When Polly understood that Toby was ACTUALLY GONE, it seemed to her that she could never laugh again. She had been too young to realise the inevitableness of death when it came to her mother, and now she could scarcely believe that Toby would never, never come back to her. She felt that she must be able to DRAG him back, that she could not go on without him. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for all his care of her. She thought of the thousand little things that she might have done for him. She longed to recall every impatient word to him. His gentle reproachful eyes were always haunting her. “You must come back, Toby!” she cried. “You must!”
It was only when body and mind had worn themselves out with yearning, that a numbness at last crept over her, and out of this grew a gradual consciousness of things about her and a returning sense of her obligation to others. She tried to answer in her old, smiling way and to keep her mind upon what they were saying, instead of letting it wander away to the past.
Douglas and Mandy were overjoyed to see the colour creeping back to her cheeks.
She joined the pastor again in his visits to the poor. The women of the town would often see them passing and would either whisper to each other, shrug their shoulders, or lift their eyebrows with smiling insinuations; but Polly and the pastor were too much absorbed in each other to take much notice of what was going on about them.
They had not gone for their walk to-day, because Mandy had needed Polly to help make ready for the social to be held in the Sunday-school-room to-night.
Early in the afternoon, Polly had seen Douglas shut himself up in the study, and she was sure that he was writing; so when the village children stopped in on the way from school for Mandy's new-made cookies, she used her customary trick to get them away. “Tag—you're it!” she cried, and then dashed out the back door, pursued by the laughing, screaming youngsters. Mandy followed the children to the porch and stood looking after them, as the mad, little band scurried about the back yard, darted in and out amongst the trees, then up the side of the wooded hill, just beyond the church.
The leaves once more were red and yellow on the trees, but to-day the air was warm, and the children were wearing their summer dresses. Polly's lithe, girlish figure looked almost tall by comparison with the children about her. She wore a plain, simple gown of white, which Mandy had helped her to make. It had been cut ankle-length, for Polly was now seventeen. Her quaint, old-fashioned manner, her serious eyes, and her trick of knotting her heavy, brown hair low on her neck, made her seem older.
Mandy waited until the children had disappeared over the hill, then began bustling about looking for the step-ladder which Hasty had left under the vines of the porch. It had been a busy day at the parsonage. A social always meant perturbation for Mandy. She called sharply to Hasty, as he came down the path which made a short cut to the village:
“So's you'se back, is you?” she asked, sarcastically.
“Sure, I'se back,” answered Hasty, good-naturedly, as he sank upon an empty box that had held some things for the social, and pretended to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.
“Masse John done send you to de post office two hours ago,” said Mandy, as she took the letters and papers from his hand. “Five minutes is plenty ob time for any nigger to do dat job.”
“I done been detained,” Hasty drawled.
“You'se always 'tained when dar's any work a-goin' on,” Mandy snapped at him.
“Whar's Miss Polly?” Hasty asked, ignoring Mandy's reference to work.
“Nebber you mind 'bout Miss Polly. She don't want you. Jes' you done fetch that step-ladder into de Sunday-school-room.”
“But I wants her,” Hasty insisted. “I'se been on very 'ticular business what she ought to know 'bout.”
“Business?” she repeated. “What kind ob business?”
“I got to fix de Sunday-school-room,” said Hasty, as he perceived her growing curiosity.
“You come heah, nigger!” Mandy called, determined that none of the village doings should escape her. “Out wid it!”
“Well, it's 'bout de circus,” Hasty answered? seating himself again on the box. “Dey's showin' in Wakefield to-night, and next month dey's comin' here.”
“Dat same circus what Miss Polly used to be wid?” Mandy's eyes grew large with curiosity.
“De very same,” and Hasty nodded mysteriously.
“How you know dat?” Mandy was uncertain whether to believe him.
“'Cause da's a big, red wagon downtown wid de name ob de show painted on it. It's de advertisin' one what goes ahead wid all de pictures what dey pastes up.”
“And you been hangin' 'roun' dat wagon?”
“I done thought Miss Polly might want to know.”
“See here, lazy nigger, don' you go puttin' no circus notions into Miss Polly's head. She don' care no more 'bout dem things since her Uncle Toby done die. She done been satisfied right whar she am. Jes' you let her be.”
“I ain't done nothin',” Hasty protested.
“Nebber do do nothin',” growled Mandy. “Go long now, and get a-work. Mos' four o'clock and dat Sunday-school-room ain't ready yet.”
Hasty picked up the empty box and the step-ladder and went out through the gate. He had barely disappeared when a peal of laughter was heard from the hillside, and before Mandy could get out of the way, the youngsters came tumbling down the path again.
“Lawsy, lawsy,” she gasped, as Polly circled around her, dodging the children. “You'se cheeks is red as pineys, honey.”
“Tag! you're it!” Polly cried, as she touched the widow's auburn-haired offspring on the sleeve. There was much wailing when Willie passed the tag to little Jennie, the smallest girl in the crowd.
“I won't play no more,” she sobbed; “'cause I's always it.”
To comfort her, Polly began to sing an old circus song that the children had learned to love; and the little ones huddled about her in a circle to hear of the wonderful “Van Amberg” who used to “walk right into the lion's cage and put his head in the lion's mouth.” The children were in a state of nerves that did credit to Polly as an entertainer, when Hasty broke in upon the song.
