“Ting, ling.That's how the bells ring,Ting, ling, pretty young thing.”
She paused, her hands clasped behind her head, and gazed at them with a brave, little smile. “Oh, it's going to be fine! Fine!”
“You don't know what you're doing,” said Douglas. He seized her roughly by the arm. Pain was making him brutal. “I won't LET you go! Do you hear me? I won't—not until you've thought it over.”
“I have thought it over,” Polly answered, meeting his eyes and trying to speak lightly. Her lips trembled. She could not bear for him to think her so ungrateful. She remembered his great kindness; the many thoughtful acts that had made the past year so precious to her.
“You've been awfully good to me, Mr. John.” She tried to choke back a sob. “I'll never forget it—never! I'll always feel the same toward you. But you mustn't ask me to stay. I want to get back to them that knew me first—to my OWN! Circus folks aren't cut out for parsons' homes, and I was born in the circus. I love it—I love it!” She felt her strength going, and cried out wildly: “I want Bingo! I want to go round and round the ring! I want the lights and the music and the hoops! I want the shrieks of the animals, and the rumble of the wheels in the plains at night! I want to ride in the big parade! I want to live and die—just die—as circus folks die! I want to go back! I want to go back!”
She put out one trembling hand to Jim and rushed quickly through the gate laughing and sobbing hysterically and calling to him to follow.
LONELY days followed Polly's desertion of the parsonage. Mandy went about her duties very quietly, feeling that the little comments which once amused the pastor had now become an interruption to thoughts in which she had no part. He would sit for hours with his head in his hands, taking no notice of what passed before him. She tried to think of new dishes to tempt his appetite, and shook her head sadly as she bore the untasted food back to the kitchen.
She sometimes found a portfolio of drawings lying open upon his study table. She remembered the zeal with which he had planned to remodel the church and parsonage, when he first came to them; how his enthusiasm had gradually died for lack of encouragement; and how he had at last put his books in a cupboard, where they grew dusty from long neglect. She marvelled at their reappearance now, but something in his set, far-away look made her afraid to inquire. Thus she went on from day to day, growing more impatient with Hasty and more silent with the pastor.
Mandy needed humor and companionship to oil the wheels of her humdrum life; there was no more laughter in the house, and she began to droop.
Polly had been away from the parsonage a month, when the complacency of the village was again upset by the arrival of the “Great American Circus.”
There were many callers at the parsonage that day, for speculation was now at fever heat about the pastor. “Would he try to see her? had he forgotten her? and what had he ever found in her?” were a few of the many questions that the women were asking each other. Now, that the cause of their envy was removed, they would gladly have reinstated the pastor as their idol; for, like all truly feminine souls, they could not bear to see a man unhappy without wishing to comfort him, nor happy unless they were the direct cause of his state. “How dare any man be happy without me?” has been the cry of each woman since Eve was created to mate with Adam.
Douglas had held himself more and more aloof from the day of Polly's disappearance. He expressed no opinion about the deacons or their recent disapproval of him. He avoided meeting them oftener than duty required; and Strong felt so uncomfortable and tongue-tied in his presence that he, too, was glad to make their talks as few as possible.
Nothing was said about the pastor's plans for the future, or about his continued connection with the church, and the inquisitive sisterhood was on the point of exploding from an over-accumulation of unanswered questions.
He delivered his sermons conscientiously, called upon his poor, listened to the sorrows, real and fancied, of his parishioners, and shut himself up with his books or walked alone on the hill behind the church.
He had been absent all day, when Mandy looked out on the circus lot for the dozenth time, and saw that the afternoon performance was closing. It had driven her to desperation to learn that Miss Polly was not in the parade that morning, and to know that the pastor had made no effort to find out about her. For weeks both she and Hasty had hoped that the return of the circus might bring Polly back to them; but now it was nearly night and there had been no word from her. Why didn't she come running in to see them, as Mandy had felt so sure she would? Why had the pastor stayed away on the hills all day?
Unanswered questions were always an abomination to Mandy, so finally she drew a quarter from the knotted gingham rag that held her small wad of savings, and told Hasty “to go long to de show and find out 'bout Miss Polly.”
She was anxiously waiting for him, when Deacon Strong knocked at the door for the second time that afternoon.
“Is Mr. Douglas back yet?' he asked.
“No, sah, he ain't,” said Mandy, very shortly. She felt that Strong and Elverson had been “a-tryin' to spy on de parson all day,” and she resented their visits more than she usually did.
“What time are you expectin' him?”
“I don't nebber spec' Massa Douglas till I sees him.”
Strong grunted uncivilly, and went down the steps. She saw from the window that he met Elverson in front of the church.
“Dey sure am a-meanin' trouble,” she mumbled.
The band had stopped playing; the last of the audience had straggled down the street. She opened the door and stood on the porch; the house seemed to suffocate her. What was keeping Hasty?
He came at last, but Mandy could tell from his gait that he brought unwelcome news.
“Ain't she dar?”
“She's wid 'em, all right,” said Hasty.
“Yuh seed her?”
