The Rose in the Ring

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Her eyes were flooded. "Thank you, David," she said softly. Then she
quickly withdrew the flat purse from the bosom of her dress and handed
it to Joey, not without a cautious look in all directions.

The clown put it in his inside coat pocket without a word.

"You must deposit it in a bank at N--," she went on hurriedly. "All
but an amount sufficient to help you if you are obliged to suddenly
fly from arrest. You understand. Joey will attend to it for you. You
may depend on him and Casey to stand by you. In a few days we will be
in Ohio. The danger will be small after that, Dav--I mean, Jack Snipe.
I--I have worried about this money ever since--well, ever since last
night. You _must_ not have it about you, nor is it safe with me.
It is too large a sum to be placed in jeopardy. Perhaps, my boy, it is
your entire fortune, who knows. The Jenison estate seems lost to you,
cruelly enough. I am so very sorry."

"I only want to think that none of you believe I committed the crime I
am accused of," said David simply. "The money isn't anything."

"We are not accusers," she said gravely.

"Where is Brad?" demanded Grinaldi, his patience and diplomacy
exhausted.

"He is up in Colonel Grand's room at the hotel," she answered, as if
that explained everything.

"Talking business, I suppose," he said sarcastically.

"Yes, they are settling certain details." She spoke in such a way that
Joey looked up in alarm.

"You don't mean to say you are--you are going to--"

"No, not that, my friend," she said, quite calmly.

"I didn't think so," said Joey fervently.

Mrs. Braddock arose abruptly.

"I must go to Christine. Will you come, Ruby?"

Ruby followed her out of the tent, exchanging a quick glance with her
father as she left the improvised table.

"Come on, Jacky," said Joey. "Strip them clothes off and get to work.
You've got a lot to learn. Ta, ta, Casey. Don't stay out in the rain.
You'll melt your bones, if you've got any."

David, somewhat depressed and very thoughtful, got into a portion of
his clown's dress under the direction of his instructor, who was
unusually cross and taciturn.

As they started for the deserted ring, Joey took the boy's arm and
said, with a diffidence that was almost pathetic:

"Jacky, I--I want you to be nice to my gal. She's never 'ad no chance
to associate with a real toff. It ain't 'er fault, poor gal; it's the
life we leads. These 'ere circus people are as good as gold, Jacky;
I'm not complaining about that. But they ain't just exactly wot I want
my gal to grow up like. Not but wot she's growed up already so far as
size is concerned. But she's not quite eighteen. She's been in the
show business since she was two. Her mother and 'er grandmother afore
'er, too. But the business ain't wot it used to be. I want 'er to get
out of it. I don't want 'er marrying some wuthless 'Kinker' or even a
decent 'Joy.' Mrs. Braddock 'as done worlds for 'er, mind you, but
it's the men she's associated with that I objects to. They're--they're
too much like me. That's wot I mean, Jacky. Would you mind just
conversing with 'er friendly like from time to time? Just give 'er a
touch of wot a real gentleman is, sir. It ain't asking too much of
you, is it, Dav--Jacky? I ain't ashamed to ask it of you, and I--I
kind of hoped you wouldn't be ashamed to 'elp tone 'er up a bit, in a
way. She's more like 'er mother than she is like me. And 'er mother
was as fine a columbine as ever lived, she was that refined and
steadfast."

David gave his promise, strangely touched by this second appeal to the
birthright that placed him, though helpless and dependent, on a plane
so far above that of his present associates that even the most
scornful of them felt the distinction. He recalled the profane
respectfulness of the boss canvasman earlier in the day--a condition
which would have astonished that worthy beyond description if he had
had the least idea that he _was_ respectful.

CHAPTER VI

DAVID JENISON'S STORY

David's first week with the show was a trying one. In the first place,
he was kept so carefully under cover, literally as well as
figuratively, that he seldom saw the light of day except at dawn or
through the space between sidewall and top. At night he rode over
rough, muddy roads in the tableau wagon, stiff and sore from the
violent exercise of the day,--for he was training in earnest to become
a clown. He was learning the clown's songs, and singing with the
chorus in such pieces as "I'll never Kiss my Love again behind the
Kitchen Door," "Paddle your own Canoe," and others in Joey's
repertory.

Throughout the forlorn, disquieting days he stayed close to the
dressing-tent, always in dread of the moment when Blake or some other
minion of the law would clap him on the shoulder and end the agony of
suspense. Blake, as a matter of fact, more than once came near to
finding his quarry. Twice, at least, David was smuggled out of sight
just in time to avoid an encounter with his stubborn pursuer.

