The Rose in the Ring

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"Hello, Ernie," said David. Ernie's arms were folded across his
breast. As he gave no sign of unfolding them, David did not proffer
his hand.

"You don't have to speak to me if you don't want to," muttered Ernie,
his eyes snapping.

"Where is Braddock?" asked the other, imperturbably.

The rat-like eyes glittered with a cunning smile. "Don't ask me. Got
you worried, eh?"

"We are trying to keep him from hurting Christine, that's all," said
David tactfully.

"He ain't going to do that," said Ernie quickly. A shadow of anxiety
crept into his face, however. "He's after Grand."

"Just the same, we are afraid. Is he here?"

"No. He's asleep at my place, if that'll do you any good. I'm not
going to turn against her father, which is more than the rest of you
can say. You can tell her, if you want to, that I'm still his friend."
It was plain to be seen that he was adopting this pitiful policy as a
means of gaining the attention of the otherwise unapproachable
Christine." He was up all night--_looking!_"

"For Grand?"

"I didn't ask," leered the hunchback. Suddenly his eyes flew wide
open. He was staring past Jenison. "Say! Speaking of angels, look
behind you."

David turned. Not twenty feet away stood Colonel Grand, twirling a
light walking-stick and surveying the throng with disinterested eyes.
He had seen and ignored Ernie, but had failed to recognize the young
man whose back was toward him.

David experienced a sickening sense of disappointment. His heart sank
like lead. Grand's presence in the station could have but one meaning.
A great wave of revulsion swept through the Virginian. He forgot the
anticipated joy of the moment before in contemplation of this
significant proof of an understanding.

His lips were dry. He moistened them. Ernie, observing the movement,
concluded that he was muttering something to himself.

"Say it to his face, why don't you?" he recommended sarcastically.
Before David could interpose, the hunchback called out to Colonel
Grand. The latter turned quickly. For a moment he stared intently at
the face of the tall young man. Suddenly light broke in upon him.

"Why, it's Jenison," he exclaimed, and advanced, an amiable smile on
his lips. David ignored the hand that he extended; he could only
stare, as if fascinated, at the puffy face of the speaker.

Grand had altered but little in appearance during the five years that
had passed. He seemed to have grown no older, nor was he less
repulsive to look upon. As of old, he was carefully, even immaculately
dressed.

Ernie Cronk moved away. They might have heard him chuckling softly to
himself.

"Let me see, it's five years, isn't it?" went on the Colonel suavely.
He did not appear to resent David's omission. "You've changed
considerably. The mustache improves you, I think."

His voice was as oily as ever, his eyes and his nose as sheep-like.
Something arose in David's throat, bringing a certain hoarseness to
his voice.

"Time has not affected you, Colonel," he retorted.

"So they tell me," said the other. "Are you waiting to meet some one?"

"Yes," said David, and nothing more.

The Colonel twirled his stick. "My daughter is arriving by the four-
twenty," he announced. "Beastly old station, this. What a godsend a
destructive fire would prove if it took it from one end to the other."

"Your daughter is coming?" asked David. The note of eagerness and
relief in his voice caused the other's eyes to narrow suddenly.

"You've met her, I believe," he said, studying David's face.

"Once,--at the Springs."

"She's coming rather unexpectedly to make me an extended visit. I
should deem it quite an honor, David, if you would give us the
pleasure of your company some evening for dinner--"

"My stay here is to be very brief, Colonel Grand, and my time is
entirely taken up," said David coldly.

"I'm sorry," said the Colonel, shrugging his shoulders in self-
commiseration.

It was on the tip of David's tongue to ask him if he knew of Thomas
Braddock's presence in town, but timely reflection convinced him that
it would be unwise. The Colonel, in his alarm, might set about to have
Braddock hunted down and confined without delay; and there was no
telling what crime he would lay at Braddock's door in order to secure
long imprisonment.

"I met your wife, also, at the Springs," said David, coolly
substituting the thrust.

The Colonel frowned slightly. "You are doubtless aware that my wife
and I are no longer living together," he said, his lips straightening.

"I have heard something to that effect," said David easily,--so easily
that the other could not mistake the insolence of the remark.

Grand flushed. "I am happy to say, young man, that my train is pulling
in. I must therefore deny myself the pleasure of conversing with you
any longer. Good-day, sir."