“Naw, I didn't done SEED her.”
“What?”
“She want in de show.”
“What you jes' tell me?”
“She's a-trabbelin' wid 'em, Mandy, but she didn't done ride.”
“See heah, Hasty Jones, is dat ere chile sick?”
“I don' rightly know,” said Hasty. “A great big man, what wored clothes like a gemmen, comed out wid a whip in his hand and says as how he's 'bliged to 'nounce anudder gal in Miss Polly's place. An' den he says as how de udder gal was jes' as good, an' den everybody look disappinted like, an' den out comes de udder gal on a hoss an' do tricks, an' I ain't heard no more 'bout Miss Polly.”
“Why didn't you done ask somebody?”
“Warn't nobody ter ask but de man what wuz hurryin' ever'body to get out of de tent. I done ast him, but he say as 'didn't I git ma money's worth?' an' den ebberbody laugh, an' he shove me 'long wid de rest of de folks, an' here I is.”
“She's sick, dat's whatIsays,” Mandy declared, excitedly; “an' somebody's got to do somethin'!”
“I done all I knowed,” drawled Hasty, fearing that Mandy was regretting her twenty-five-cent investment.
“Go 'long out an' fix up dat ere kitchen fire,” was Mandy's impatient reply. “I got to keep dem vittels warm fer Massa John.”
She wished to be alone, so that she could think of some way to get hold of Polly. “Dat baby-faced mornin'-glory done got Mandy all wobbly 'bout de heart,” she declared to herself, as she crossed to the window for a sight of the pastor.
It was nearly dark when she saw him coming slowly down the path from the hill. She lighted the study-lamp, rearranged the cushions, and tried to make the room look cheery for his entrance. He stopped in the hall and hung up his hat. There was momentary silence. Would he shut himself in his room for the night, or would he come into the study? At last the door opened and Mandy hastened to place a chair for him.
“Ah's 'fraid you'se mighty tired,” she said.
“Oh, no,” answered Douglas, absently.
“Mebbe you'd like Mandy to be sarvin' your supper in here to-night. It's more cheerfuller.”
The side-showman was already beginning his spiel in the lot below. The lemonade venders{sic} and the popcorn sellers were heard crying their wares. Douglas did not answer her. She bustled from the room, declaring “she was jes' goin' ter bring him a morsel.”
He crossed to the window and looked out upon the circus lot. The flare of the torches and the red fire came up to meet his pale, tense face. “How like the picture of thirteen months ago,” he thought, and old Toby's words came back to him—“The show has got to go on.”
Above the church steeple, the moon was battling its way through the clouds. His eyes travelled from heaven to earth. There was a spirit of unreality in it all. Something made him mistrust himself, his very existence. He longed to have done with dreams and speculation, to feel something tangible, warm, and real within his grasp. “I can't go on like this!” he cried. “I can't!” He turned from the window and walked hurriedly up and down the room; indoors or out, he found no rest. He threw himself in the armchair near the table, and sat buried in thought.
Mandy came softly into the room. She was followed by Hasty, who carried a tray, laden with things that ought to have tempted any man. She motioned for Hasty to put the tray on the table, and then began arranging the dishes. Hasty stole to the window, and peeped out at the tempting flare of red fire.
When Douglas discovered the presence of his two “faithfuls” he was touched with momentary contrition. He knew that he often neglected to chat with them now, and he made an effort to say something that might restore the old feeling of comradeship.
“Have you had a hard day with the new gravel walk?” he asked Hasty, remembering that he had been laying a fresh path to the Sunday-school-room.
Hasty glanced uneasily at Mandy, afraid either to lie or tell the truth about the disposition she had made of his afternoon.
“Jes' you come eat yo' supper,” Mandy called to Douglas. “Don' yous worry your head 'bout dat lazy husban' ob mine. He ain' goin' ter work 'nuff to hurt hisself.” For an instant she had been tempted to let the pastor know how Hasty had gone to the circus and seen nothing of Polly; but her motherly instinct won the day and she urged him to eat before disturbing him with her own anxieties. It was no use. He only toyed with his food; he was clearly ill at ease and eager to be alone. She gave up trying to tempt his appetite, and began to lead up in a roundabout way to the things which she wished to ask.
“Dar's quite some racket out dar in de lot tonight,” she said; Douglas did not answer. After a moment, she went on: “Hasty didn't work on no walk to-day.” Douglas looked at her quizzically, while Hasty, convinced that for reasons of her own she was going to get him into trouble, was making frantic motions. “He done gone to de circus,” she blurted out. Douglas's face became suddenly grave. Mandy saw that she had touched an open wound.
“I jes' couldn't stan' it, Massa John. I HAD to find out 'bout dat angel chile.” There was a pause. She felt that he was waiting for her to go on.
“She didn't done ride to-day.”
He looked up with the eyes of a dumb, persecuted animal. “And de gemmen in de show didn't tell nobody why—jes' speaked about de udder gal takin' her place.”
“Why DIDN'T she ride?” cried Douglas, in an agony of suspense.