At last, after five days, Blake gave it up and turned back to
Virginia, hastened somewhat by the cleverly exploited newspaper
strategy of George Simms, the show's press agent. Simms managed it so
that a press dispatch came out of Richmond in which it was said on
excellent authority that the boy had been seen in the neighborhood of
his old home within the week, and that posses were now engaged in a
neighborhood hunt for him. Blake was fooled by it.

After it became definitely known to Simms that Blake was back in
Richmond with his assistant, David was permitted to emerge gradually
from his seclusion. The first thing he did was to go with Joey
Grinaldi to a savings bank where, under the name of John Snipe, he
deposited two thousand dollars, retaining five hundred for
emergencies. Part of this he turned over to the clown, part to Ruby
and the rest to the trusty contortionist. Twice during the week
Braddock bullied him into giving up twenty-five dollars to "fix it"
with town officials. At least once a day he was importuned to deliver
the "leather" into the safe keeping of the proprietor, who solemnly
promised that it would be returned. Moreover, in drunken magnanimity,
he guaranteed to pay three per cent interest while the money was in
his ticket-wagon safe, sealed and inviolate if needs be. On the subtle
advice of Joey Noakes David did not tell Braddock that he had
deposited the money; it would have been like the "boss" to fly into a
rage and deliver him up to the authorities.

Braddock drank hard during the days following the departure of Colonel
Grand, who stayed with the show no longer than twenty-four hours--an
unusually brief visit, according to Joey.

The rainy weather continued and business got worse and worse. There
was an air of downright gloom about the circus. Men, women and
children were in the "dumps," a most unnatural condition to exist
among these whilom, light-hearted adventurers. When they lifted up
their heads, it was to deliver continuous anathemas to the leaden
skies; when they allowed them to droop, it was to curse the soggy
earth.

The new clown saw but little of Mrs. Braddock and Christine.
Braddock's failure to extract money from him made that worthy so
disagreeable that his wife and daughter were in mortal terror of his
threats to turn the boy adrift if he caught them "coddling" him.

David's close associates were the Noakeses, the contortionist and two
or three rather engaging acrobats. As for the women of the company, he
had but little to do with them, except in the most perfunctory way. He
was always polite, gallant and agreeable, and they made much over him
when the opportunity presented itself. They were warm-hearted and
demonstrative, sometimes to such an exaggerated degree that he was
embarrassed. He was some time in getting accustomed to their effusive
friendliness; it dawned on him at last that they were not graceless,
flippant creatures, but big-hearted, honest women, in whom tradition
had planted the value of virtue. He was not long in forming an
unqualified respect for them; it was not necessary for Joey Grinaldi
to tell him over and over again that they were good women.

If Christine saw him while she was in the ring, David was never able
to determine the fact for himself. He tried to catch her eye a hundred
times a day; he looked for a single smile that he might have claimed
for his own. Once he caught her in his arms when she stumbled after
leaping from the horse at the end of her act. It was very gracefully
done on his part. She whispered "Thank you," but did not smile, and
therein he was exalted. There was no day in which he failed to perform
some simple act of gallantry for her and Mrs. Braddock, always with an
unobtrusive modesty that pleased them. Sometimes he left spring
flowers for them; on other occasions he bought sweetmeats and pastry
in the towns and smuggled them into their hands, not without a
conscious glow of embarrassment and guilt. He was ever ready to seize
upon the slightest excuse to be of service to them, despite the fact
that they resolutely held aloof from him. The entire company of
performers understood the situation and cultivated a rather malicious
delight in abetting his clandestine courtesies.

It was no other than the queen of equestrians, Mademoiselle Denise (in
reality an Irish woman with three children who attended school and a
husband who never had attended one, although he was an exceptionally
brilliant man when it came to head balancing)--it was Denise who, one
rainy evening, brought Christine and David together between
performances in a most satisfying manner by taking the former to visit
a fortune-teller whose home was quite a distance from the show lot,
first having sent David there on a perfectly plausible pretext. The
young people met on the sidewalk in front of the house bearing the
number Mademoiselle Denise had given to David. To say that he was
surprised at seeing Christine under the same umbrella with the older
woman would be putting it very tamely; to add that both of them were
shy and uneasy is certainly superfluous. Moreover, when I say that
David was obliged to inform Mademoiselle Denise that she had given him
the wrong number; that a hod-carrier instead of a sorceress dwelt
within,--when I say this, you may have an idea that there was no
fortune-teller in the beginning. And then, when the head-balancing
husband suddenly appeared and walked off with Denise, leaving the
embarrassed youngsters to follow at any pace they chose, you may be
quite certain that there was a conspiracy afoot.

