The Rose in the Ring

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A train thundered in. The station platform was quite deserted except
for the few belated revelers who had remained in town for the night
performance of Van Slye's circus. When the train pulled out, a woman
and two men stood beside the hack, where tearful farewells had been
uttered and Godspeed spoken. Toward the east sped a tall woman and a
slim, beautiful girl. In the outskirts of the town the train swept
past a string of huge, cumbersome, ghostly wagons, all of them
slinking away into the night-ridden pike that led to another city
where the young and curious were already dreaming of the morning hours
that were to bring the "circus to town."

"Good-by--good-by!" sobbed the girl, who had been peering intently
through the window of the car. The tall woman did not look forth, but
sat with her eyes riveted on the seat ahead.

"Yes, it is good-by, my darling," she said in very low tones.

Back at the railway station, after the rear lights of the train had
disappeared, the lone woman turned her tear-stained face to the man
whose arm was about her shoulder.

"Do you think we'll ever see them again, daddy?" she moaned.

"Yes," said the man huskily. "She said she'd let me know, one way or
another, when it is safe to do so. Don't cry, Ruby. They're better
off. They couldn't 'ave stayed on, God knows. And God will take care
of 'em."

"I wish she'd said just where she's really bound for," muttered the
other man, a tall ungainly fellow. "She's mighty near dead-broke, and
I'm--I'm uneasy, Joey."

"She'll get on, Casey, confound you!"

"If she'd only make up her mind to go back to her father," said the
girl.

"That's just it. If she's going back to 'im, it's best nobody knows
yet--not even us. I've got their two letters for David, if he ever
comes looking them up, as he said he would. Well, God bless 'em. I--I
'ates to think wot the show will be without 'em. Come on; let's get
back to bed."

And so it was, many days afterward, that David Jenison came "looking
them up," only to find that they were gone and that no one could tell
him whither they had fled. It was significant that Colonel Bob Grand
was not with the show; he had gone away in a great rage when the
discovery of the flight became known to him. Tom Braddock, strangely
sobered and bleached out by a tardy remorse, went about mechanically
in the management of the show which he no longer owned.

Joey Grinaldi delivered two precious, carefully preserved missives
into the hands of the distracted Virginian.

One of these letters said that the writer would wait for him to the
end of time, loving him always with all her heart. The other, much
longer, came to its conclusion with these words, written by a wise,
far-seeing woman whose heart was breaking:

"... And now, David, good-by. We love you. Be content to let us go
temporarily out of your life, if not from your thoughts or your heart.
Always think of us with love and tenderness, my dear boy, as we shall
never cease to think of you. You are young. Christine is young. You
are not so wise now as you will be five years hence. I shall try to
mold Christine into the kind of woman you could take as a wife to
Jenison Hall. In five years, God willing, the circus ring and its
spangles will be so remotely removed from her that no one can find the
trace of them. In five years, David. That may seem ages to you and to
her, who have youth and all of life ahead of you. When five years have
gone by, David, I shall let you know where we are to be found. If you
still care for her then, and she for you, no matter what the
circumstances of either may be, no human power can keep you apart. You
will come to her and say it all over again, and you will be happier
because of this brief probation. If you should find, through the
mature workings of a man's heart, that you have grown to love another,
then you will both see for yourselves that my present course is right,
and that your ways must continue, as now, along absolutely separate
paths. Do not attempt to find us. Your own futile efforts, dear David,
in that direction might be the means of bringing other and unkind
searchers to our place of refuge. I know you would not bring greater
trial and tribulation to us, who love you, than you have seen us
suffer in the past."