“Dat's what I don' know, sah.” Mandy began to cry. It was the first time in his experience that Douglas had ever known her to give way to any such weakness. He walked up and down the room, uncertain what to do.
Hasty came down from the window and tried to put one arm about Mandy's shoulders.
“Leab me alone, you nigga!” she exclaimed, trying to cover her tears with a show of anger that she did not feel; then she rushed from the room, followed by Hasty.
The band was playing loudly; the din of the night performance was increasing. Douglas's nerves were strained to a point of breaking. He would not let himself go near the window. He stood by the side of the table, his fists clenched, and tried to beat back the impulse that was pulling him toward the door. Again and again he set his teeth.
It was uncertainty that gnawed at him so. Was she ill? Could she need him? Was she sorry for having left him? Would she be glad if he went for her and brought her back with him? He recalled the hysterical note in her behaviour the day that she went away; how she had pleaded, only a few moments before Jim came, never to be separated from him. Had she really cared for Jim and for the old life? Why had she never written? Was she ashamed? Was she sorry for what she had done? What could it mean? He threw his hands above his head with a gesture of despair. A moment later, he passed out into the night.
JIM was slow to-night. The big show was nearly over, yet many of the props used in the early part of the bill were still unloaded.
He was tinkering absent-mindedly with one of the wagons in the back lot, and the men were standing about idly, waiting for orders, when Barker came out of the main tent and called to him sharply:
“Hey, there, Jim! What's your excuse to-night?”
“Excuse for what?” Jim crossed slowly to Barker.
“The cook tent was started half an hour late, and the side show top ain't loaded yet.”
“Your wagons is on the bum, that's what! Number thirty-eight carries the cook tent and the blacksmith has been tinkering with it all day. Ask HIM what shape it's in.”
“You're always stallin',” was Barker's sullen complaint. “It's the wagons, or the black-smiths, or anything but the truth.Iknow what's the matter, all right.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Jim, sharply.
“I mean that all your time's took up a-carryin' and a-fetchin' for that girl what calls you 'Muvver Jim.'”
“What have yer got to say about her?” Jim eyed him with a threatening look.
“I got a-plenty,” said Barker, as he turned to snap his whip at the small boys who had stolen into the back lot to peek under the rear edge of the “big top.” “She's been about as much good as a sick cat since she come back. You saw her act last night.”
“Yes,” answered Jim, doggedly.
“Wasn't it punk? She didn't show at ALL this afternoon—said she was sick. And me with all them people inside what knowed her, waitin' ter see 'er.”
“Give her a little time,” Jim pleaded. “She ain't rode for a year.”
“Time!” shouted Barker. “How much does she want? She's been back a month and instead o' bracin' up, she's a-gettin' worse. There's only one thing for me to do.”
“What's that?” asked Jim, uneasily.
“I'm goin' ter call her, and call her hard.”
“Look here, Barker,” and Jim squared his shoulders as he looked steadily at the other man; “you're boss here, and I takes orders from you, but if I catches you abusin' Poll, your bein' boss won't make no difference.”
“You can't bluff me,” shouted Barker.
“I ain't bluffin'; I'm only TELLIN' yer,” said Jim, very quietly.
“Well, you TELL her to get onto her job. If she don't she quits, that's all.” He hurried into the ring.
Jim took one step to follow him, then stopped and gazed at the ground with thoughtful eyes. He, too, had seen the change in Polly. He had tried to rouse her; it was no use. She had looked at him blankly. “If she would only complain,” he said to himself. “If she would only get mad, anything, anything to wake her.” But she did not complain. She went through her daily routine very humbly and quietly. She sometimes wondered how Jim could talk so much about her work, but before she could answer the question, her mind drifted back to other days, to a garden and flowers, and Jim stole away unmissed, and left her with folded hands and wide, staring eyes, gazing into the distance.
The memory of these times made Jim helpless to-night. He had gone on hoping from day to day that Barker might not notice the “let-down” in her work, and now the blow had fallen. How could he tell her?
One of the acts came tumbling out of the main tent. There was a moment's confusion, as clowns, acrobats and animals passed each other on their way to and from the ring, then the lot cleared again, and Polly came slowly from the dressing tent. She looked very different from the little girl whom Jim had led away from the parson's garden in a simple, white frock one month before. Her thin, pensive face contrasted oddly with her glittering attire. Her hair was knotted high on her head {a}nd intertwined with flowers and jewels. Her slender neck seemed scarcely able to support its burden. Her short, full skirt and low cut bodice were ablaze with white and coloured stones.
“What's on, Jim?” she asked.
“The 'Leap o' Death.' You got plenty a' time.”
Polly's mind went back to the girl who answered that call a year ago. Her spirit seemed very near to-night. The band stopped playing. Barker made his grandiloquent announcement about the wonderful act about to be seen, and her eyes wandered to the distant church steeple. The moonlight seemed to shun it to-night. It looked cold and grim and dark. She wondered whether the solemn bell that once called its flock to worship had become as mute as her own dead heart. She did not hear the whirr of the great machine inside the tent, as it plunged through space with its girl occupant. These things were a part of the daily routine, part of the strange, vague dream through which she must stumble for the rest of her life.