He did not bow as he turned away. A moment later he was threading his
way through the crowd. David sauntered over to his first place of
waiting, a smile on his lips. He was immensely relieved now, and not a
little ashamed of a certain unworthy suspicion.

He fixed his eager gaze on the throng of people that came up from the
train, pouring into the big waiting-room. First, he saw Roberta Grand
as she came rushing up to her father. He was struck by the swift
change that came over the Colonel's face, who stared in amazement over
the girl's shoulder, even as he embraced her. David allowed his gaze
to return to the oncoming crowd.

Mary Braddock approached, apparently unconscious of the presence of
either of her old associates. She walked beside a decrepit old
gentleman whom David at once surmised to be Albert Portman. A maid and
a male attendant followed close behind. Christine was not in sight.

Mrs. Braddock saw Grand when not more than half a dozen paces
separated them. She almost stopped in her tracks. David detected the
look of surprise and dismay in her face. She and Grand were staring
hard at each other, but neither made the slightest pretense of
anything more than visual recognition. She averted her gaze after a
moment of uncertainty, and, with her head erect, passed close by the
Colonel and his daughter, both of whom were scrutinizing her with
brazen interest.

She did not see David Jenison, although he might have touched her by
moving two steps forward. Disconcerted by the rude, insolent stare
that was leveled jointly by her old enemy and his daughter, a vivid
flush mantled her cheek and brow.

Time had made few changes in her appearance. Her face was softer,
gentler if possible; her carriage was as erect and as proud as ever.
She was modestly, unobtrusively attired, as David expected she would
be.

After she had passed, the young man turned his attention again to the
crowd, his nerves jumping with eagerness. Christine was sure to be not
far behind her mother.

He saw her at last, a laggard at the end of the hurrying procession.
She passed close by him. He stood motionless, seeing no one else,
thinking of no one but this slim, adorable girl who had no eyes for
him. At her side strode a tall, good-looking fellow whose manner
toward her could be mistaken for nothing short of simple adoration.

She was smiling brightly, even rapturously up into the eyes of this
eager swain. In another instant they were lost in the crowd that
rushed to the ferry, but David was never to forget that passing
glimpse of her--not to the day of his death.

She was all that his fondest dreams, all that his fairest prophecies,
had promised--nay, she surpassed them!

The pure, girlish face--the one of the deep, earnest eyes and tender
lips--had been toned and perfected and rechiseled by the magic hand of
Time. She was taller by several inches; a lissome creature who moved
with the sureness and grace of an almost exalted symmetry.

His dazzled, gleaming eyes followed her into the vortex below. A vast
wave of exultation suddenly rushed over him. He had held her in his
arms--he had kissed this beautiful, joyous creature--this product of
enchantment! Now, more than ever, was he resolved to claim her for his
own. It was as good as settled, in his enraptured mind! Nothing could
keep her from him now. He had loved her, he had waited for her, and he
would have her in spite of everything.

What could it matter to him that she was coveted by all the men who
knew her? He rejoiced in the fact that they were at her feet. It was
left for him to look down upon them in the end, and smile with all the
arrogance of triumphant possession!

Even as he exulted, a dissolving element was flung upon the crystal in
which he saw his own glorification. A harsh, discordant voice was
speaking at his elbow. He turned. Ernie Cronk was standing beside him.
It required a moment of concentration on the part of the infatuated
David to grasp the significance of a certain livid hue in Ernie's
face. The hunchback was looking up at him. His eyes were bleak with
unhappiness. There was no anger in them: only despair.

"That's the fellow," he was saying, his voice cracking hoarsely. "He's
the one she's in love with."

David started. "You mean--she's in love with him?" he demanded
blankly.

"That's Bertie Stanfield. He's a great swell. He was here to meet her.
I saw him. It's--it's no use, David. No one else has got a show." His
inclusion of David in his own misfortune, though by inference, would
have been amusing at another time. Somehow, at this moment, it struck
David as tragic. Was it possible that he was to find himself in the
same boat with this unhappy, uncouth worshiper?

He pulled hard at the end of his short mustache, and swallowed hard
with involuntary abruptness.

"I--I have heard of him," he said, a sudden chill creeping into his
veins.

"Did she--did she speak to you?" asked Ernie. The hard look was
creeping back into his eyes.

"She didn't see me," muttered David.

"She spoke to me. She always does," said Ernie, twisting his fingers.
"But," he went on, almost in a wail, "it's because she--she pities
me!"