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER I

THE DAUGHTER OF COLONEL GRAND

Snuggling down in a nest built of certain westward hills in fair
Virginia, near the head of a valley long noted for healing waters that
spring, warm and cold, from subterranean alchemies into picturesque
pools and steaming rivulets, lies the ancient village of Hollandville,
with its quaint, galleried facades; its flower gardens and its mill-
race; its ambient clouds and drowsy sunshine, and the ever-delicious
somnolence that overcomes the most potent vigor with an ease that
mystifies. Beyond Hollandville, less than half a league distant,
against the mountainside, facing the great ridge opposite, stands a
time-honored, time-perfected hostelry inside whose walls and upon
whose galleries the flower and chivalry of Virginia have clustered for
generations. Names historic are to be found on the yellow pages of
venerable and venerated ledgers and day-books, names of men and women
known and cherished before the dauntless settler had turned his
footsteps toward the territories of the Middle West. Here had come the
famed Virginia and Maryland beauties of an ancient day, and here still
came their great-great-granddaughters to create envy among the flowers
that steal from the earth to bloom in this valley of delight. Here
came Washington and Jefferson and others whose names will never die so
long as there is an American heart-beat among us; came with their
coaches, their servants, their horses and--their livers: for they had
livers even in those good old days. If one were to call upon the sweet
night air, and spirits were allowed to respond, the fair face of Dolly
Madison would emerge from the shadows, attended by all the wits and
beauties of her luxurious day. Betty Junol, too, held court in this
primitive Spa. Here duels were fought for ladies fair, and here the
hearts of the noblest women of our land were won by gallants who will
live forever.

Beaten roads that stretch off down the valley and wind through the
hills could tell countless tales of those who, in one glorious
century, rode hand-in-hand and unarmored to the lists of love and fell
together in the joyous combat. To this very day the lists are open and
the contenders as resolute, as gentle and as brave as in the ages when
Washington was a boy and men wooed with a sword at their hip.

Still stand the narrow, thatched cottages, immersed in honeysuckle and
ivy, that sheltered the fathers of the Constitution; still wind the
beaten roads over which rolled their coaches in days before the
American historical novel was more than a remote probability. Heroes
of a later war than that which gave us our freedom come now to this
sequestered spot, men whose grandfathers fought with our George
against the George of England. But, as their forefathers came, still
come they, and will come for generations, for this is the ancient
Mecca of Virginia gentlefolk to whom tradition is treasure and
companionship wine.

Late in the spring of 1880, when the dogwood was repainting the
hillsides and wild-flowers were weaving a new carpet of many hues for
the feet of wandering lovers, the company of guests assembled at the
Springs--as yet numerically small--included no fewer than a dozen
girls whose beauty was famed from one side of the Southland to the
other. Attendant upon these dainty American princesses, there were
again as many young men, rivals all for favors small.

A chill, moist wind of a certain evening blew down from the mist-
shrouded ridge, driving all guests to the glow of the fireplaces or to
the seclusion of coveted nooks in shadowy halls, where staircases held
secrets as tenderly inviolate now as on the nights of a dim, forgotten
past. About the great fireplace in the general lounging-room a merry
crowd of young people were gathered, discussing the plans for a
projected trip to the Natural Bridge, quite a two days' journey by
coach.

A tall, lean-faced young man of twenty-three or four stood beside the
fireplace, his elbow on the ancient mantel, his shapely legs crossed.
There was a moody expression in his handsome face, albeit he smiled in
quiet enjoyment of the vivacious conversation that went on around him.
Half a dozen girls chatted eagerly, excitedly, in response to certain
arguments advanced by young men who had the expedition in hand.
Arrangements were being discussed, approved or set aside with an
arbitrariness that left no choice to the proposers. From time to time
disputed questions were referred to the tall young man at the
mantelpiece. He appeared to be a person of consequence in the eyes of
all; his decision was accepted, even by the most arrogant of rebels.
Not one of these fair girls looked into his dark, steady eyes without
hope that the thought which lay deep in them was of her and of no
other, and yet each was painfully certain that he thought of some one
else, whether present or absent they could not conceive.

He gravely twisted the point of a small, dark mustache, then in vogue
among the fashionables, and proffered his suggestions with the quiet
assurance that comes from a thorough appreciation of the deference due
the man who is "real quality" in the Southland, and yet without the
faintest suggestion of superciliousness or conceit in his manner.

This man was born to it; it had come to him through the blood of
unnumbered ancestors. He was an aristocrat among aristocrats, as fair
Virginia produced them. Notwithstanding he had arrived at the Springs
no earlier than the forenoon of the day at hand, without knowledge of
previous plans regarding the expedition, he was nevertheless
established by common though unspoken consent as the arbiter of all
its features. He had come among friends who knew him of old--last
year, the year before, and the years before that.

For this tall young man who leaned so gracefully against the
mantelpiece was the master of Jenison Hall--the last of the Jenisons.
And that was saying all that could be said, so far as a Virginian was
concerned.