Jim watched her in silence. Her face was turned from him. She had forgotten his presence.
“Star gazin', Poll?” he asked at length, dreading to disturb her revery.
“I guess I was, Jim.” She turned to him with a little, forced smile. He longed to save her from Barker's threatened rebuke.
“How yer feelin' to-night?”
“I'm all right,” she answered, cheerfully
“Anythin' yer want?”
“Want?” she turned upon him with startled eyes. There was so much that she wanted, that the mere mention of the word had opened a well of pain in her heart.
“I mean, can I do anythin' for you?”
“Oh, of course not.” She remembered how little ANY ONE could do.
“What is it, Poll?” he begged; but she only turned away and shook her head with a sigh. He followed her with anxious eyes. “What made yer cut out the show to-day? Was it because you didn't want ter ride afore folks what knowed yer? Ride afore HIM, mebbe?”
“HIM?” Her face was white. Jim feared she might swoon. “You don't mean that he was——”
“Oh, no,” he answered, quickly, “of course not. Parsons don't come to places like this one. I was only figurin' that yer didn't want OTHER folks to see yer and to tell him how you was ridin'.” She did not answer.
“Was that it, Poll?” he urged.
“I don't know.” She stared into space.
“Was it?”
“I guess it was,” she said, after a long time.
“I knowed it,” he cried. “I was a fool to a-brung you back. Yer don't belong with us no more.”
“Oh, don't, Jim! don't! Don't make me feel I'm in the way here, too!”
“Here, too?” He looked at her in astonishment. “Yer wasn't in HIS way, was yer, Poll?”
“Yes, Jim.” She saw his look of unbelief and continued hurriedly. “Oh, I tried not to be. I tried so hard. He used to read me verses out of a Bible about my way being his way and my people his people, but it isn't so, Jim. Your way is the way you are born, and your people are the people you are born with, and you can't change it, Jim, no matter how hard you try.”
“YOU was changin' it,” he answered, savagely. “You was gettin' jes' like them people. It was me what took yer away and spoiled it all. You oughtn't to a come. What made yer, after yer said yer wouldn't?”
She did not answer. Strange things were going through the mind of the slow-witted Jim. He braced himself for a difficult question.
“Will yer answer me somethin' straight?” he asked.
“Why, of course,” she said as she met his gaze.
“Do you love the parson, Poll?”
She started.
“Is that it?”
Her lids fluttered and closed, she caught her breath quickly, her lips apart, then looked far into the distance.
“Yes, Jim, I'm afraid—that's it.” The little figure drooped, and she stood before him with lowered eyes, unarmed. Jim looked at her helplessly, then shook his big, stupid head.
“Ain't that hell?”
It seemed such a short time to Jim since he had picked her up, a cooing babe, at her dead mother's side. He watched the tender, averted face. Things had turned out so differently from what he had planned.
“And he didn't care about you—like that?” he asked, after a pause.
“No, not in that way.” She was anxious to defend the pastor from even the thought of such a thing. “He was good and kind always, but he didn't care THAT WAY. He's not like that.”
“I guess I'll have a talk with him,” said Jim, and he turned to go.
“Talk!” she cried.
He stopped and looked at her in astonishment. It was the first time that he had ever heard that sharp note in her voice. Her tiny figure was stiffened with decision. Her eyes were blazing.
“If you ever DARE to speak to him—about me, you'll never see me again.”
Jim was perplexed.
“I mean it, Jim. I've made my choice, and I've come back to you. If you ever try to fix up things between him and me, I'll run away—really and truly away—and you'll never, never get me back.”
He shuffled awkwardly to her side and reached apologetically for the little, clenched fist. He held it in his big, rough hand, toying nervously with the tiny fingers.
“I wouldn't do nothin' that you wasn't a-wantin', Poll. I was just a tryin' to help yer, only I—I never seem to know how.”
She turned to him with tear-dimmed eyes, and rested her hands on his great, broad shoulders, and he saw the place where he dwelt in her heart.
THE “Leap of Death” implements were being carried from the ring, and Jim turned away to superintend their loading.
Performers again rushed by each other on their way to and from the main tent.
Polly stood in the centre of the lot, frowning and anxious. The mere mention of the pastor's name had made it seem impossible for her to ride to-night. For hours she had been whipping herself up to the point of doing it, and now her courage failed her. She followed Barker as he came from the ring.
“Mr. Barker, please!”
He turned upon her sharply.
“Well, what is it NOW?”
“I want to ask you to let me off again to-night.” She spoke in a short, jerky, desperate way.
“What?” he shrieked. “Not go into the ring, with all them people inside what's paid their money a-cause they knowed yer?”
“That's it,” she cried. “I can't! I can't!”
“YER gettin' too tony!” Barker sneered. “That's the trouble with you. You ain't been good for nothin' since you was at that parson's house. Yer didn't stay there, and yer no use here. First thing yer know yer'll be out all 'round.”
“Out?”
“Sure. Yer don't think I'm goin' ter head my bill with a 'dead one,' do you?”
