The Rose in the Ring

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"But, father, please, I--I am getting too big," sobbed Christine.

"Too big!" he roared. "Great Scot! Why, you little whipper-snapper,
you're just beginning to get big enough to look well in 'em. Too big!
Say, you're just getting a shape that's worth noticin'. I suppose that
peanut aristocrat friend of yours has told you it ain't swell or
proper to wear tights. He'll get his back broke some of these days, if
he puts ideas into that silly head of yours. Too big! Say what's the
matter with you, Christine? Why, they're just beginning to talk about
what a fine shape--"

"Thomas Braddock!" exclaimed his wife furiously. The girl had dropped
down on one of the seats, burying her flushed face in her arms.

"Well, confound it," he mumbled, vaguely conscious of a shamed sense
of the old manhood. "I didn't mean to upset her like that. But, lookee
here, Mary, I don't want no more of this nonsense about her doing a
side-saddle menage act. She's a world beater at the other thing. I
won't listen to this guff. That ends it. You go on doing this work
with Tom Sacks, Christie. I don't give a rap whether the Jenison 'Joy'
likes it or not."

Christine sprang to her feet, her face convulsed.

"I shall ask Colonel Grand to help me. He owns part of the show. His
interest and mother's together are greater than yours--"

"Christine!" cried her mother, stunned.

His face went grayish white; the cigar hung loosely in his parted
lips, and a thin stream of saliva oozed from the opposite corner. He
tried to speak but could not. She unconsciously had struck a blow that
hurt to his innermost, neglected soul.

"I'll show you who's boss of this show," he managed to articulate at
last. Suddenly his knees gave way under him. He sagged heavily
forward, dropping to the board seat. With one last desperate, stricken
glare in his eyes, he lowered his head to his arms. A mighty sob of
utter humiliation rent his body.

Mary Braddock hesitated for an instant, then impulsively laid her hand
on her husband's shoulder. A wave of pity for this wretch surged into
her heart.

"Don't, Thomas! Be a man! Everything will be well again, boy, if
you'll only make a stand for yourself. I will help you--I will always
help you, Tom. You know I--"

He shook off her pitying hand and struggled to his feet. Without a
glance at her or at their terrified daughter, he flung himself from
the tent and tore across the lot as though pursued by demons. By the
time he found Colonel Grand and David in the animal tent, however, his
blind rage had dwindled to ugly resentment; the overwhelming shame his
own child had brought to the surface shrank back into the narrow
selfishness from which, perhaps, it had sprung.

Five minutes before, he had wanted to kill. Now he was ready to
compromise.

"Grand," he said hoarsely, "I'm going to sell out--I'm going to get
out of this. I'm going to Cincinnati to-night and look up Barnum's
man. He's ready to buy."

Colonel Grand eyed him shrewdly. He could see that something had
shaken the man tremendously. The Colonel believed in strong measures.
He knew precisely how to meet this man's impulses. In his time he had
seen hundreds of desperate men.

"Tom, you're drunk," he announced coldly. "When you are sober you'll
kick yourself for the thought. Go and lie down awhile. I won't talk
with you while you're in this condition."

"Drunk?" gasped Braddock. "Bob, so help me, I'm not drunk," he almost
whined.

"Then you must be crazy," observed the other, walking away.

David saw an opportunity to escape the company of both. He was edging
away when Braddock stopped him.

"Say, you! I want to give you a bit of advice. If you go to putting
high-sounding notions in Christie's head, I'll break every bone in
your body. If you don't like the way she dresses in the ring, why do
you look at her all the time?"

Further utterance on his part, or any effort David may have
contemplated in resenting his attack, was prevented by the appearance
of Ruby Noakes, who came running up from the main-top, waving a
newspaper in her hand and crying out in the wildest excitement:

"David! David! Have you heard? Have you seen it? We've been looking
for you everywhere. Here! Look! It's to-day's _Enquirer!_ See what's
happened! Your uncle!"

The vanguard of the "parade" had reached the lot. Cages came creaking
through the wide aperture at the end, and were wheeled skillfully into
place by expert drivers. Gayly dressed horsemen trotted through. Every
one was shouting to David.

His ears rang, everything went black before him. He could not seize
the paper that Ruby held before his eyes, nor were his eyes quite
capable of reading the sharp, characteristic headlines that stood out
before him in the first column of the _Enquirer._ The letters
danced impishly, as if to confuse him further. Jenison--Jenison--
Jenison everywhere! That was all he could see, all he could grasp.