Christine walked demurely beside David, under a rigid umbrella. They
were seven blocks from the circus lot; it was quite dark and drizzly.
For the first two blocks they had nothing to say to each other, except
to venture the information that it was raining. In the second block, a
very lonely stretch indeed, David, whose eyes had not left the backs
of the wily couple ahead, regained his composure and with it his
natural gallantry.

"Perhaps you had better take my arm, Miss--Miss Christine," he said
stiffly.

She took it, rather awkwardly perhaps but very resolutely.

"I thought I heard something in the bushes back there," she said in
extenuation.

"It was the wind," he vouchsafed, but his thoughts went at once to
Blake. Involuntarily he looked over his shoulder and quickened his
pace. She felt his arm stiffen.

"I'm quite sure it was a cow," she said.

"Are you afraid of cows?"

"Dreadfully."

"And you're not afraid of elephants or camels?"

"Oh, dear, no; they're tame." She seemed in doubt as to the wisdom of
expressing aloud the thoughts that troubled her. Twice she peered up
into the face of her companion. Then she resolutely delivered herself.
"I _do_ hope father won't see us, David."

"You poor girl," he cried gently. "I'm sorry if this gets you into
trouble. Denise didn't tell me. She--"

"Oh, Denise did it on purpose," she said, quite glibly. "I suppose she
thinks we're going to fall in love with each other."

David was grateful to the darkness. It hid his blush of confusion.

"But that's perfectly silly," went on the soft voice at his elbow. "I
just want to be your friend, David. My mother adores you. So do I, but
in just the same way that she does. I--I couldn't think of being so
ridiculous as to fall in love with you."

He resented this. "I don't see why you say that," he said, rather
stiffly. "But," very hastily, "I'm not asking you to do it. Please
don't misunderstand me. I--"

"Mother and I are so sorry for you, David," she went on earnestly.
"We--we don't believe a word of--of--well, you know." She was suddenly
distressed.

"How do you know that I'm not guilty?" he cried bitterly. "You have
only my word for it. Of course, I'd deny it. Anybody would, even if he
was as guilty as sin. I--I might have done it, for all you know."

"Oh, don't--don't talk like that, David!"

"Nearly every one with the show thinks I did it. It doesn't matter to
them, either. They like me just as well. It's--it's as if I were a
friendless, homeless dog. They're tender-hearted. They'd do as much
for the dog, every time. I like them for it. I'll not forget
everybody's kindness to me and--and their indifference."

"Indifference, David?"

"Yes. That's the word. It doesn't make any difference what I am, they
just say it's all right and--and--that's all."

She caught the intensely bitter note in his voice. Christine was
young, but she had fine perceptions. Her lip trembled.

"_Nobody_ thinks you did it," she cried in a vehement undertone. "Even
father--" She stopped abruptly, a quick catch of compunction in her
breath.

"If he thinks I'm innocent, why is he so set on keeping me from
talking to you or your mother?" he demanded quickly, a sudden fire
entering his brain. "That doesn't look as if he thinks I'm all right,
does it? I'm--I'm not a low-down person. If I was, I could see a
reason. But I'm a gentleman. Every man in my family has been a
gentleman since--oh, you'll think I'm boasting. I didn't mean to say
this to you. It sounds snobbish. No, Christine, your father thinks I'm
guilty."

"He does not!" she whispered. "I know he doesn't. I've heard him argue
with mother about you. He has told her that he does not believe that
you killed your grandfather. I've heard him say it, David. He--he is
only thinking of--must I say it? Of the disgrace to us if you should
be caught and it came out we were your friends. That's it. He's
thinking of us, David. It is so foolish of him. We both have told him
so. But--but you don't know my father." There was a world of meaning
in that declaration--and it was not disrespectful, either.

David was discreetly silent. He was quelling the rage that always rose
in his heart when he thought of Thomas Braddock's attitude, not only
toward him but toward his wife.

"I wish he wouldn't look at it in that way, David," she resumed
plaintively. "We--we would be so happy if you could be with us,--that
is, more than you are." She was stammering, but not from
embarrassment. It was in the fear of saying something that might touch
his sensitive pride.