“When you get a minute I want ter tell yer somethin'.”
“I have one right now.” And turning to the eager mites at her side, Polly told them to run along into the grove, and that she'd come pretty soon to teach them a new game.
The youngsters went screaming and laughing on their way, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she threw herself down on the rustic seat that encircled the elm tree.
“What is it, Hasty?” she asked, suspecting that he was in trouble with Mandy.
“It's 'bout de circus,” Hasty informed her bluntly.
“The circus?” She rose and crossed to him quickly.
“It's in Wakefield—en' nex' month it's a-comin' here.”
“Here?” Polly gasped.
“I thought you'd want ter know,” said Hasty, little surprised at her lack of enthusiasm.
“Yes, of course.” She turned away and pretended to look at the flowers.
“Don' yous tell Mandy I been talkin' 'bout dat circus,” said Hasty, uneasily. He was beginning to fear that he had made a mistake; but before Polly could answer, Mandy came out of the house, carrying baskets and food, which Hasty was to take to the Sunday-school-room. She looked at the girl's troubled face and drooping shoulders in surprise.
“What make you look so serious, Honey?”
“Just thinking,” said Polly absently.
“My! Don' you look fine in your new dress!” She was anxious to draw the girl out of her reverie.
“Do you like it?” Polly asked eagerly, forgetting her depression of a moment before. “Do you think Mr. John will like it?”
“Masse John? Mercy me! He nebber takes no notice ob dem things. I done got a bran', spankin' new allapaca, one time, an' do you think HE ebber seed it? Lawsy, no! We might jes' well be goin' roun' like Mudder Eve for all dat man know.” Polly looked disappointed. “But udder folks sees,” Mandy continued, comfortingly, “an' you certainly look mighty fine. Why, you's just as good now as you was afore you got hurled!”
“Yes, I'm well now and able to work again.” There was no enthusiasm in her tone, for Hasty's news had made her realise how unwelcome the old life would be to her.
“Work! You does work all de time. My stars! de help you is to Massa John.”
“Do you think so? Do I help him?—Do I?”
“Of course you does. You tells him things to do in Sunday-school what the chillun like, an' you learns him to laugh and 'joy himself, an' a lot of things what nobody else could a-learned 'im.”
“You mustn't say 'learned him,'” Polly corrected; “you must say 'taught him.' You can't 'learn' anybody anything. You can only 'teach' them.”
“Lordy sakes! I didn't know dat.” She rolled her large eyes at her young instructress, and saw that Polly looked very serious. “She's gwine ter have anudder one a dem 'ticlar spells” thought Mandy, and she made ready to protest.
“See here, ain't you nebber——”
She was interrupted by a quick “Have you never” from Polly.
“It dun make no difference what you say,” Mandy snapped, “so long as folks understands you.” She always grew restive under these ordeals; but Polly's firm controlled manner generally conquered.
“Oh, yes, it does,” answered Polly. “I used to think it didn't; but it does. You have to say things in a certain way or folks look down on you.”
“I's satisfied de way I be,” declared Mandy, as she plumped herself down on the garden bench and began to fidget with resentment.
“The way I am,” Polly persisted, sweetly.
“See here, chile, is day why you been a-settin' up nights an' keepin de light burnin'?”
“You mustn't say 'setting up;' you must say 'sitting up.' Hens set——”
“So do I,” interrupted Mandy; “I's doin' it NOW.” For a time she preserved an injured silence, then turned upon Polly vehemently. “If I had to think ob all dat ere foolishness eber' time I open my mouth, I'd done been tongue-tied afore I was born.”
“I could teach you in no time,” volunteered Polly, eagerly.
“I don't want to be teached,” protested Mandy, doggedly. “Hast Jones says I's too smart anyhow. Men don't like women knowin' too much—it skeers 'em. I's good enough for my old man, and I ain't a-tryin' to get nobody else's,” Mandy wound up flatly.
“But he'd like you all the better,” persisted Polly, laughing.
“I don' WANT to be liked no better by NO nigger,” snapped Mandy. “I's a busy woman, I is.” She made for the house, then curiosity conquered her and she came back to Polly's side. “See here, honey, whose been l'arnin' you all dem nonsense?”
“I learn from Mr. Douglas. I remember all the things he tells me, and at night I write them down and say them over. Do you see this, Mandy?” She took a small red book from her belt and put it into Mandy's black chubby fists.
“I see some writin', if dat's what you mean,” Mandy answered, helplessly.
“These are my don'ts,” Polly confided, as she pointed enthusiastically to worn pages of finely written notes.
“You'se WHAT, chile?”
“The things I mustn't do or say.”
“An' you'se been losin' yoah beauty sleep for dem tings?” Mandy looked incredulous.
“I don't want Mr. John to feel ashamed of me,” she said with growing pride.
“Well, you'd catch Mandy a-settin' up for——”
“Oh, oh! What did I tell you, Mandy?” Polly pointed reproachfully to the reminder in the little red book. It was a fortunate thing that Willie interrupted the lesson at this point, for Mandy's temper was becoming very uncertain. The children had grown weary waiting for Polly, and Willie had been sent to fetch her. Polly offered to help Mandy with the decorations, but Willie won the day, and she was running away hand in hand with him when Douglas came out of the house.