“I am not a 'dead one,'” she answered, excitedly. “I'm the best rider you've had since mother died. You've said so yourself.”
“That was afore yer got in with them church cranks. You talk about yer mother! Why, she'd be ashamed ter own yer.”
“She wouldn't,” cried Polly. Her eyes were flashing, her face was scarlet. The pride of hundreds of years of ancestry was quivering with indignation. “I can ride as well as I EVER could, and I'll do it, too. I'll do it to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?” echoed Barker. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I CAN'T go into that ring TO-NIGHT,” she declared, “and I won't.”
She was desperate now, and trading upon a strength beyond her own.
He looked at her with momentary indecision. She WAS a good rider—the best since her mother, as he had often told her. He could see this meant an issue. He felt she would be on her mettle to-morrow, as far as her work was concerned, if he left her alone to-night.
“All right,” he said, sullenly. “Yer can stay off to-night. I got the crowd in there, anyway, and I got their money. I'll let Eloise do a turn on Barbarian, but TO-MORROW you'd better show me your old act.”
“I'll show you!” she cried. “I'll show you!”
“Well, see that you do.” He crossed into the ring.
Polly stood where Barker had left her, white and tense. Jim came toward her from the direction of the wagons. He glanced at her uneasily. “What's he been a-sayin' ter you?”
“He says I can't ride any more.” Her lips closed tightly. She stared straight ahead of her. “He says I was no good to the people that took me in, and I'm no use here.”
“It's not so!” thundered Jim.
“No; it's not!” she cried. “I'll show him, Jim! I'll show him—to-morrow!” She turned toward the dressing tent; Jim caught her firmly by the wrist.
“Wait, Poll! You ain't ever goin' into the ring a-feelin' THAT WAY.” Her eyes met his, defiantly.
“What's the difference? What's the difference?” She wrenched her wrist quickly from him, and ran into the dressing tent laughing hysterically.
“And I brung her back to it,” mumbled Jim as he turned to give orders to the property men.
Most of the “first-half props” were loaded, and some of the men were asleep under the wagons. The lot was clear. Suddenly he felt some one approaching from the back of the enclosure. He turned and found himself face to face with the stern, solitary figure of the pastor, wrapped in his long, black cloak. The moonlight slipped through a rift in the clouds, and fell in a circle around them.
“What made you come here?” was all Jim said.
“I heard that Miss Polly didn't ride to-day. I was afraid she might be ill.”
“What's that to you?”
“She ISN'T ill?” Douglas demanded anxiously, oblivious to the gruffness in the big fellow's voice.
“She's all right,” Jim answered shortly as he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and avoided the pastor's burning gaze.
“And she's happy? she's content?”
“Sure.”
“I'm glad,” said Douglas, dully. He tried to think of some way to prolong their talk. “I've never heard from her, you know.”
“Us folks don't get much time to write.” Jim turned away and began tinkering with one of the wagons.
Douglas had walked up and down in front of the tents again and again, fighting against a desire to do the very thing that he was doing, but to no purpose, and now that he was here, it seemed impossible that he should go away so unsatisfied. He crossed to Jim and came determinedly to the point.
“Can't I see her, Jim?”
“It's agin the rules.” He did not turn.
There was another pause, then Douglas started slowly out of the lot.
“Wait a minute,” called Jim, as though the words had been wrung from him. The pastor came back with a question in his eyes.
“I lied to you.”
“She's NOT well, then?”
“Oh, yes, she's well enough. It ain't that; it's about her being happy.”
“She isn't?” There was a note of unconscious exultation in his voice.
“No. She AIN'T happy here, and she WAS happy WITH YOU.”
“Then, why did she leave me?”
“I don't know. She wasn't goin' ter do it at first. Somethin' must a-happened afterwards, somethin' that you an' me didn't know about.”
“We WILL know about it, Jim. Where is she?” His quick eye searched the lot. His voice had regained it's old command. He felt that he could conquer worlds.
“You can't do no good that way,” answered Jim. “She don't want ter see you again.”
“Why not?”
“I don't know, but she told me she'd run away if I ever even talked to you about her.”
“You needn't talk, Jim; I'll talk for myself. Where is she?”
“She'll be comin' out soon. You can wait around out here with me. I'll let you know in time.” He led the way through a narrow passage between the wagons.
Jim and Douglas had barely left the lot when Deacon Elverson's small, round head slipped cautiously around the corner of the dressing tent. The little deacon glanced exultantly about him. He was monarch of all he surveyed. It was very thrilling to stand here, on this forbidden ground, smelling the saw-dust, gazing at the big red wagons, studying the unprotected circus properties, and listening to the lightening tempo of the band.
“Did you see him?” shouted Strong, who had followed closely upon Elverson's heels.
The little deacon started. Strong was certainly a disturbing factor at times.
“Yes, I—I saw him.”
“Well?”
“He—he—didn't see HER.”
“What DID he do?” Strong was beside himself with impatience.
“He—he just talked to the big 'un, and went out that way.” Elverson nodded toward the wagons.
