, you mean. Always use the correct question, kid. How can I give the secret password unless you put it up to me right? Oh, I say! I didn't see you, Miss Christine. Geminy! Ain't this a pelter?"
"Why, it's Dick," cried David. "Where in the world did you drop from? The sky?"
The pickpocket laughed gleefully.
"Did I scare you? I guess it must have surprised you, me popping in here like a Punch and Judy figure, eh? You kind o' surprised me, too, I'll say that for you. Gee whiz, I didn't know anybody was here. Say, do you mind if I get back in there out o' the wind to light my pipe? I'm perishin' for a smoke."
They drew back into the corner, and the jovial rascal proceeded to strike match after match in the futile attempt to light his pipe, all the while standing directly in front of David and facing the street instead of sensibly turning his back toward it. With the flare of each match his face was illuminated briefly but clearly.
A more experienced observer than David would have grasped the significance of these maneuvers. But how was he to know that Ernie Cronk had been crouching in a sheltered doorway across the street, standing guard while his artful brother entered and ransacked the store whose awning now afforded him a comfortable refuge? And how was he to know that Ernie had glared out upon their tender love scene with eyes in which there was the most pitiable jealousy, the most implacable hatred? Dick Cronk, however, knew that his brother was over there and that he must have seen these two together in the flashes. Moreover, he knew that Ernie had been carrying a small derringer ever since his experience with the hoodlums earlier in the season.
That is why he stood before David and vainly tried to light his pipe.
"Why, you are perfectly dry," exclaimed Christine, touching his coat sleeve.
"Have you been here all the time?" demanded David indignantly.
"What do you call all the time? I was here before you came, if that'll help you any. But," he hastened to say, "I reckon I went away before you dropped in. Now don't ask questions. If you axes no questions I'll tell you no lies."
With the next flash of lightning he cast a furtive glance in the direction of the show window to their left. The heavy shutter was still open and banging noisily against the casing. A particularly brilliant flash a few moments later revealed to this sharp-eyed young man a huddled, black thing with a ghastly patch of white that he knew to be a face, in the doorway opposite.
"Where have you been for the past ten days, Dick? We've missed you. I've asked your brother time and again—"
"Do you no good to ask Ernie, Jack," said the pickpocket grimly. "He ain't his brother's keeper, remember that. I've been taking my vacation, that's all. My work was likely to become too confining, so I took a notion for a change of air."
A curious note of nervousness sounded in his voice. They were conscious of the fact that he was peering up and down the drenched, black street with quick, apprehensive eyes. Far below there was a lonely street lamp; another stood quite as far away in the opposite direction.
"The rain's lettin' up a bit, Jacky," he said in hurried tones. "You've got an umbrell'. Say, if I was you and Miss Christine I'd dig out for the hotel. It's only a block and a half."
"We'll wait a few minutes—"
Dick pressed his arm instantly and said: "Better go now, kid; better dig."
Christine's sharper wits grasped his meaning. The secret of his sudden appearance was revealed to her in a twinkling. She clutched David's arm once more.
"Yes, come, Dav—Jack. I don't mind the rain. Mother will be so anxious."
And then David understood.
"Why, Dick, you haven't been in—"
"Sh! You'll wake the guy that sleeps up there and he'll throw a bucket of water out on us for disturbin' him," said the other with quiet sarcasm. "Besides, this is no place for a young lady."
"You're right," cried David in no little trepidation. "Come, Christine!" He had looked uneasily down the street. "We can't stay here. If some one should happen to shout from the windows upstairs, we'd be mixed up in—"
"Say, Jack," said Dick, detaining him an instant, "come to Joey's room in half an hour. I've got something important to tell you. Good-night, Miss Christine. Sleep tight."
"Do be careful, Dick," she cried anxiously, over her shoulder.
He laughed jerkily. "The devil takes care of his deputies. Look to yourself. God don't always take such excellent care of his angels."
David and Christine hurried off down the street. They looked back once during a faint glow of lightning. Dick had disappeared.
While they were explaining their plight to Mrs. Braddock at the hotel entrance, Dick Cronk was leading his frenzied brother by back streets to the railroad yards. He had rushed across the street just in time to restrain Ernie in his blind rage. The hunchback, sobbing with jealousy, had started out to follow David, his pistol clutched to his misshapen breast.
All the way through the dark streets the cripple was moaning: "I'd have shot him only I was afraid of hittin' her. I couldn't stand it, Dick. He's got her."
"Don't be a fool, Ernie," his brother kept on repeating, greatly disturbed. "He'll be leaving the show before long. He won't stay after the truth comes out about that murder. Then maybe you'll—"
"Oh, she'll never look at me! Don't lie to me. I wish I'd 'a' shot when I had the chance."
"You'd ha' got me in a nice mess by doing that, Ernie. The police would ha' nabbed me coming out of the store and they'd ha' said I pinked him."
"I don't care. They couldn't ha' proved it on me," raged the hunchback triumphantly. "I'll get him some time, and don't you forget it. Say," with a sudden change of manner, "what did you pick up in there?"