“Wait a minute!” he called. “My, how fine you look!” He turned Polly about and surveyed the new gown admiringly.
“He did see it! He did see it!” cried Polly, gleefully.
“Of course I did. I always notice everything, don't I, Mandy?”
“You suah am improvin' since Miss Polly come,” Mandy grunted.
“Come, Willie!” called the girl, and ran out laughing through the trees.
“What's this?” Douglas took the small book from Mandy's awkward fingers, and began to read: “'Hens set—'” He frowned.
“Oh, dem's jes' Miss Polly's 'don'ts,'” interrupted Mandy, disgustedly.
“Her 'don'ts'?”
“She done been set—sit—settin' up nights tryin' to learn what you done tole her,” stuttered Mandy.
“Dear little Polly,” he murmured, then closed the book and put it into his pocket.
DOUGLAS was turning toward the house when the Widow Willoughby came through the wicker gate to the left of the parsonage, carrying bunting for the social. She was followed by Miss Perkins with a bucket of pickles, which Mandy promptly placed on top of Mrs. Elverson's ice cream. The women explained that they had come to put the finishing touches to the decorations. If anything was needed to increase Mandy's dislike of the widow, it was this announcement.
Mrs. Willoughby was greatly worried because her children had not been home since the afternoon school session. Upon learning that they were with Polly, she plainly showed her displeasure; and Douglas dispatched Mandy for them. She saw that her implied distrust of Polly had annoyed him, and she was about to apologise, when two of the deacons arrived on the scene, also carrying baskets and parcels for the social.
Strong led the way. He always led the way and always told Elverson what to think. They had been talking excitedly as they neared the parsonage, for Strong disapproved of the recent changes which the pastor had made in the church service. He and Douglas had clashed more than once since the baseball argument, and the deacon had realised more and more that he had met a will quite as strong as his own. His failure to bend the parson to his way of thinking was making him irritable, and taking his mind from his business.
“Can you beat that!” he would exclaim as he turned away from some disagreement with Douglas, his temper ruffled for the day.
Polly was utterly unconscious of the unfriendly glances cast in her direction as she came running into the garden, leading the widow's two children.
She nodded gaily to Julia Strong, who was coming through the gate, then hurried to Mrs. Willoughby, begging that the children be allowed to remain a little longer. She was making up a new game, she said, and needed Willie and Jennie for the set.
“My children do not play in promiscuous games,” said the widow, icily.
“Oh, but this isn't pro-pro-pro”—Polly stammered. “It's a new game. You put two here, and two here, and——”
“I don't care to know.” The widow turned away, and pretended to talk to Julia.
“Oh!” gasped Polly, stunned by the widow's rebuff.
She stood with bowed head in the centre of the circle. The blood flew from her cheeks, then she turned to go.
Douglas stepped quickly to her side. “Wait a minute,” he said. She paused, all eyes were turned upon them. “Is this a game that grown-ups can play?”
“Why, yes, of course.”
“Good! Then I'll make up your set. I need a little amusement just now. Excuse me,” he added, turning to the deacons. Then he ran with her out through the trees.
The deacons and the women stared at each other, aghast.
“Well, what do you think of that?” said Mrs. Willoughby, as the flying skirts of the girl and the black figure of the man disappeared up the path.
“I think it's scandalous, if you are talking to me,” said Miss Perkins. “The idea of a full-grown parson a-runnin' off to play children's games with a circus ridin' girl!”
“She isn't such a child,” sneered Julia.
“It's ENOUGH to make folks talk,” put in Mrs. Willoughby, with a sly look at the deacons.
“And me a-waitin' to discuss the new church service,” bellowed Strong.
“And me a-waiting to give him Mrs. Elverson's message,” piped Elverson.
“The church bore all this in silence so long as that girl was sick,” snapped Miss Perkins. “But now she's perfectly well, and still a-hanging on. No wonder folks are talking.”
“Who's talking?” thundered Strong.
“Didn't you know?” simpered Mrs. Willoughby, not knowing herself nor caring, so long as the suspicion grew.
“Know what?” yelled the excited deacon. Mrs. Willoughby floundered. Miss Perkins rushed into the breach.
“Well, ifIwas deacon of this church, it seems to me I'd know something about what's going on in it.”
“What IS goin' on?” shrieked the now desperate deacon.
The women looked at him pityingly, exchanged knowing glances, then shook their heads at his hopeless stupidity.
Strong was not accustomed to criticism. He prided himself upon his acuteness, and was, above all, vain about his connection with the church. He looked from one woman to the other. He was seething with helpless rage. The little deacon at his side coughed nervously. Strong's pent up wrath exploded. “Why didn't YOU tell me, Elverson, that people was a-talkin',” he roared in the frightened man's ear.
Elverson sputtered and stammered, but nothing definite came of the sounds; so Strong again turned to Miss Perkins:
“What is going on?” he demanded.
The spinster shrugged her shoulders and lifted her eyes heavenward, knowing that nothing could so madden the deacon as this mysterious inference of things too terrible to mention. She was right. Strong uttered a desperate “Bah!” and began pacing up and down the garden with reckless strides.