David's heart was touched. He laid his hand on Cronk's shoulder and
was about to speak kindly to him. The other drew back, shaking off the
compassionate hand.

"None o' that, now. I don't need any pity from you. Keep your trap
closed about me." He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and
allowed his gaze to travel toward the ferry entrance. The despondent
note returned to his voice. "Shall we take this boat or wait for the
next?" he asked. It was as if he had said: "We are companions in
misery, you and I. Let's make the best of it."

David looked at him for a moment oddly. The humor of the situation
struck him all at once; but the smile of derision died on his lips.
After all, perhaps he was in the discard with Ernie Cronk.

"I'm going to catch this boat," he said decisively. He started off,
followed by his unchosen comrade, and caught the boat almost as it
cast off in the slip.

Mrs. Braddock and Christine were far forward. They were chatting gayly
with the blonde Mr. Stanfield, who appeared to be giving them the
latest news of the town. Old Mr. Portman sat against the deck house.

David watched the little group at the rail from a safe distance. He
allowed his fancy full play; his hopes rebounded; his confidence
revived. By the time the ferry-boat was locked in the Manhattan slip
he was buoyant with the hope and resolution of unconquered youth. He
would win her away from them all.

All the way across the river he had been aware of Colonel Grand's
close proximity to the little party of three. He stood, with Roberta,
across the forward deck, leaning against the rail, his arms folded. At
no time did he withdraw his gaze from the figure of Mary Braddock. Her
back was toward him,--resolutely, it seemed to David,--and she must
have been conscious of the carnal eyes bent upon her. Somehow David
had the feeling that she was battling against the impulse to turn in
response to the hypnotic command.

He hung back, biding his time, until the party had disappeared inside
the ferry building. Then he hastened toward one of the exits, intent
on securing a cab. He had made up his mind not to accost them; he
would not present himself unexpectedly at a time and place when
embarrassment to them might be the result.

From somewhere at the edge of the crowd a thin, sardonic voice called
out to him:

"So long, David. You know how it feels yourself now, don't you?" He
knew who the speaker was without looking.

Mrs. Braddock was standing at the counter of the telegraph office near
one of the street doors. He did not see her until he was almost upon
her. She was alone and engaged in writing out a telegram. His plans
were altered in an instant. A moment later, he was at her side, his
face flushed and eager.

For many seconds she stared wonderingly into his smiling eyes. Before
uttering a word she glanced at the message she had finished and was
about to hand it to the clerk; then her gaze returned to his face.

"David Jenison," she said, and there was something like awe in her
voice, "is it really you? How strange--how very strange!"

"I'm not a ghost," he cried. "You look at me as if I had crept out of
my grave."

She looked again at the telegram. "Why, David," she began falteringly.
Then her face cleared. A glad smile broke over it, and both her hands
were extended. "It really _is_ you? I am not seeing visions? Yes, you
are flesh and blood! You dear, dear David! I am _so_ glad to see you.
How does it happen that you are here? Where do you come from and--" She
went on with the eagerness of a child, asking more questions than he
could remember, much less answer. "And how wonderfully you have grown
up!"

"I have seen Christine," he said eagerly. "She is perfection--she is
marvelous."

"Seen her? Where? But we cannot talk here. We must have hours and
hours all by ourselves. Come to my father's house to-night. We are
living with him, you know. There is so much that we have to tell each
other--all that has happened in the five long years."

"I am here solely to remind you that the five years are ended, Mrs.
Braddock. Mahomet has come to the mountain, you see."

Her face clouded. She glanced quickly through the window. His gaze
followed hers. Christine and young Stanfield were driving away
together in a hansom. He read her thoughts. "I'll take my chances," he
remarked confidently.

"I know that she has not forgotten, David," she said after a moment of
deliberation, "but--well, I will be frank with you. She has suddenly
shot past my comprehension. It is the privilege of a girl to change
her mind, you know, when she changes the length of her frocks."

"You haven't changed, have you?" he asked bluntly. She stared. "I?"

"I mean, you are still my champion?"

"Of course," she replied readily."

"Then, as I said before, I'll take my chances with the rest. I'll not
hold her to that girlhood bargain. That would be unfair. But, if
you'll permit me, I'll go in and win her as she is to-day--if I can."

She smiled at his ardor. "I hope you may win, David. But you must win
for yourself. Do not look to me for help. She must decide for
herself."