Dick Cronk's prophecy had been fulfilled.

His uncle Frank Jenison was dead. Some one was shouting it in his ear.
There had been a deathbed confession. He was no longer a fugitive! He
was exonerated--he was free!

He laughed hysterically and pressed the damp sheet to his lips. Ruby
Noakes threw her arms about his neck and kissed him for joy. The
voices of the half hundred people crowding about him buzzed in his
ears. They were shaking hands with him, slapping his back and laughing
with him, although he did not know that he laughed.

Above the hum of eager voices rose one that was discordant, hoarse
with passion.

"Clear out! Skip, I say! All of you!"

Thomas Braddock was shoving the glad performers about as if they were
tenpins, raging like the lions which roared their surprise at this
unseemly hubbub in front of the cages.

From sheer excitement, David's head was reeling; his senses began to
slip away; his legs were tottering.

Suddenly the crowd fell away. One man was facing him. The unconscious
smile was still on the boy's lips as he looked into the convulsed face
of Braddock. The power to dodge the blow aimed at his face had gone
with his wits. He only knew that Christine's father was striking; he
could only wait, with hazy indifference, for the blow to land.

"I won't have any disobedience here," roared the frantic manager, as
he struck out in his bestial rage.

"I guess that'll stop it."

David was lying at his feet, stunned by the savage blow.

"When I say a thing I mean it," shouted Braddock, turning to the
stupefied crowd. "He can't hold a jubilee in this here animal tent.
Who owns this show, anyway?"

He drew back his foot to kick the prostrate boy. Half a dozen women
screamed in terror.

"Don't do that, Braddock!" cried a level voice in his ear.

He whirled to face Colonel Bob Grand.

"If you kick that boy I'll shoot you," said the Colonel almost
impassively.

"Do I own this show or not?" was all that Braddock could howl.

"Get him out of here," said Grand, turning to the angry circle of men.
"Sober him up or turn him over to the police."

"What!" choked out Tom Braddock, his eyes bulging. "You say this to
me!"

"See here, Braddock, I kept your wife and daughter outside. They
didn't see this cowardly trick of yours. You may have to explain to
them why you did it. You can't explain to the rest of these people. We
don't like brutes."

A dozen men crowded forward with threatening mien. Tom Braddock shrank
back in mortal terror.

"Don't jump on me, boys--don't! I--I'll go out. I'll go peaceable. Let
me get out where there's air. I must have been crazy."

He almost ran to the sidewall and crept into the open air. As he slunk
off among the wagons, he felt himself overwhelmed by a sudden sense of
desolation, a sickening realization that he had no friends, and, worse
than all this,--that no one feared him!

A curious acknowledgment of his own degradation came with the stealthy
impulse to go back later on and search for the stub of cigar that had
dropped from his mouth during the encounter.

In the dressing-tent, a few minutes after the proprietor's brutal
exhibition, David Jenison sat in the center of a wondering,
superstitious group. Not one, but nearly all of them attributed his
good fortune to the working of some spell peculiarly brought about by
the influence of certain "signs." The champion bareback rider recalled
that David had found a horseshoe no longer ago than ten days. The
Iron-jawed woman substituted the black cat charm, while Mademoiselle
Denise held out for the virtues of occasional encounters with Ernie
Cronk, the hunchback, whose hump he must have touched surreptitiously,
no doubt.

Only Joey and Ruby and Casey looked wise and said nothing. Dick was
the luck-piece that brought it all about.

David sat on a trunk, holding a wet towel to his red, swollen cheek.
He had been steadied by the advice of these good friends, all of whom
urged him for the sake of others to attempt no violent return for the
blow Braddock had given him. Never was mortal so sore at heart as he,
but he read wisdom in their argument.

"He ain't responsible," said Joey, putting the whole of his summing up
in a single phrase.

The great news had finally found a clear lodgment in David's brain. He
had listened to the reading of the newspaper story by Ruby Noakes. It
was now very plain to him that his present vicissitudes were at an
end. The joy and relief that filled his soul were counterbalanced to
some extent by the fact that Mrs. Braddock and Christine had not come
up to congratulate him. He could not understand this and was hurt.