Mrs. Willoughby watched him with secret delight, and when he came to a halt, she wriggled to his side with simpering sweetness.
“What COULD folks say?” she asked. “A minister and a young circus riding girl living here like this with no one to—” She found no words at this point and Strong, now thoroughly roused, declared that the congregation should have no further cause for gossip, and went out quickly in search of Douglas.
When Strong was gone, Elverson looked at the set faces of the women, and attempted a weak apology for the pastor. “I dare say the young man was very lonely—very—before she came.”
“Lonely?” snapped Miss Perkins. “Well, if HE was LONELY,Ididn't know it.”
The deacon excused himself nervously, and went to join Strong.
The women gathered up their buntings, and retired with bland smiles to the Sunday-school-room, feeling that they had accomplished enough for the time being.
Strong and Elverson crossed the yard, still in search of the pastor. They turned at the sound of fluttering leaves and beheld Douglas, hatless, tearing down the path. Strong called to him, but Douglas darted quickly behind the hedge. The deacons looked at one another in speechless astonishment. Presently the silence was broken by the distant voice of Polly counting from one to one hundred. The secret was out! The pastor, a leader of the church, was playing hide-and-seek.
“Mr. Douglas!” shouted Strong, when his breath had returned.
“Hush, hush!” whispered Douglas, looking over the hedge. He peeped cautiously about him, then came toward the men with a sigh of relief. “It's all right. She has gone the other way.”
“It'll be a good thing for you if she never comes back,” said Strong, and Douglas's quick ear caught an unpleasant meaning in his tone.
“What's that?” the pastor asked, in a low, steady voice.
“We don't like some of the things that are going on here, and I want to talk to you about 'em.”
“Very well, but see if you can't talk in a lower key.”
“Never mind about the key,” shouted Strong, angrily.
“But I DO mind.” Something in his eyes made the deacon lower his voice.
“We want to know how much longer that girl is goin' to stay here?”
“Indeed! And why?” The colour was leaving Douglas's face, and his jaw was becoming very square.
“Because she's been here long enough.”
“I don't agree with you there.”
“Well, it don't make no difference whether you do or not. She's got to go.”
“Go?” echoed Douglas.
“Yes, sir-e-bob. We've made up our minds to that.”
“And who do you mean by 'we'?”
“The members of this congregation,” replied Strong, impatiently.
“Am I to understand that YOU are speaking for THEM?” There was a deep frown between the young pastor's eyes. He was beginning to be perplexed.
“Yes, and as deacon of this church.”
“Then, as deacon of this church, you tell the congregation for me that that is MY affair.”
“Your affair!” shouted Strong. “When that girl is living under the church's roof, eating the church's bread!”
“Just one moment! You don't quite understand. I am minister of this church, and for that position I receive, or am supposed to receive, a salary to live on, and this parsonage, rent free, to live in. Any guests that I may have here are MY guests, and NOT guests of the church. Remember that, please.”
There was an embarrassing silence. The deacons recalled that the pastor's salary WAS slightly in arrears. Elverson coughed meekly. Strong started.
“You keep out of this, Elverson!” he cried. “I'm running this affair and I ain't forgetting my duty nor the parson's.”
“I shall endeavour to do MY duty as I see it,” answered Douglas, turning away and dismissing the matter.
“Your duty is to your church,” thundered Strong.
“You're right about that, Deacon Strong'” answered Douglas, wheeling about sharply, “and my duty to the church is reason enough for my acting exactly as I am doing in this case.”
“Is your duty to the church the ONLY reason you keep that girl here?”
“No, there are other reasons.”
“I thought so.”
“You've heard her story—you MUST have heard. She was left with me by an old clown who belonged in the circus where she worked. Before he died he asked me to look after her. She has no one else. I shall certainly do so.”
“That was when she was hurt. She's well now, and able to go back where she came from. Do you expect us to have our young folks associatin' with a circus ridin' girl?”
“So, that's it!” cried the pastor, with a pitying look. “You think this child is unfit for your homes because she was once in a circus. For some reason, circus to you spells crime. You call yourself a Christian, Deacon Strong, and yet you insist that I send a good, innocent girl back to a life which you say is sinful. I'm ashamed of you, Strong—I'm ashamed of you!”
“That talk don't do no good with me,” roared Strong. He was desperate at being accused of an unchristian attitude.
“I ain't askin' you to send her back to the circus. I don't care WHERE you send her. Get her away from HERE, that's all.”
“Not so long as she wishes to stay.”
“You won't?” Strong saw that he must try a new attack. He came close to Douglas and spoke with a marked insinuation. “If you was a friend to the girl, you wouldn't want the whole congregation a-pointin' fingers at her.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you're living here alone with her and it looks bad—bad for the girl, and bad for YOU—and folks is talkin'.”
“Are you trying to tell me that my people are evil-minded enough to think that I—” Douglas stopped. He could not frame the question. “I don't believe it,” he concluded shortly.
“You'll be MADE to believe it if you don't get rid of that girl.”
“Do YOU believe it?” He turned upon the little man at his side! “Do you believe it, Elverson?”