"I--I love your mother," he cried intensely. "She's the best woman
I've ever known--except my own mother. She's better than my aunts--
yes, she is! Better than all of them. I could die for her."

She clutched his arm tightly but said nothing. The words could not
break through the sobs that were in her throat. Neither spoke for a
matter of a hundred feet or more. Then he said to her, rather
drearily:

"Did you read what the papers said about the--the murder, and about
me?"

"No. Mother will not let me read the things about crime. But," she
said quickly, "she has told me all about it since you came."

"They made me out to be a vicious degenerate and an ingrate," he said.
"Oh, it was horrible,--the things they said about me. Just as if they
knew I was guilty. But, Christine, I am going to make them take it all
back. I'm going to make them apologize some day, see if I don't." The
fierce agony in his voice moved her greatly.

"Oh, if I could help you!" she cried tremulously.

He apparently did not hear the eager words.

"It all looked so black against me," he went on, looking straight
ahead unseeingly. "Perhaps I shouldn't blame them. I have thought it
all out, lots of times, Christine, and I've tried to put myself in
their place. Sometimes I think that if I were not myself I should
certainly believe myself guilty. It _did_ point to me, every bit
of it, Christine. And I am as innocent as a little baby. If--if they
catch me they'll hang me!"

"No, no!" she shuddered.

"Doesn't it look to you as if I really had done it?" he demanded.
"Tell the truth, Christine. From what you have heard, wouldn't you say
it _looked_ as if I were guilty?"

She hesitated, frightened, distressed. "The papers did not tell the
truth, David," she said loyally.

"They hunted for me with bloodhounds," he went on vaguely. "If they
had caught me then, I would have been strung up and shot to pieces.
You see," turning to her with a gentle note in his voice, "my
grandfather was very much beloved. He was the very finest man in all
the state. I have sworn to avenge his death. I swear it every night--
every night, Christine. First, I'm going to clear myself of the--the
hideous thing. And then!" There was a world of promise in those two
words.

"You have said that there is a man who can clear you," she ventured.
"Who is he, David? Where is he to be found? Why doesn't he step
forward and clear you?"

"I--I don't know where he is. In New York, I think. He--he was sent
out of the country by--by some one. Do you want to hear my side,
Christine?"

"Do you--care to speak of it, David?"

"Yes. You will understand. You are good. I want you to tell your
mother, too." He slackened his pace. Both forgot that the hour for the
"tournament" was drawing perilously near. "I lived with my
grandfather, Colonel Jenison. My father was killed at Shiloh. My
mother died when I was nine years old. I had one uncle, my father's
younger brother. He was an officer in the Southern army, just as my
father was. He gave my grandfather trouble all of his life. They say
it was his wild habits that drove my grandmother to her grave. I knew
him but slightly. When the war was two years old, he was court-
martialed for treason to the cause. The story was that he had been
caught trying to sell some plans to the enemy. He was sentenced to be
shot. It was very clear against him, my mother told me on one of the
rare occasions when his name was mentioned. But he escaped during a
sudden, overwhelming attack by the Yanks. They never caught him. My
grandfather, who had been a colonel in the war with Mexico and had
lost an arm, disowned him as a son. He disinherited him, leaving
everything to my father. When my father was killed I became the heir
to Jenison Hall and all that went with it,--a vast estate.

"A year ago my uncle Frank turned up. He came to Richmond with proof
that cleared him of the charge of treason in the minds of his old
comrades. Three men on their deathbeds had signed affidavits, showing
that they were guilty of the very thing of which he was accused, he
being an innocent dupe in the transaction. I don't know just how it
all came about, but he was exonerated completely. With this to back
him up, he came to the Hall to plead for my grandfather's forgiveness.
He came many times, and finally it seems that grandfather believed his
story. Uncle Frank took up his residence at the Hall. I hated him from
the beginning. He was a wicked man and always had been. I don't
believe what the affidavits said.

"Well, he soon learned that I was to be the heir. Everybody knew it. I
was at the University. Grandfather had sent me there. It was my second
year, for I had gone in very young. When I went home for the Christmas
holidays, Uncle Frank was practically running the place. Grandfather
didn't really trust him, I'm sure of that. They had a couple of
violent scenes New Year's week up in the library. It was something
about money. Grandfather told me a little about it, but not much. He
said Uncle Frank wanted him to change his will, claiming it was not
fair to him, who had been so wrongfully accused. My grandfather told
me that he would never change it. He might leave a certain amount in
trust for Uncle Frank, but Jenison Hall was not to go to any Jenison
whose name had ever been blackened.