It is not necessary to repeat the newspaper account in full. The
sensational story took up columns in the paper; the history of the
case was repeated from the murder of old Mr. Jenison to the final
tragedy. Considerable space and speculation were given to the unhappy
accusation of the grandson, who had disappeared as if from the face of
the earth. It was the opinion of the paper, as well as of the officers
of the law, that the proud young man, unable to face the cruel
disgrace and injustice, had made way with himself.

It was announced in heavy black type that his county would not rest
until the body of the last of the Jenisons was found and laid away
with the greatest ceremony. David laughed with the others at this
laudable but tardy appreciation.

As for the story of Frank Jenison's death, it was, according to the
newspaper, "so strange that fiction paled by contrast." Jenison and
his negro accomplice, Isaac Perry, had quarreled in one of the private
card-rooms at Brainard's place in Richmond, where they had met by
appointment. The negro, driven desperate and in great fear of the
white man, finally drew a revolver and began firing wildly at his
employer, who returned the shots. Perry was killed by a bullet which
found his heart. One of the negro's shots, however, had penetrated the
abdomen of Frank Jenison. He was mortally wounded. On being informed
by the surgeons that he had but a few hours to live, the miserable
wretch directed that his confession be written out at his dictation,
that he might put his signature to it and thereby set his unhappy
nephew straight in the eyes of a condemning world.

The full text of this confession was printed. The reader of this tale
has heard enough of it, in one way or another, to determine for
himself the chief facts in connection with the murder of old Mr.
Jenison. It was Frank Jenison who shot him, deliberately laying his
plans so as to direct suspicion to David. The nephew played into his
hands in a most startling manner. A more convincing set of
circumstances could not have been imagined, much less prepared.

Isaac Perry was the first to propose the plan of substituting a forged
will, but at the time neither of them contemplated the assassination
of the old gentleman. It was not until it became known to them that
Mr. Jenison intended to deed over a great part of his estate to David
before his own death that they saw the necessity for hastening the
end. The will was prepared in Perry's room at Richmond. The names of
the witnesses belonged to men who were dead and could not repudiate
the signatures. Then came the signing of the quitclaim deed which
provided an opportunity to substitute the will, and which, as far as
Isaac Perry was concerned, was a _bona fide_ transaction. The little
plot of ground was in truth a portion of his own compensation exacted
in advance of the murder.

Perry was to have done the shooting. At the last minute his nerve
failed him. Frank Jenison then coolly directed his henchman to stand
guard while he committed the diabolical deed. To use his dying words,
his father "was ready to die anyway, so it was a kindness to end life
suddenly for him."

We know how David walked into the trap, and how he crept out of it
only to become an outlaw, hunted and execrated. Perry went to Chicago,
where he was to remain for a few months before coming back to receive
his promised share of the money which Jenison was to realize on the
sale of certain properties as soon as he was clearly established as
heir to the estate.

Remorse began to gnaw at the heart of the murderer. He could not sleep
without dreaming of his slain father, nor could he spend a waking hour
that was free from thoughts of the innocent boy who would be hanged if
the law laid its hands upon him.

Then, one day, there came a stranger who told him of Isaac Perry's
treachery. The thing he feared had come to pass--Perry's defection. He
made up his mind to kill this dreaded stranger, and to follow that
deed with another of the same sort which would deliver him of Isaac
Perry. But the stranger disappeared. He did not come to claim his
blood money. The terror which fell upon Frank Jenison was
overpowering. He sent for Isaac Perry, hoping against hope that the
stranger had lied and that with the negro's support he could defy him.
Perry came to Richmond, expecting to receive his promised reward in
coin of the realm. The half-crazed white man accused him of treachery.
The negro lawyer vehemently denied every allegation, but, becoming
alarmed by the other's manner, fell into a panic of fear and began
shooting.

At the end of his confession, Frank Jenison said:

"My soul is black. It is already charred by the fires of hell. I was a
traitor to our beloved cause, although acquitted of the charge by
fraud and deception. I killed my own father. I would have killed
others. My nephew has long borne the stain of guilt that is going with
me to a dishonored grave. I go with the brand of Cain on my soul.
There will be no rest for me in the hereafter. I have not the courage
to ask God to be merciful. But I believe in God. I have tried not to
believe in him. I have denied him all my life. To-day, for the first
time in memory, I can say--and it is with my last breath--I can say
that I thank God for one great act of mercy. He has permitted me to
live long enough, with this bullet in me, to say to the world that my
nephew, David Jenison, is as innocent as I am guilty."