Elverson had been so accustomed to Strong monopolising the conversation, that he had become hopelessly lost as the discussion went on, and the sudden appeal to him all but paralysed his power of speech. He was still gurgling and sputtering when Strong interrupted, impatiently.
“It makes no difference whether we believe it or not. We're going to do our duty by the church, and that girl must leave or——”
“Or I must.” Douglas pieced out Strong's phrase for himself. “That threat doesn't frighten me at all, deacon. After what you have said, I should refuse to remain in this church”—the deacon stepped forward eagerly—“were it not that I realise more than ever before how much you need me, how much you ignorant, narrow-minded creatures need to be taught the meaning of true Christianity.” The deacon was plainly disappointed.
“Is it possible?” gasped Elverson, weakly.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” asked Strong, when he could trust himself to speak again.
“I shall do what is best for Miss Polly,” said the pastor quietly but firmly.
He turned away to show that the interview was at an end. Strong followed him. Douglas pointed to the gate with a meaning not to be mistaken. “Good afternoon, deacon.”
Strong hesitated. He looked at the pastor, then at the gate, then at the pastor again. “I'll go,” he shouted; “but it ain't the end!” He slammed the gate behind him.
“Quite so, quite so,” chirped Elverson, not having the slightest idea of what he was saying. He saw the frigid expression on the pastor's face, he coughed behind his hat, and followed Strong.
Douglas dropped wearily onto the rustic bench. He sat with drooped head and unseeing eyes. He did not hear Polly as she scurried down the path, her arms filled with autumn leaves. She glanced at him, dropped the bright-coloured foliage, and slipped quickly to the nearest tree. “One, two, three for Mr. John,” she cried, as she patted the huge, brown trunk.
“Is that you, Polly?” he asked absently.
“Now, it's your turn to catch me,” she said, lingering near the tree. The pastor was again lost in thought. “Aren't you going to play any more?” There was a shade of disappointment in her voice. She came slowly to his side.
“Sit here, Polly,” he answered gravely, pointing to a place on the bench. “I want to talk to you.”
“Now, I've done something wrong,” she pouted. She gathered up her garlands and brought them to a place near his feet, ignoring the seat at his side. “You might just as well tell me and get it over.”
“You couldn't do anything wrong,” he answered, looking down at her.
“Oh, yes, I could—and I've done it—I can see it in your face. What is it?”
“What have you there?” he asked, trying to gain time, and not knowing how to broach the subject that in justice to her must be discussed.
“Some leaves to make garlands for the social,” Polly answered more cheerfully. “Would you mind holding this?” She gave him one end of a string of leaves.
“Where are the children?”
“Gone home.”
“You like the children very much, don't you, Polly?” Douglas was striving for a path that might lead them to the subject that was troubling him.
“Oh, no, I don't LIKE them, I LOVE them.” She looked at him with tender eyes.
“You're the greatest baby of all.” A puzzled line came between his eyes as he studied her more closely. “And yet, you're not such a child, are you, Polly? You're quite grown up, almost a young lady.” He looked at her from a strange, unwelcome point of view. She was all of that as she sat at his feet, yearning and slender and fair, at the turning of her seventeenth year.
“I wonder how you would like to go way?” Her eyes met his in terror. “Away to a great school,” he added quickly, flinching from the very first hurt that he had inflicted; “where there are a lot of other young ladies.”
“Is it a place where you would be?” She looked up at him anxiously. She wondered if his “show” was about to “move on.”
“I'm afraid not,” Douglas answered, smiling in spite of his heavy heart.
“I wouldn't like any place without you,” she said decidedly, and seemed to consider the subject dismissed.
“But if it was for your GOOD,” Douglas persisted.
“It could never be for my good to leave you.”
“But just for a little while,” he pleaded. How was she ever to understand? How could he take from her the sense of security that he had purposely taught her to feel in his house?
“Not even for a moment,” Polly answered, with a decided shake of her head.
“But you must get ahead in your studies,” he argued.
She looked at him anxiously. She was beginning to be alarmed at his persistence.
“Maybe I've been playing too many periscous games.”
“Not periscous, Polly, promiscuous.”
“Pro-mis-cuous,” she repeated, haltingly. “What does that mean?”
“Indiscriminate.” He rubbed his forehead as he saw the puzzled look on her face. “Mixed up,” he explained, more simply.
“Our game wasn't mixed up.” She was thinking of the one to which the widow had objected. “Is it promiscuous to catch somebody?”
“It depends upon whom you catch,” he answered with a dry, whimsical smile.
“Well, I don't catch anybody but the children.” She looked up at him with serious, inquiring eyes.
“Never mind, Polly. Your games aren't promiscuous.” She did not hear him. She was searching for her book.
“Is this what you are looking for?” he asked, drawing the missing article from his pocket.
“Oh!” cried Polly, with a flush of embarrassment. “Mandy told you.”
“You've been working a long time on that.”
“I thought I might help you if I learned everything you told me,” she answered, timidly. “But I don't suppose I could.”
“I can never tell you how much you help me, Polly.”
“Do I?” she cried, eagerly.
“I can help more if you will only let me. I can teach a bigger class in Sunday-school now. I got to the book of Ruth to-day.”
“You did?” He pretended to be astonished. He was anxious to encourage her enthusiasm.