He did not refer to the young man who had taken her away in the cab.
Mrs. Braddock noted this and was not slow to divine the well-bred
restraint that lay behind the omission.

"That was young Stanfield," she observed. "He is delightful. My father
is devoted to him,"

David smiled. "I hope to have the pleasure of meeting him soon."

"You may meet to-night."

If she expected to see a trace of annoyance in his face, she was
disappointed. He gracefully confessed his interest in the prospective
meeting.

"I shall be more than delighted to come," he said.

"And I am glad he will be there to engage Christine's attention while
I devote myself to you, Mrs. Braddock."

"You nice boy!"

She extended her hand. "I must not keep my father waiting out there.
You don't know how glad I am that you are here, David." Suddenly a
wave of red mounted to her cheek; an expression of utter loathing came
into her deep eyes. In some alarm he glanced over his shoulder.

Colonel Grand was standing at the door through which she would have to
pass. He was not looking at her, but his motive in placing himself
there was only too plain.

"Confound him!" involuntarily fell from David's lips.

"If he dares to address me--" she began, her face going white. "David,
I have not seen that man since the day I left the show. Why is he here
to-day? Is it to annoy--to torment me in--"

"He won't do that," announced David firmly.

"I have a strange foreboding, David,--of evil, of something dreadful.
Perhaps it is due to the unexpected sight of--his horrid face. I--"

"That's it," said he promptly. Nevertheless, a slight chill entered
his heart. There was Tom Braddock to be considered. "I'll come early
to-night, if I may," he said, more soberly than he meant. "There are
some very important things to discuss. Now I'll take you to your
carriage."

During their talk she had absently folded the telegram. He observed it
in her hand and said:

"The telegram--don't forget that, Mrs. Braddock."

Her smile was enigmatic. With a diverted smile for the waiting clerk
she said: "I shall not send it, after all."

David walked with her to the door. They passed so close to Colonel
Grand that David's elbow touched his arm, but neither of them looked
at him. She hastily entered the waiting carriage, a sort of panic
overtaking her.

Thrusting the crumpled bit of paper into David's hand, her eyes
steadfastly held against the impulse to look at the satiric figure in
the doorway, she said in a half-whisper:

"Take it, David--and come to-night."

He stood there with his hat in his hand as the carriage drove off,
sorely perplexed by her action. Suddenly a light broke in upon his
understanding. He spread out the small sheet and read:

"The five years have passed. I redeem my promise. You are not obliged
to keep yours, however." It was signed "Mary Braddock."

Colonel Grand was smiling sardonically in the doorway.

CHAPTER V

THE LOVE THAT WAS STAUNCH

"I shall depend on you, David, to bring my husband here to see me.
Search for him until you find him."

The white-faced, distressed woman said this to David Jenison a few
hours later in the Portman library. They sat alone in the half-light.
Stanfield's married sister had taken Christine off earlier in the
evening, to a concert. Mrs. Braddock, in a spirit of whimsicality,
forbore mentioning the appearance of David to the girl, planning to
surprise her when she returned from the concert. If David was
disappointed at not finding her, he went to considerable pains to hide
the fact from the mother. As a matter of fact he was secretly
relieved, strange as it may seem, after the first shock of
disappointment. Christine's absence was providential, after all. He
had ugly news for Mrs. Braddock; he could wait on the opportunity to
see Christine, but what he had to say to the mother could not be put
off for a moment.

He had gone at once to his room in the hotel after leaving Mrs.
Braddock at the ferry. He was startled almost out of his boots by the
discovery that Dick Cronk was there ahead of him, calmly occupying the
easiest chair and reading the evening paper. A skeleton key had
provided the means of admission to the room; a brave heart and cunning
brain did the rest.

Dick's news created great unrest in David's breast. Braddock, it
appeared, had gone, early in the afternoon, to the apartment hotel in
which Grand lived. Fortunately the Colonel was not about the place.
Dick, on missing the ex-convict, had hurried at once to Grand's hotel,
finding his man there, seated in the small lobby, a sinister example
of respectability, waiting patiently for the return of his enemy. The
self-appointed guardian coaxed him away from the place, conducting him
to the cheap, ill-favored thieves' lodging-house where he had taken a
single room for temporary occupancy. Braddock, after a show of
obduracy, finally had consented to make an effort to see his wife
before visiting his wrath upon Colonel Grand.