"One day I went up to Richmond to spend the night with some college
friends. My uncle Frank was already there, on business he said. Well,
I found out what his business was--accidentally, of course. He was
there to see a nigger lawyer! Think of that, Christine. A Jenison
having dealings with a nigger lawyer. This lawyer had once been a
slave on the Jenison place, a yellow boy whose name was Isaac--Isaac
Perry. When the war broke out he went with my uncle as his body-
servant. He was a smart, thieving fellow,--always too smart to be
caught, but always under suspicion. My grandfather had given him some
schooling because Isaac's father was _his_ body-servant and he
would have done anything for old Abraham. After the war Isaac was made
a lawyer, 'way down in South Carolina. The judges were darkies, they
say. Later on he went to Richmond and did some business for the
darkies there, besides conducting a barber shop.

"Well, I happened to go into his shop the evening I reached Richmond.
He was shaving Uncle Frank. They did not observe me as I sat back
along the wall. I heard him tell Uncle Frank he would surely come to
the hotel that night to see him. Uncle Frank said it was important and
asked him to be sure and bring the papers. He left the shop without
seeing me, and Isaac had forgotten me, I reckon. I wondered what
business he and my uncle could have to discuss. That night I made it a
point to be at the hotel. I saw Uncle Frank standing out in front.
When Isaac came up he took him off down the street. I heard him say to
Isaac that the hotel was not a good place for a nigger to be seen,
except as a servant, even if he did come as a lawyer. So they went
back to the barber shop, which was closed. Isaac opened the doors and
they went in. The blinds were shut. I waited until Uncle Frank came
out, an hour later. He said to Isaac, who came no farther than the
door, that he would be up again in about ten days to see how he was
'getting on with it.' Isaac said he'd have it fixed up 'so slick that
it would fool the old man hisself.'

"When I went back to Jenison Hall I tried to tell grandfather about
all this, but I didn't do it. I couldn't bear the thought of carrying
tales. I went back to school, but I couldn't get the thing out of my
head."

Christine interrupted him, intense almost to breathlessness.

"They--they were fixing up a new will!" she whispered, vastly excited.

He smiled wanly. "I wish I could prove that. About three weeks ago I
had a message from Uncle Frank, saying that grandfather was quite ill.
I was to come home. When I got to the Hall grandfather was much
better, and seemed annoyed because my uncle had brought me home
unnecessarily. That very night he was murdered."

"Oh!" she whispered.

"He was shot by some one who fired through the parlor window. It
happened at half-past eleven o'clock, a most unusual time for
grandfather to be about. He was fully dressed when they found him a
few minutes after the shooting. A heavy charge of buckshot had struck
him in the breast. I--I can't tell you any more about that. It was too
horrible."

"I know, I know! Poor David!"

"I was studying in my room up to a short time before the shot was
fired. The house was very still. Uncle Frank was downstairs with
granddaddy. I couldn't imagine what kept them up so long, talking.
Finally I heard Uncle Frank go upstairs to his room. Grandfather was
pacing the parlor floor; I could hear the stumping. Finally he came
out in the hall and called to me. I hurried downstairs. He was very
much agitated. 'David,' he said, 'do you remember a darky we used to
have named Isaac?' I was startled. 'Well, he has become a lawyer up in
Richmond. He has done very well, and I want you to know what I have
done for him. You are to own this place some day--soon, I fear. I have
signed a paper to-night, deeding over to Isaac the little five-acre
patch on the creek where he was born and where his father and
grandfather were born. He saw your uncle Frank in Richmond recently
and asked him if it would be possible for him to buy the ground. He
wants to put up a building to be known as the Old Negroes' Home. I
have thought it over. I did not sell it to him, David. I _gave_
it to him. It is all quite regular and legal. The paper is in that
drawer there. You are taking the law course at the university. I want
you to look over the agreement to-night or to-morrow morning, before
it is taken over to the county seat. It is just as well that you, who
are to be the next master of Jenison Hall, should understand all that
there is in it.'

"'Has Isaac Perry been here?' I asked, for I was strangely troubled.
'He has,' said granddaddy, 'he brought the document over this evening.
Isaac seems likely to make something of himself, after all.' 'I will
read it in the morning,' I said, and then I told him that I was glad
that he had given the ground. 'Your uncle Frank advised me to tell you
of it to-night,' said he.

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