"Well," said Grinaldi the clown, his voice doleful in contrast to the
cheery smile he assumed, when it came time for all to go to the cook-
tent for dinner, "I dessay we'll 'ave to stop calling you Jack Snipe.
Wot's more, David, you'll be going back to Virginia at once and
settling down to be a genuine gentleman. Afore you think of going, my
lad, let it be fully impressed in your 'eart that we all love you and
we all wish you the greatest 'appiness in the world. You 'ave been a
very poor clown, but I dessay 't is more the fault of your bringing up
than anything else. A clown 'as to be born, David, just the same as
any other genius. I suppose it's too soon yet to talk about your
plans--wot you intend to do fust."

"First of all, Joey," said David, his face aglow with the fervor that
was crowding up from the depths of his grateful soul, "I want to say
to you and to all of you, that if I live to be a thousand years old I
shall never forget how good and how kind you have been to me. My home
will always be yours, my friends, just as your home has been mine.
Jenison Hall will bid you welcome, come what may. You will find Joey
Grinaldi there. My home is his, when he chooses to forsake the ring.
And Ruby's, too. God bless and reward all of you!"

"When are you going to leave us, David?" asked one of the women.

David put his finger to the bruised spot on his cheek.

"My career as a clown in Van Slye's show ended when that blow was
struck. You know quite well that I could not have stayed after that,
even though other conditions were unchanged. I cannot eat of that
man's bread; I cannot serve him. I have no trunk to pack, you know.
Just that old satchel of Joey's, in which my linen is carried. So I am
walking out of this tent now, free in more ways than one. When I come
again I shall pay my way at the main entrance. No! Don't ask me to go
to the cook-tent! It is impossible. As for my plans, I--"

He stopped, stilled by a sudden, overwhelming sense of desolation. All
this meant that he would have to leave Christine! His days with the
show were over. His sweet, throbbing hours with her were at an end.
Life for him had changed as with the blinking of an eye. Nothing could
be the same. All the loneliness of despair he had known during those
weeks of fear and trembling was as naught compared to the outlook that
now confronted him, so bleak and so barren that his young soul
sickened. For the moment it seemed to him that she was about to go out
of his life forever.

His heart revolted. There surged up the fierce impulse to cast away
his patrimony, his name, his pride and honor. He would not desert her,
even for a day.

"As for my plans," he began once more, and again stopped.

Joey understood the struggle that was going on within him. The old
clown, in his own capricious life, had been called upon a hundred
times to give up the things he loved, the associations he cherished.

"We'll talk 'em over later on, David," he said, putting his arm over
the boy's shoulder. "Come along with me and Ruby. We'll go to a
restaurant and 'ave a bite together. I--I suppose you'll be saying
good-by to them striped tights and the spotted trunks."

"I should like to buy them, Joey," cried David eagerly.

"They are yours, my lad; take 'em. They belong to me. Now, let's get
out of this. I don't think it's best for Brad to find you 'ere."

As they left the lot, David carrying all of his possessions in the
unwieldy satchel, they were met by Colonel Grand.

"David," said he, falling in beside them, "have you sufficient funds
to carry you back to old Virginia? If you need money, I will gladly
let you have it--as a loan."

They were surprised by the offer.

David hated him. "No, Colonel Grand, I can't take your money, even as
a loan. It will be easy for me to raise the amount."

The Colonel gave him an ugly smile.

"As you like," he said. He lifted his hat to Ruby and abruptly turned
back.

Far ahead were two figures that they knew well. Mrs. Braddock and
Christine were hurrying away from the grounds as if desirous of
avoiding a meeting with the young man.

David urged his companions to a more rapid walk. They overtook the
Braddocks at the corner of an avenue which led off to the residence
section of the town.

"You have heard?" asked David, as they turned in response to his call.
"You know what has happened?"

He could see that the girl had been crying. Mrs. Braddock's face was
white and set.

"Yes," said the older woman. "And you are going home, David?" She
spoke quietly.

"I--I don't know yet," he stammered. Christine's face had been
averted. Now she looked at him.

"You--oh, David, you don't really think of staying with us?" she
cried, her eyes glowing.

"You must not think of it, David," whispered her mother hastily. "Your
place is at Jenison Hall. You belong there. Lose no time, my dear boy,
in returning to your home."

They had come to a little park adjoining a church-yard where there
were benches. He led them to one of the seats farthest removed from
the pavement. Joey and Ruby strolled into the churchyard.