Their council was disturbed by the arrival of the belated night coach
that came over the mountains from the nearest railway station. The
shouts of the driver and the darky hostlers, the pounding of horses'
feet in the bouldered yard below, the rush of footsteps across the
broad veranda, and the sudden opening of the door by an ebony porter,
--all went to divert the attention of those who waited eagerly by the
fireplace to catch a glimpse of new arrivals.

Preceded by bags and satchels and rugs, there came two women out of
the drenched night into the glow of the firelit room. Two of the girls
in the circle stared for a moment, and then, with sharp cries of
surprise, rushed over to the desk where the newcomers stood, having
been conducted by the porters: two pretty girls from Baltimore. The
group looked on with interest while greetings were exchanged.

The arrivals were persons of consequence. Two French maids followed
them into the room and stood at the foot of the staircase, respectful
but with the composure which denotes tolerance. In those days few
people in the South presented an opulence extending to French maids.
The younger of the two women at the desk was tall, slender and
strikingly attractive: of the dashing, brilliant type. She was not
more than twenty, but there was an easy assurance in her manner that
bespoke ages of conquest and not an instant of defeat. The elder was
an aristocratic woman past middle age, the possessor of cold, aquiline
features and smileless eyes. Her hair was almost snow white, but her
figure was straight and youthful.

Presently they were conducted to their rooms by an obsequious porter,
and the young girls returned to the group at the fireside. There was a
common, ridiculously casual movement among the older people in the
room; the newcomers were barely out of sight in the upper hall before
the first of the curious ones was looking over the register. Inside of
three minutes a score of persons had glanced at the freshly written
names and passed on to the water cooler, thence back to their seats, a
fresh topic for conversation well in mind.

"Who is she?" demanded an eager young man from Richmond.

The Baltimore girls were visibly excited.

"I didn't know they had returned to this country, did you, Nell?
They've been living abroad for several years. Goodness, how that girl
has blossomed out. I'd never have known her if she hadn't been with
her mother."

"Do you think she's so very pretty?" enquired the other, quite
naturally.

"She's a dream!" cried the Richmond young man, before the other could
give her opinion. "But who is she?"

"Roberta Grand. She's a Baltimore girl and--"

"What name did you say?" asked the tall young man beside the
fireplace, suddenly interested.

The name was repeated. He listened to a long discourse on certain
school day friendships, succeeded by a period of separation in which
the subject of all this interest had traveled abroad with her mother,
completing an education that, if one were to judge from the
descriptions volunteered by her former classmates, gave small promise
in the beginning of attaining much beyond the commonplace.

"She was a dreadfully stupid girl at Miss Ralston's," proclaimed Miss
Baltimore. "Wasn't she, Nell?"

"Indeed she was. She--"

The master of Jenison Hall was staring across the room in the
direction of the register. He interrupted again.

"Grand? Are there many Grands in Baltimore?" he asked.

"Why are you so interested, Dave?" demanded one of the men.

"I once knew a man from Baltimore whose name was Grand, that's all.
I'm wondering if she can be--"

"Her father is Colonel Robert Grand. He's the great racehorse man.
Every one knows _him,_" said one of the Baltimore girls.

"Colonel Bob Grand?"

"Yes. Of course he and Mrs. Grand don't live together any longer. They
were divorced about five years ago. Didn't you see the account of it
in the Richmond papers? It seems that he ran off with an actress--to
London, they say. Oh, I don't remember all the details. Mother
wouldn't let us read the stuff in the papers. But I do remember that
he bought a house in London for the woman and he never even fought the
divorce. He treated Mrs. Grand shamefully, I know that much. Father
says he is a terrible man."

David Jenison was very pale and very still. He did not take his eyes
from the face of the speaker.

"Who was this actress?" asked some one. He went very cold. He tried to
close his ears against a name he dreaded to hear on the lips of the
fair gossip.

"I don't know. Some one you never heard of. Just a common, ordinary
actress, as I remember."

Jenison abruptly left the group and strode out upon the porch, leaving
the others to puzzle themselves over his unexpected defection.