“Um hum!” She answered solemnly. A dreamy look came into her eyes. “Do you remember the part that you read to me the first day I came?” He nodded. He was thinking how care-free they were that day. How impossible such problems as the present one would have seemed then. “I know every bit of what you read by heart. It's our next Sunday-school lesson.”
“So it is.”
“Do you think now that it would be best for me to go away?” She looked up into his troubled face.
“We'll see, we'll see,” he murmured, then tried to turn her mind toward other things. “Come now, let's find out whether you DO know your Sunday-school lesson. How does it begin?” There was no answer. She had turned away with trembling lips. “And Ruth said”—he took her two small hands and drew her face toward him, meaning to prompt her.
“Entreat me not to leave thee,” she pleaded. Her eyes met his. His face was close to hers. The small features before him were quivering with emotion. She was so frail, so helpless, so easily within his grasp. His muscles grew tense and his lips closed firmly. He was battling with an impulse to draw her toward him and comfort her in the shelter of his strong, brave arms. “They shan't!” he cried, starting toward her.
Polly drew back, overawed. Her soul had heard and seen the things revealed to each of us only once. She would never again be a child.
Douglas braced himself against the back of the bench.
“What was the rest of the lesson?” he asked in a firm, hard voice.
“I can't say it now,” Polly murmured. Her face was averted; her white lids fluttered and closed.
“Nonsense, of course you can. Come, come, I'll help you.” Douglas spoke sharply. He was almost vexed with her and with himself for the weakness that was so near overcoming them. “And Ruth said, 'Entreat me not to leave thee——'”
“'Or to return from following after thee.'” She was struggling to keep back the tears. “'For whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my' “—She stopped.
“That's right, go on,” said Douglas, striving to control the unsteadiness in his own voice.
“Where thou diest, will I die'”—her arms went out blindly.
“Oh, you won't send me away, will you?” she sobbed. “I don't want to learn anything else just—except—from you.” She covered her face and slipped, a little, broken heap at his feet.
In an instant the pastor's strong arms were about her, his stalwart body was supporting her. “You shan't go away. I won't let you—I won't! Do you hear me, Polly? I won't!”
Her breath was warm against his cheek. He could feel her tears, her arms about him, as she clung to him helplessly, sobbing and quivering in the shelter of his strong embrace. “You are never going to leave me—never!”
A new purpose had come into his life, the realisation of a new necessity, and he knew that the fight which he must henceforth make for this child was the same that he must make for himself.
“I'se goin' into de Sunday-school-room to take off dat ere widow's finishin' touches,” said Mandy, as she came down the steps.
“All right!” called Douglas. “Take these with you, perhaps they may help.” He gathered up the garlands which Polly had left on the ground. His eyes were shining, he looked younger than Mandy had ever seen him.
Polly had turned her back at the sound of Mandy's voice and crossed to the elm tree, drying her tears of happiness and trying to control her newly awakened emotions. Douglas felt intuitively that she needed this moment for recovery, so he piled the leaves and garlands high in Mandy's arms, then ran into the house with the light step of a boy.
“I got the set-sit-settin' room all tidied up,” said Mandy as she shot a sly glance at Polly.
“That's good,” Polly answered, facing Mandy at last and dimpling and blushing guiltily.
“Mos' de sociable folks will mos' likely be hangin' roun' de parsonage to-night, 'stead ob stayin' in de Sunday-school-room, whar dey belongs. Las' time dat ere Widow Willoughby done set aroun' all ebenin' a-tellin' de parson as how folks could jes' eat off'n her kitchen floor, an' I ups an' tells her as how folks could pick up a good, squar' meal off'n MANDY'S floor, too. Guess she'll be mighty careful what she says afore Mandy to-night.” She chuckled as she disappeared down the walk to the Sunday-school-room.
Polly stood motionless where Mandy had left her. She hardly knew which way to turn. She was happy, yet afraid. She felt like sinking upon her knees and begging God to be good to her, to help her. She who had once been so independent, so self-reliant, now felt the need of direction from above. She was no longer master of her own soul, something had gone from her, something that would never, never come again. While she hesitated, Hasty came through the gate looking anxiously over his shoulder.
“Well, Hasty?” she said, for it was apparent that Hasty had something important on his mind.
“It's de big one from de circus,” he whispered, excitedly.
“The big one?”
“You know—De one what brung you.”
“You don't mean—?” Polly's question was answered by Jim himself who had followed Hasty quickly through the gate. Their arms were instantly about each other. Jim forgot Hasty and every one in the world except Polly, and neither of them noticed the horrified Miss Perkins and the Widow Willoughby, who had been crossing the yard on their way from the Sunday-school-room with Julia.
“You're just as big as ever,” said Polly, when she could let go of Jim long enough to look at him. “You haven't changed a bit.”
“You've changed enough for both of us.” He looked at the unfamiliar long skirts and the new way of doing her hair. “You're bigger, Poll; more grown up like.”
“Oh, Jim!” She glanced admiringly at the new brown suit, the rather startling tie, and the neat little posy in Jim's buttonhole.
“The fellows said I'd have to slick up a bit if I was a-comin' to see you, so as not to make you ashamed of me. Do you like 'em?” he asked, looking down approvingly at his new brown clothes.