"I suppose I shall have to go back," said David gloomily. "For a few
days, at least. They will be expecting me. And the property is mine
now--and all that. But, Mrs. Braddock," he went on feverishly, "I am
coming back. In a week, yes, or less than that. I am coming back to be
with you--to help you. I can't stay away now, Mrs. Braddock. It would
make me too unhappy. I must be near Christine. She's more to me now
than anything else in all this world."

Mrs. Braddock smiled wanly. "You are very young," she said, "and very
impulsive. Do you think it would be kind to Christine if you were to
follow the show for no other reason than to be near her? Would that be
the act of a sincere friend? She would be compromised, I think you
will admit. It was different before. You were one of us. Now you are
an outsider. Even the easiest-going of the performers would resent
your attitude if you were to follow us now. It is an unwritten law
among us that an outsider is always an outsider. We are like gypsies.
Even you, who have been one of us, can have no future standing in our
tribe--for that is what we are, David. You must take your place among
those who look on from afar. As individuals we will always greet you
and give you the best of our love; collectively we cannot take you
among us. That is over. You are--"

"But I may still be a performer," he cried insistently. He had taken
Christine's hand in his, only to have it gently withdrawn by the girl.

"No, David," said Mary Braddock firmly, "it is out of the question.
You are no longer a soldier of fortune. You are a Jenison of Jenison
Hall. We can't build a bridge for that."

"But I won't stand it!" he exclaimed passionately. "I _will_ come
back."

"As a clown?" said she, smiling.

"I'll buy a part interest in the show," he said stubbornly.

"You are not of age," she reminded him. "The courts will name a
guardian for you, I fancy. No, my boy, we must face the thing
squarely. We shall be glad to see you if you happen to be where we may
meet naturally."

"But I love Christine," he protested. "You told me last night that you
would put no obstacle in our way to--"

"I told you last night that I would put no obstacle in your way,
David, if you came to me in five years and still could say that you
love her and would make her your wife."

"But we thought then that I might always be near her--with the show,
perhaps," he argued.

"Quite true. But all that is blotted out, don't you see."

Christine was weeping silently.

"You think I'll forget her!" he cried angrily.

"Oh, David!" moaned Christine.

"You think I'll not care for her always--"

"Listen, David," said the mother patiently. "I can think of no greater
joy that could come to me than to see Christine your wife--some day.
But we must face the true conditions. She may always be a circus
rider. I hope to take her away from this life--yes, soon, may it
please God. You think now that you will always care. But I know the
world. I know youth too well. I--"

"But you were not much older than Christine when you were married," he
blurted out. He regretted the unhappy remark almost before it left his
lips. She turned away her face, and no word came in response for a
full minute. Then she ignored the tactless announcement.

"You must go your way, David. We will go ours. If God is good to us,
we may come together again, and we may still be happy. You are
eighteen, Christine is fifteen. You do not know your minds, my
children. I have thought it all out. You must be content to wait.
Christine must come to you from a different sphere, David. It is not
as it was. She must not be of the circus."

"Mrs. Braddock," said he, rising to his full height, "I only ask you
to believe that I love her, and that I, at least, will not change.
Will you change, Christine?"

"No," said the girl, giving him her hand as she rose to look into his
eyes with the whole of her young heart glowing in hers. "I will not
change, David."

"Then, Mrs. Braddock, as a Jenison of Jenison Hall I formally ask you
for the hand of your daughter. A gentleman may keep his word of honor
for five years--for a hundred years. I pledge my love, my name, my
fortune to her."

"David," cried the mother, twisting her fingers in the agony of a
despair that could no longer be concealed, "how can we know what the
next five years may bring to us? What will they be to my darling
child? Oh, if I only knew the way to save her--to preserve her, to
give her what belongs to her by all the laws of nature!"

"You must leave the show," he cried. "Give up everything. It is no
place for either of you. Let me help you. Mrs. Braddock, give it up
before it is too late. I know that harm will come to you here."

He pleaded long and earnestly with the silent, depressed woman. In the
end she held up her hand, and he waited.

"Time will tell, David," she said. "When it becomes too heavy to bear
I will cast off my yoke. That is all I will say." She hesitated for a
moment, and then went on, holding out her hand: "Good-by, David. You
are going to-night?" "I suppose so," he said dejectedly. "But, listen;
I am coming back very shortly for a few days. I insist on that. If all
is not going well with you and Christine, I shall know it. I mean to
watch over her in spite of everything."

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