In the five years that had passed since his brief but ever green
experience with the circus he had not come upon a single trace of Mary
Braddock and Christine. With all the impulsiveness of boyhood he had
at first made feverish efforts to find them. Detectives in his employ
followed the circus for several weeks, keenly alert to discover
anything that might put them on the track. Others shadowed the
disgruntled Colonel; while Blake, his old pursuer, went to New York
and, reinforced by agency men of Gotham, watched the home of Albert T.
Portman. But they had disappeared so completely that every effort to
unearth them proved futile. David was in college the following winter
when he heard, through Dick Cronk, that Colonel Grand had sold out the
circus to P. T. Barnum, with whose vast enterprises it was speedily
amalgamated. As the concern was sold at private sale, by actual
premeditation, Mary Braddock's interests were undefended. There was
talk among the circus people, however, to the effect that Grand, after
certain judgments had been satisfied, advertised throughout the
country for Mrs. Braddock, conveying to her notice by this means the
fact that he held in his possession many thousand dollars belonging to
her. Whether this tempting bait found her in such dire distress that
she could not remain in hiding while it was being offered, no one
seemed to know. If she had come forth to claim her portion of the
proceeds, the fact remained unknown to the old friends.

Tom Braddock, so David learned, forsook the show soon after his wife's
disappearance, and went to the Middle West. From time to time news of
him reached David in roundabout ways. He had developed quite naturally
into a common street loafer in Chicago, preying on the generosity of
his old acquaintance and living the besotted life of a degenerate. Of
certain cheerful wights who made up David's secret circle of intimates
we may expect to hear more as we go along. Suffice it to say, he kept
in close touch with them during his years at the University and
subsequently as the recognized "lord of the manor," excepting a rather
lengthy period devoted to travel abroad. On more than one occasion he
responded generously to diffident appeals for help, coming from one or
the other of his old friends. He never failed to contribute from his
store of wealth, for young Jenison was the richest as well as the
kindliest planter in all Virginia.

Jenison farm lands stretched far and wide; Jenison town property was
to be found in no less than five cities of importance; Jenison
securities, as sound as Gibraltar, were piled up in New York vaults,
and the Jenison collection included more than a score of the rarest
paintings ever developed under the magic of Rembrandt, Franz Hals,
Turner, Gainsborough, Velasquez, Stewart and others.

He was more than a person of landed importance, however. His story was
so well known that wherever he fared he was hailed as a hero. In his
own sunny land he was a hero-prince with as many retainers and loyal
subjects as ever bent knee to an Eastern medieval potentate. Rich in
fair looks as well as in worldly possessions, the owner of a
distinctive charm of manner, combined with the poise of good breeding,
a certain interesting reticence and a wonderfully impelling smile, he
was more than a hero to the young, and little short of an idol to the
old.

Countless assaults had been made against his heart. Every wile known
to beauty had been employed in a hundred sieges. But the Jack Snipe of
eighteen was still the lonely Jack Snipe at twenty-three: his heart
was sheathed in a love that harked back to a rough, picturesque
development and was strong by virtue of its memories.

At no time in all these spreading years had Christine Braddock's
flower-face and girlish figure faded from his vision. On this misty
night in early June, while others were thinking of him, he was
thinking of her and the promise made five years before. In five years,
they both had said. The term of probation was drawing to an end. He
was waiting now for the redemption of that promise.

Once, and once only, had he heard from them, and then in the most
mysterious way. Soon after his return to the University an envelope
containing four hundred dollars in crisp new bills was delivered to
him by Jeff, his body-servant, who came all the way up from the
plantation to say that it had been left at the Hall by a man who
offered no explanation except that his master would understand.

No day passed that he did not look for some sign from Mary Braddock.
She had promised, and he knew that she would not fail him. His mind
was charged with the wildest speculations. What would be the nature of
the resurrection? What word would come from the present to greet the
past? From what mysterious hiding-place would come the call? Even now,
at this very instant, from some far-away spot in the great wide world
a voice might be winging its way to him. What tidings were in the air?

What word of the girl he loved?

And now, like an icy blast, came the appalling possibility that the
world knew more of Mrs. Braddock's whereabouts and actions than he,
who was so vitally interested. The word "actress" as supplied by the
contemptuous Baltimore girl conveyed to his soul a sharp, sickening
dread. Was Mary Braddock the one? Had she given way under the strain?
Had circumstance cowed her into submission? Was she the one who
occupied the little house in London-town?