Dick informed David: "He's set on doing something nasty, kid, that's
all there is to it. He _won't_ be turned aside. Those years in the pen
have put something into his backbone that never was there before. Maybe
Mrs. Braddock can talk him out of it, but I dunno. She always had
influence over him, but that was before he took to getting tight. It's
different now. If we can't do anything else we'll have to warn Grand,
that's all. I hate to do it, but--I guess it's the only way left."

For the first time in their acquaintance David saw Dick lose control
of himself. His face was convulsed by an expression so violent that
the Virginian drew back in alarm.

"David, I hate the sight o' that man. I'd go to hell to-morrow if I
thought I could have a place where I could look on and see him burn
forever. I never see him now without wanting to stamp that face of his
to jelly. It's growing on me, too. Oh, to kick that white, putty face
until there was nothing left of it! I'd give--" But David had grasped
his arm, to shake him out of his frenzy, speaking to him all the
while. He grew calm as abruptly as he had gone to the other extreme.
His brow was moist, but the old, quizzical smile beamed beneath it.
"I'm going on like a crazy man, ain't I? Well, forget it, kid. I'm off
my nut, I guess. Get back to business. You got to fix it up with her
to see Brad." He paused and eyed David's face narrowly. "Say, are you
still worryin' about what I said about trampin' on his face?"

David had cause afterward to recall the ugly sensation that this
extraordinary burst of rage created in his mind.

Before leaving, Dick announced that he was eager to start West to
connect with Barnum's circus, complaining of the unprofitable idleness
that had been forced upon him. He expressed the confident hope that
Braddock might be persuaded to leave with him.

"I can't afford to be loafin' around New York this season of the
year," he reflected in the most _degage_ manner imaginable. "It's
expensive, the way Ernie and me are living nowadays. I got to get out
and round up the rubes. Now, kid, don't preach. Oh, by the way, has
Joey told you the good luck that's happened to Ruby? Going to marry
Ben Thompson, a newspaper man. I'm mighty glad she's gettin' a chap
like him, and not one of them rotten guys that hang around the op'ry
houses. She's--she's a fine girl, Davy--a plum' daisy."

Jenison once more impulsively offered to provide a refuge and
employment for life on his plantation for the delectable scalawag, but
Dick laughed at him in fine scorn. He departed a few minutes later,
sauntering down the hall with a complacency that fairly scoffed at
house detectives and their ilk.

David went to the Portman home in a state of suppressed eagerness and
anxiety, one emotion topping the other by turns as he was being driven
toward Washington Square. He expected to see Christine. He was
counting on it with all the pent-up fervor of a long-denied lover. The
brief glimpse he had had of her in the afternoon drove out all doubts
as to his own state of mind concerning her. She was incomparably
beautiful; she had the air of the high-bred; she was worthy of the
attentions of the well-born; she possessed poise, manner--all that and
more: the indefinable charm that radiates in some mysterious way from
the superlatively healthy.

His admiration for her, instead of suffering the shock that might have
been anticipated--and which was secretly dreaded, to be quite candid--
had grown more intense under the test. What would be her attitude
toward him? That was the question. What had the five years and new
environment done for her?

Eager as he was to discover the state of her feelings, he recognized,
however, the more pressing matters that were to be considered. The
peace and welfare of the girl herself demanded his first thoughts, his
most devoted efforts. Tragedy stalked close beside her. He was afraid
to think how close it was, or when it would make its ugly presence
felt.

He lost no time, therefore, in apprising Mary Braddock of the true
state of affairs. She sat before him, a great dread in her dark eyes,
the pallor of helplessness on her cheek, listening to the direful tale
he told. He did not make the mistake of minimizing the situation. He
spared her not the details, nor softened the stubborn facts. As
clearly as possible he drew for her the picture of Thomas Braddock as
he had seen him. He repeated faithfully all that Dick Cronk and the
Noakeses had told him, neglecting no particular in the known history
of her husband since the old circus days.

She was very still and tense. Her eyes never left his face while he
was speaking, except once when she looked toward the door in response
to a sound that led her to believe that Christine was returning. There
were times when he imagined that she was not breathing. After the
first few minutes she asked no questions, but mutely absorbed the
story as it fell from his lips. The light of joy and gladness in her
eyes that had been his welcome was gone now. In its place was the dark
gleam of dread and anxiety.

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