“Very much.” For the first time Jim noticed the unfamiliar manner of her speech. He began to feel self-conscious. A year ago she would have said, “You bet!” He looked at her awkwardly. She hurried on: “Hasty told me you were showing in Wakefield. I knew you'd come to see me. How's Barker and all the boys?” She stopped with a catch in her throat, and added more slowly: “I suppose everything's different, now that Toby is gone.”
“He'd a-liked to a-seen you afore he cashed in,” Jim answered; “but maybe it was just as well he didn't. You'd hardly a-knowed him toward the last, he got so thin an' peeked like. He wasn't the same after we lost you, nobody was, not even Bingo.”
“Have you still got Bingo?” she asked, through her tears.
“Yep, we got him,” drawled Jim, “but he ain't much good no more. None of the other riders can get used to his gait like you was. There ain't nobody with the show what can touch you ridin', there never will be. Say, mebbe you think Barker won't let out a yell when he sees yer comin' back.” Jim was jubilant now, and he let out a little yell of his own at the mere thought of her return. He was too excited to notice the look on Polly's face. “Toby had a notion before he died that you was never a-comin' back, but I told him I'd change all that once I seed yer, and when Barker sent me over here to-day to look arter the advertisin', he said he guessed you'd had all you wanted a' church folks. 'Jes' you bring her along to Wakefield,' he said, 'an' tell her that her place is waitin' for her,' and I will, too.” He turned upon Polly with sudden decision. “Why, I feel jes' like pickin' yer up in my arms and carryin' you right off now.”
“Wait, Jim!” She put one tiny hand on his arm to restrain him.
“I don't mean—not—to-day—mebbe”—he stammered, uncertainly, “but we'll be back here a-showin' next month.”
“Don't look at me now,” Polly answered, as the dog-like eyes searched her face, “because I have to say something that is going to hurt you, Jim.”
“You're comin', ain't yer, Poll?” The big face was wrinkled and care-worn with trouble.
“No, Jim,” she replied in a tone so low that he could scarcely hear her.
“You mean that you ain't NEVER comin' back?” He tried to realise what such a decision might mean to him.
“No, Jim.” She answered tenderly, for she dreaded the pain that she must cause the great, good-hearted fellow. “You mustn't care like that,” she pleaded, seeing the blank desolation that had come into his face. “It isn't because I don't love you just the same, and it was good of Barker to keep my place for me, but I can't go back.”
He turned away; she clung to the rough, brown sleeve. “Why, Jim, when I lie in my little room up there at night”—she glanced toward the window above them—“and everything is peaceful and still, I think how it used to be in the old days, the awful noise and the rush of it all, the cheerless wagons, the mob in the tent, the ring with its blazing lights, the whirling round and round on Bingo, and the hoops, always the hoops, till my head got dizzy and my eyes all dim; and then the hurry after the show, and the heat and the dust or the mud and the rain, and the rumble of the wheels in the plains at night, and the shrieks of the animals, and then the parade, the awful, awful parade, and I riding through the streets in tights, Jim! Tights!” She covered her face to shut out the memory. “I couldn't go back to it, Jim! I just couldn't!” She turned away, her face still hidden in her hands. He looked at her a long while in silence.
“I didn't know how you'd come to feel about it,” he said doggedly.
“You aren't ANGRY, Jim?” She turned to him anxiously, her eyes pleading for his forgiveness.
“Angry?” he echoed, almost bitterly. “I guess it couldn't ever come to that a-tween you an' me. I'll be all right.” He shrugged his great shoulders. “It's just kinder sudden, that's all. You see, I never figured on givin' yer up, and when you said you wasn't comin' back, it kinder seemed as though I couldn't see nothin' all my life but long, dusty roads, and nobody in 'em. But it's all right now, and I'll just be gettin' along to the wagon.”
“But, Jim, you haven't seen Mr. Douglas,” Polly protested, trying to keep him with her until she could think of some way to comfort him.
“I'll look in on him comin' back,” said Jim, anxious to be alone with his disappointment. He was out of the gate before she could stop him.
“Hurry back, won't you, Jim? I'll be waiting for you.” She watched him going quickly down the road, his fists thrust into his brown coat pockets, and his hat pulled over his eyes. He did not look back, as he used to do, to wave a parting farewell, and she turned toward the house with a troubled heart. She had reached the lower step when Strong and Elverson approached her from the direction of the church.
“Was that feller here to take you back to the circus?” demanded Strong.
She opened her lips to reply, but before she could speak, Strong assured her that the congregation wouldn't do anything to stop her if she wished to go. He saw the blank look on her face. “We ain't tryin' to pry into none of your private affairs,” he explained; “but my daughter saw you and that there feller a makin' up to each other. If you're calculatin' to run away with him, you'll save a heap of trouble for the parson by doin' it quick.”
“The parson!”
“YOU can't blame the congregation for not wantin' him to keep you here. You got sense enough to see how it looks. HE'D see it, too, if he wasn't just plain, bull-headed. Well he'd better get over his stubbornness right now, if he don't we'll get another minister, that's all.”