“I guess he ain't gone far,” sneered Strong. “He come over to this lot to see her, and he ain't goin' ter give up till he does it. You wait here; I'll take a look round.” He went quickly in the direction of the wagons.
Elverson needed no second invitation to wait. He was congratulating himself upon his good fortune, when he all but collided with a flying apparition, vanishing in the direction of the main tent. Sophisticated eyes would have seen only a rather stout acrobat clad in pink tights; but Elverson was not sophisticated, and he teetered after the flitting angel, even unto the forbidden portals of the “big top.”
He was peeping through the curtains which had fallen behind her, and was getting his first glimpse of the great, sawdust world beyond, when one of the clowns dashed from the dressing tent on his way to the ring.
The clown was late. He saw the limp coat tails of the deacon, who was three-quarters in the tent. Here was a chance to make a funny entrance. He grabbed the unsuspecting little man from the rear. The terrified deacon struck out blindly in all directions, his black arms and legs moving like centipede, but the clown held him firmly by the back and thrust him, head foremost, into the tent.
Strong returned almost immediately from his unsuccessful search for the pastor. He looked about the lot for Elverson.
“Hey, there, Elverson!” he called lustily. There was no response.
“Now where's he got to,” grumbled Strong. He disappeared quickly around the corner of the dressing tent, resolved to keep a sharp lookout for Douglas.
Elverson was thrust from the tent soon after, spitting sawdust and much discomfited by the laughing performers who followed him. His knees almost gave way beneath him when Barker came out of the ring, snapping his long, black whip.
“Get out of here, you bloke!” roared Barker. And Elverson “got.”
No one had remembered to tell the groom that Polly was not to ride to-night. So Bingo was brought out as usual, when their “turn” approached.
“Take him back, Tom,” Polly called from the entrance, when she learned that Bingo was waiting, “and bring Barbarian. I'm not going on to-night. Eloise is going to ride in my place.”
This was the second time to-day that Bingo had been led away without going into the ring. Something in his big, wondering eyes made Polly follow him and apologise. He was very proud, was Bingo, and very conscientious. He felt uneasy when he saw the other horses going to their work without him.
“Never mind, Bingo,” she said, patting his great, arched neck, “we'll show 'em to-morrow.” He rubbed his satiny nose against her cheek. “We'll make them SIT UP again. Barker says our act's no good—that I've let down. But it's not YOUR fault, Bingo. I've not been fair to you. I'll give you a chance to-morrow. You wait. He'll never say it again, Bingo! Never again!” She watched him go out of the lot, and laughed a little as he nipped the attendant on the arm. He was still irritated at not going into the ring.
Polly had nothing more to do to-night except to get into her street clothes. The wagons would soon be moving away. For a moment she glanced at the dark church steeple, then she turned to go inside the tent. A deep, familiar voice stopped her.
“Polly!”
She turned quickly. She could not answer. Douglas came toward her. He gazed at her in amazement. She drew her cape about her slightly clad figure. She seemed older to him, more unapproachable with her hair heaped high and sparkling with jewels. Her bodice of satin and lace shimmered through the opening of her cape. The moonlight lent mystery and indecision to her betinselled attire. The band was playing the andante for the balancing act.
She found strength at last to open her lips, but still no sound came from them. She and the pastor looked at each other strangely, like spirits newly met from far-apart worlds. She, too, thought her companion changed. He was older, the circles beneath his eyes were deeper, the look in their depths more grave.
“We were such close neighbours to-day, I—I rather thought you'd call,” he stammered. He was uncertain what he was saying—it did not matter—he was there with her.
“When you're in a circus there isn't much time for calling.”
“That's why I've come to call on you.” They might have been sheppherd and sheppherdess on a May-day wooing, for the halting way in which their words came.
“You're all right?” he went on. “You're happy?”
“Yes, very,” she said. Her eyes were downcast.
He did not believe her, the effort in her voice, her drawn, white face belied her words. How COULD he get the truth from her?
“Jim said you might not want to see me.”
She started.
“Has Jim been talking to you?”
“Yes, but I didn't let him stop me, for you told me the day you left that you'd never change—toward me. Have you, Poll?” He studied her, anxiously.
“Why, no, of course not,” she said, evasively.
“And you'll be quite frank when I ask you something?”
“Yes, of course.” She was growing more and more uneasy. She glanced about for a way of escape.
“Why did you leave me as you did?”
“I told you then.” She tried to cross toward the dressing tent.
He stepped quickly in front of her.
“You aren't answering FRANKLY, and you aren't happy.”
She was growing desperate. She felt she must get away, anywhere, anywhere.
He seized her small wrists and forced her to look at him.
“AndIam not happy without YOU, and I never, NEVER can be.” The floodgates were open, his eyes were aglow, he bent toward her eagerly.
“Oh, you mustn't,” she begged. “You MUSTN'T.”
“You've grown so close,” he cried. “So close!” She struggled to be free. He did not heed her. “You know—you must know what I mean.” He drew her toward him and forced her into his arms. “You're more precious to me than all else on this earth.”