If so, what of Christine?

He smoked as he paced the long veranda. In a dark corner at the lower
end, sheltered from the mist by trailing arbutus, a group of three
persons from the inexperienced, uncouth North, were drinking juleps
served by an impassive but secretly disdainful servant bent with age
and, you might say, habitual respect. Jenison did not notice them in
his abstraction, but his ears would have burned if he could have heard
the things the two women were saying about him to their male
companion.

As he passed the broad office door in one of his rounds it was opened
and in the full glow of light from within appeared the tall, graceful
figure of Roberta Grand. She remained there for a moment, looking out
into the sombre night. Their eyes met as he passed. She was
exceedingly fair to look upon, golden-haired and _spirituelle_,
but he could see only the repulsive, hated features of Colonel Bob
Grand, destroyer.

When he returned to the group at the fireplace, half an hour later,
she was sitting with the others, her back toward him as he approached.
He was at once presented by the girl from Baltimore.

Miss Grand looked up into his face with cool, indifferent eyes.

"I have heard so much of you, Mr. Jenison," she said. Her voice was
soft and pleasant.

"We live in a very small world, Miss Grand," he said. "One's
reputation reaches farther than he thinks."

"It depends on the method by which it is carried," she responded
enigmatically. He started.

"I trust mine has been delivered by kindly messengers."

"Both kindly and gentle," she said.

"Some girl, I'll bet," remarked one of the young men.

"Not so singular as that, Mr. Priest. The plural is 'girls,'" said
Miss Grand.

"I am relieved," said David. "It's much easier to understand the
plural of girl. Girl in the first person singular is incomprehensible."

"Do you really think so?" asked Miss Grand calmly. He bowed very low
and said no more. It occurred to him in a flash that this fair girl
knew more of him, in a way, than any one present.

Later on, at the foot of the stairs, she came up with him. Without the
slightest trace of embarrassment she remarked:

"I think you knew my father, Mr. Jenison."

He flushed in some confusion. "Your father is Colonel Robert Grand?"

"Yes. It was he who told me your story, long ago. I have always been
interested."

David hesitated for an instant, then boldly put his question: "May I
ask where Colonel Grand is at present? I hear you no longer live in
Baltimore."

It was a very direct attack, but he justified himself through the
impression that she invited it.

"We live in Washington, Mr. Jenison, my mother and I. My father's home
is in New York. Some time, while we are here, I hope you won't mind
telling me something of your experiences with the--the circus. My
father often spoke of you. He said they called you--was it Jack
Snipe?"

David was taken aback. The girl's frankness amazed, unsettled him.

"A name given me by one of the performers," he murmured.

"The proprietor's daughter, Christine Braddock. Oh, you must not be
surprised. I know her."

"You know her?" he asked quickly.

"That is, I once knew her. She came out to my father's stables years
ago to practice her riding. I used to envy her so! You see, I wanted
to be a circus rider." She laughed very frankly.

"Do you know what has become of her?" he asked, risking everything. He
watched carefully to catch the expression in her face.

"No," she replied, hesitating. "I have not seen my father since our
return from Europe."

The words were ominous. He experienced a sinking sensation.

She continued: "I supposed that you knew something of _our_ family
history, Mr. Jenison." He looked sufficiently blank. "My father and
mother lead absolutely separate lives. It happened four years ago.
Perhaps you have forgotten."

"I did not hear of it at the time, Miss Grand,' he explained.

"We have lived abroad ever since. So, you see, I have had little or no
opportunity to talk with my father. We write to each other, of course,
but letters are not like talks. I am to visit him next month in New
York. I can hardly wait for the time to come." She was now speaking
rapidly, eagerly. "I--I don't believe that all the things they said
about him in the newspapers were true. My mother's lawyers brought up
everything they could think of, whether it was true or not. You see--
Oh, you don't mind hearing me talk like this, do you?" She interrupted
herself to insert this question.

He hastened to assure her that she might speak freely to him, and with
perfect confidence in his discretion. But, he suggested, it would be
better if they were to continue the conversation in a place less
conspicuous. He led her to a distant corner of the room, where they
might be quite free from interruption. Her peculiar attitude
interested and disturbed him. It was quite plain, from a single remark
of hers, that her sympathies were with her father, although she had
remained at her mother's side.

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