“Another minister? You don't mean—?” It was clear enough now. She recalled Douglas's troubled look of an hour ago. She remembered how he had asked if she couldn't go away. It was this that he meant when he promised not to give her up, no matter what happened. In an instant she was at the deacon's side pleading and terrified. “You wouldn't get another minister! Oh, please, Deacon Strong, listen to me, listen! You were right about Jim, he DID come to get me and I am going back to the circus—only you won't send Mr. Douglas away, you won't! Say you won't!” She was searching his eyes for mercy. “It wasn't HIS fault that I kept staying on. He didn't know how to get rid of me. He DID try, he tried only to-day.”
“So he's comin' 'round,” sneered Strong.
“Yes, yes, and you won't blame him any more, will you?” she hurried on anxiously. “You'll let him stay, no matter what he does, if I promise to go away and never, never come back again?”
“I ain't holdin' no grudge agin him,” Strong grumbled. “He talks pretty rough sometimes, but he's been a good enough minister. I ain't forgettin' that.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Strong, thank you. I'll get my things; it won't take a minute.” She was running up the steps when a sudden thought stopped her. She returned quickly to Strong. “We'd better not let him know just yet. You can tell him afterward. Tell him that I ran away—Tell him that——”
She was interrupted by Douglas, who came from the house. “Hello, Strong, back again?” he asked, in some surprise. Polly remained with her eyes fixed upon the deacon, searching for some way of escape. The pastor approached; she burst into nervous laughter. “What's the joke?” Douglas asked.
“It's only a little surprise that the deacon and I are planning.” She tried to control the catch in her voice. “You'll know about it soon, won't he, deacon? Good afternoon, Mr. Strong!” She flew into the house, laughing hysterically.
Douglas followed her to the steps with a puzzled frown. It was unlike Polly to give way to her moods before others. “Have you gentlemen changed your minds about the little girl staying on?” he asked, uneasily.
“It's all right now,” said Strong, seating himself with a complacent air.
“All right? How so?” questioned Douglas, more and more puzzled by the deacon's evident satisfaction.
“Because,” said Strong, rising and facing the pastor, “because your circus-ridin' gal is goin' to leave you of her own accord.”
“Have you been talking to that girl?” asked Douglas, sternly.
“I have,” said Strong, holding his ground.
“See here, deacon, if you've been browbeating that child, I may forget that I'm a minister.” The knuckles on Douglas's large fists grew whiter.
“She's goin', I tell yer, and it ain't because of what I said either. She's goin' back to the circus.”
“I don't believe you.”
“You would a-believed me if you'd seen the fellow that was just a-callin' on her, and her a-huggin' and a-kissin' of him and a-promisin' that she'd be a-waitin' for him here when he come back.”
“You lie!” cried Douglas, taking a step toward the retreating deacon.
“There's the fellow now,” cried Strong, as he pointed to the gate. “Suppose you ask him afore yer call me a liar.”
Douglas turned quickly and saw Jim approaching. His face lighted up with relief at the sight of the big, lumbering fellow.
“How are yer, Mr. Douglas?” said Jim, awkwardly.
“You've seen Polly?” asked Douglas, shaking Jim cordially by the hand.
“Yes, I've seen her.”
“The deacon here has an idea that Polly is going back to the circus with you.” He nodded toward Strong, almost laughing at the surprise in store for him.
“Back to the circus?” asked Jim.
“Did she say anything to you about it?” He was worried by the bewilderment in Jim's manner.
Before Jim could reply, Polly, who had reached the steps in time to catch the last few words, slipped quickly between them. She wore her coat and hat, and carried a small brown satchel.
“Of course I did, didn't I, Jim?” she said, turning her back upon the pastor and motioning to Jim not to answer. Douglas gazed at her in astonishment.
“What do you mean?” he asked in a hoarse, strained voice. He glanced at the coat and hat. “Where are you going?”
Polly avoided his eyes and continued nervously to Jim.
“What made you come back? Why didn't you wait for me down the street? Now, you've spoiled everything.” She pretended to be very vexed with him. The big fellow looked puzzled. He tried to protest, but she put a warning finger to her lips and pressed the little brown satchel into his hand. “It's no use,” she went on hurriedly. “We might as well tell them everything now.” She turned to Douglas and pretended to laugh. “You have found us out.”
The deacons were slightly uneasy; the frown on Douglas's forehead was deepening.
“Oh, see how serious he looks,” she teased, with a toss of her head toward the grim-visaged pastor.
“Is this some trick?” he demanded, sternly.
“Don't be angry,” she pleaded. “Wish me luck.”
She held out one small hand; he did not take it. She wavered, then she felt the eyes of the deacons upon her. Courage returned and she spoke in a firm, clear voice: “I am going to run away.”
Douglas stepped before her and studied her keenly.
“Run away?” he exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes, to the circus with Jim.”
“You couldn't DO such a thing,” he answered, excitedly. “Why, only a moment ago you told me you would never leave me.”
“Oh, but that was a moment ago,” she cried, in a strained, high voice. “That was before Jim came. You see, I didn't know HOW I felt until I saw Jim and heard all about my old friends, how Barker is keeping my place for me, and how they all want to see me. And I want to see them, and to hear the music and the laughter and the clown songs—Oh, the clown songs!” She waltzed about, humming the snatch of melody that Mandy had heard the morning that Polly first woke in the parsonage.