For the first time he saw the extreme pallor on her face. He felt her growing limp and lifeless in his arms. A doubt crossed his mind. “If I am wrong in thinking you feel as I do, if you honestly care for all this,” he glanced about at the tents, “more than for any life that I can give you, I shan't interfere. You'll be going on your way in an hour. I'll say good-bye and God bless you; but if you do care for me, Polly,” he was pleading now, “if you're NOT happy here—won't you come back to me? Won't you, Polly?”
She dared not meet his eyes, nor yet to send him away. She stood irresolute. The voice of Deacon Strong answered for her.
“So! You're HERE, are you?”
“Yes, Deacon Strong, I'm here,” answered the pastor, as he turned to meet the accusing eyes of the deacon, who had come quickly from behind the dressing tent.
“As for you, miss,” continued Strong, with an insolent nod toward Polly, “I might have known how you'd keep your part of the bargain.”
“Bargain?” echoed Douglas. “What bargain?”
“Oh, please, Deacon Strong, please. I didn't mean to see him, I didn't, truly.” She hardly knew what she was saying.
“What bargain?” demanded Douglas sternly.
“She told me that you and her wasn't ever goin' ter see each other agin,” roared Strong. “If I'd a-knowed she was goin' to keep on with this kind o' thing, you wouldn't er got off so easy.”
“So! That's it!” cried Douglas. It was all clear to him now. He recalled everything, her hysterical behaviour, her laughter, her tears. “It was you who drove that child back to this.” He glanced at Polly. The narrow shoulders were bent forward. The nervous little fingers were clasping and unclasping each other. Never before had she seemed so small and helpless.
“Oh, please, Mr. John, please! Don't make him any worse!”
“Why didn't you tell me?” he demanded.
“It would have done no good,” she sobbed. “Oh, why—why won't you leave me alone?”
“It would have done all the good in the world. What right had he to send you back to this?”
“I had every right,” said Strong, stubbornly.
“What?” cried Douglas.
“It was my duty.”
“Your duty? Your narrow-minded bigotry!”
“I don't allow no man to talk to me like that, not even my parson.”
“I'm NOT your parson any longer,” declared Douglas. He faced Strong squarely. He was master of his own affairs at last. Polly clung to him, begging and beseeching.
“Oh, Mr. John! Mr. John!”
“What do you mean by that?” shouted Strong.
“I mean that I stayed with you and your narrow-minded congregation before, because I believed you needed me. But now this girl needs me more. She needs me to protect her from just such injustice as yours.”
“You'd better be protectin' YOURSELF. That's my advice to you.”
“I can do that WITHOUT your advice.”
“Maybe you can find another church with that circus ridin' girl a-hangin' 'round your neck.”
“He's right,” cried Polly. “You couldn't.” She clung to the pastor in terrified entreaty. “You COULDN'T get another church. They'd never, never forgive you. It's no use. You've got to let me go! you've GOT to!”
“Listen, Polly.” He drew her toward him. “God is greater than any church or creed. There's work to be done EVERYWHERE—HIS work.”
“You'll soon find out about that,” thundered Strong.
“So I will,” answered Douglas, with his head thrown high. “This child has opened a new world to me; she has shown me a broader, deeper humanity; she and I will find the way together.”
“It won't be an easy one, I'll promise you that.” Strong turned to go.
“I'm not looking for the easy way!” Douglas called after him, then he turned to draw Polly's arm within his; but Polly had slipped from his side to follow the deacon.
“Oh, please, Deacon Strong, please!” she pleaded. “You won't go away like that. He'll be all right if you'll only wait. I'm NOT coming back. I'm not—honestly. I'm going on with the show, to-night, and I'm going this time FOREVER.”
“You are going to stay here with me,” cried Douglas.
“No, no, Mr. John. I've made up my mind, and I won't be to blame for your unhappiness.” She faced him firmly now. “I don't belong to your world, and I don't want to try any more. I'm what he called me—I'm a circus riding girl. I was born in the circus, and I'll never change. That's my work—riding, and it's yours to preach. You must do your work, and I'LL do MINE.”
She started toward the ring. Eloise and Barbarian were already waiting at the entrance.
“Eloise!” She took one step toward her, then stopped at the sound of Barker's voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called. “Although we are obliged to announce that our star rider, Miss Polly, will not appear to-night, we offer you in her place an able substitute, Mademoiselle Eloise, on her black, untamed horse, Barbarian.”
Eloise put her hands on the horse's back to mount.
“No! No!” cried Polly.
The other girl turned in astonishment at the agony in her voice.
“Polly!”
“Wait, Eloise! I'M going to ride!”
“You can't, not Barbarian! He don't know your turn.”
“So much the better!” She seized the bridle from the frightened girl's hand.
“Polly!” shouted Douglas. He had followed her to the entrance.
“I must! I will!”
She flew into the ring before he could stop her. He took one step to follow her.
“You'd better let her alone and get out o' here,” said Strong. His voice was like a firebrand to Douglas. He turned upon him, white with rage.
“You drove her to this.” His fists were clenched. He drew back to strike.
Jim came from behind the wagons just in time to catch the uplifted arm.
“Leave HIM to ME, this ain't no parson's job.” The pastor lowered his arm, but kept his threatening eyes on the deacon's face.
“Where's Poll?” asked Jim.
“In there! Douglas pointed toward the main tent without turning his head. He was still glaring at the deacon, and breathing hard.
“What?” cried Jim, in alarm. He faced about and saw Eloise. He guessed the truth. A few quick strides brought him to the entrance curtains. He threw them back and looked into the ring.
“My God! Why don't Barker stop her?”
“What is it?” called Douglas. He forgot the deacon in his terror at Jim's behaviour, and Strong was able to slip away, unnoticed.
“She's goin' ter ride! She's goin' ter ride Barbarian!”
Douglas crossed to his side and looked.
Polly was springing onto the back of Barbarian. He was a poorly trained horse, used by the other girl for more showy, but less dangerous feats than Polly's.
“She's goin' through her regular turn with him, she's tryin' ter break her neck,” said Jim. “She wants ter do it. It's your fault!” he cried, turning upon Douglas with bloodshot eyes. He was half insane, he cared little whom he wounded.
“Why can't we stop her?” cried Douglas, unable to endure the strain. He took one step inside the entrance.
“No, no; not that!” Jim dragged him back roughly. “If she sees you now, it will be the end.” They watched in silence. “She's over the first part,” Jim whispered, at last.
Douglas drew back, his muscles tense, as he watched the scene inside the ring. Eloise stood at the pastor's side, horror-stricken at Polly's reckless behaviour. She knew Barbarian. It was easy to guess the end.
“She's comin' to the hoops,” Jim whispered, hoarsely.
“Barbarian don't know that part, I never trained him,” the other girl said.
Polly made the first leap toward the hoops. The horse was not at fault; it was Polly. She plunged wildly, the audience started. She caught her footing with an effort. One, two, three hoops were passed. She threw herself across the back of the horse and hung, head downward, as he galloped around the ring. The band was playing loudly, the people were cheering. She rose to meet the last two hoops.
“She's swayin',” Jim shrieked in agony. “She's goin' to fall.” He covered his face with his hands.
Polly reeled and fell at the horse's side. She mounted and fell again. She rose and staggered in pursuit.
“I can't bear it,” groaned Douglas. He rushed into the ring, unconscious of the thousands of eyes bent upon his black, ministerial garb, and caught the slip of a girl in his arms just as she was about to sink fainting beneath the horse's hoofs.
Barker brought the performance to a halt with a crack of his whip. The audience stood on tiptoe. White-faced clowns and gaily attired acrobats crowded around Polly and the pastor.
Douglas did not see them. He had come into his own.
“He's bringin' her out,” whispered Eloise, who still watched at the entrance. Jim dared not look up, his head was still in his hands.
“Is it over?” he groaned.
“I don't know. I can't tell yet.” She stepped aside as Douglas came out of the tent, followed by a swarm of performers. He knelt on the soft grass and rested Polly's head upon his knee. The others pressed about them. It seemed to Douglas that he waited hours; then her white lids quivered and opened and the colour crept back to her lips.
“It's all right, Jim!” called one of the men from the crowd. “She's only fainted.” The big fellow had waited in his tracks for the verdict.
Polly's eyes looked up into those of the parson—a thrill shot through his veins.
“It was no use, was it?” She shook her head with a sad little smile. He knew that she was thinking of her failure to get out of his way.
“That's because I need you so much, Polly, that God won't let you go away from me.” He drew her nearer to him, and the warm blood that shot to her cheeks brought back her strength. She rose unsteadily, and looked about her. Jim came toward her, white and trembling.
“All right, Poll?”
“Oh, Muvver Jim!” She threw herself into his arms and clung to him, sobbing weakly.
No one could ever remember just how the audience left the big top that night, and even Barker had no clear idea of how Jim took down the tents, loaded the great wagons, and sent the caravan on its way.
When the last wagon was beginning to climb the long, winding road of the moon-lit hill, Jim turned to Polly, who stood near the side of the deserted ring. His eyes travelled from her to the parson, who waited near her. She was in her street clothes now, the little brown Quakerish dress which she had chosen to wear so much since her return from the parsonage.
“I guess I won't be makin' no mistake this time,” he said, and he placed her hand in that of the parson.
“Good-bye, Muvver Jim,” faltered Polly.
He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips. A mother's spirit breathed through his kiss.
“I'm glad it's like this,” he said, then turned away and followed the long, dotted line of winding lights disappearing slowly over the hill.
Her eyes travelled after him.
Douglas touched the cold, little hand at her side.
“I belong with them,” she said, still gazing after Jim and the wagons.
“You belong with me,” he answered in a firm, grave voice, and something in the deep, sure tones told her that he was speaking the truth. She lifted one trembling hand to his shoulder, and looked up into his face.
“Whither thou goest, will I go, where thou diest, will I die.”
He drew her into his arms.
“The Lord do so to me and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.”
THE END