 | Chapter XIV Polly of the Circus |  |
14. Chapter XIV
THE "Leap of Death'' implements were being carried from the ring, and Jim turned away to superintend their loading.
Performers again rushed by each other on their way to and from the main tent.
Polly stood in the centre of the lot, frowning and anxious. The mere mention of the pastor's name had made it seem impossible for her to ride to-night. For hours she had been whipping herself up to the point of doing it, and now her courage failed her. She followed Barker as he came from the ring.
"Mr. Barker, please!''
He turned upon her sharply.
"Well, what is it now?''
"I want to ask you to let me off again to-night.'' She spoke in a short, jerky, desperate way.
"What?'' he shrieked. "Not go into the ring, with all them people inside what's paid their money a-cause they knowed yer?''
"That's it,'' she cried. "I can't! I can't!''
"Yer gettin' too tony!'' Barker sneered. "That's the trouble with you. You ain't been good for nothin' since you was at that parson's house. Yer didn't stay there, and yer no use here. First thing yer know yer'll be out all 'round.''
"Out?''
"Sure. Yer don't think I'm goin' ter head my bill with a `dead one,' do you?''
"I am not a `dead one,' '' she answered, excitedly. "I'm the best rider you've had since mother died. You've said so yourself.''
`That was afore yer got in with them church cranks. You talk about yer mother! Why, she'd be ashamed ter own yer.''
"She wouldn't,'' cried Polly. Her eyes were flashing, her face was scarlet. The pride of hundreds of years of ancestry was quivering with indignation. "I can ride as well as I ever could, and I'll do it, too. I'll do it to-morrow.''
"To-morrow?'' echoed Barker. "What do you mean by that?''
"I mean that I can't go into that ring to-night,'' she declared, "and I won't.''
She was desperate now, and trading upon a strength beyond her own.
He looked at her with momentary indecision. She was a good rider—the best since her mother, as he had often told her. He could see this meant an issue. He felt she would be on her mettle to-morrow, as far as her work was concerned, if he left her alone to-night.
"All right,'' he said, sullenly. "Yer can stay off to-night. I got the crowd in there, anyway, and I got their money. I'll let Eloise do a turn on Barbarian, but to-morrow you'd better show me your old act.''
"I'll show you!'' she cried. "I'll show you!''
"Well, see that you do.'' He crossed into the ring.
Polly stood where Barker had left her, white and tense. Jim came toward her from the direction of the wagons. He glanced at her uneasily. "What's he been a-sayin' ter you?''
"He says I can't ride any more.'' Her lips closed tightly. She stared straight ahead of her. "He says I was no good to the people that took me in, and I'm no use here.''
"It's not so!'' thundered Jim.
"No; it's not!'' she cried. "I'll show him, Jim! I'll show him—to-morrow!'' She turned toward the dressing tent; Jim caught her firmly by the wrist.
"Wait, Poll! You ain't ever goin' into the ring a-feelin' that way.'' Her eyes met his, defiantly.
"What's the difference? What's the difference?'' She wrenched her wrist quickly from him, and ran into the dressing tent laughing hysterically.
"And I brung her back to it,'' mumbled Jim as he turned to give orders to the property men.
Most of the "first-half props'' were loaded, and some of the men were asleep under the wagons. The lot was clear. Suddenly he felt some one approaching from the back of the enclosure. He turned and found himself face to face with the stern, solitary figure of the pastor, wrapped in his long, black cloak. The moonlight slipped through a rift in the clouds, and fell in a circle around them.
"What made you come here?'' was all Jim said.
"I heard that Miss Polly didn't ride to-day. I was afraid she might be ill.''
"What's that to you?''
"She isn't ill?'' Douglas demanded anxiously, oblivious to the gruffness in the big fellow's voice.
"She's all right,'' Jim answered shortly as he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and avoided the pastor's burning gaze.
"And she's happy? she's content?''
"Sure.''
"I'm glad,'' said Douglas, dully. He tried to think of some way to prolong their talk. "I've never heard from her, you know.''
"Us folks don't get much time to write.'' Jim turned away and began tinkering with one of the wagons.
Douglas had walked up and down in front of the tents again and again, fighting against a desire to do the very thing that he was doing, but to no purpose, and now that he was here, it seemed impossible that he should go away so unsatisfied. He crossed to Jim and came determinedly to the point.
"Can't I see her, Jim?''
"It's agin the rules.'' He did not turn.
There was another pause, then Douglas started slowly out of the lot.
"Wait a minute,'' called Jim, as though the
"I lied to you.''
"She's not well, then?''
"Oh, yes, she's well enough. It ain't that; it's about her being happy.''
"She isn't?'' There was a note of unconscious exultation in his voice.
"No. She ain't happy here, and she was happy with you.''
"Then, why did she leave me?''
"I don't know. She wasn't goin' ter do it at first. Somethin' must a-happened afterwards, somethin' that you an' me didn't know about.''
"We will know about it, Jim. Where is she?'' His quick eye searched the lot. His voice had regained it's old command. He felt that he could conquer worlds.
"You can't do no good that way,'' answered Jim. "She don't want ter see you again.''
"Why not?''
"I don't know, but she told me she'd run away if I ever even talked to you about her.''
"You needn't talk, Jim; I'll talk for myself. Where is she?''
"She'll be comin' out soon. You can wait around out here with me. I'll let you know in time.'' He led the way through a narrow passage between the wagons.
Jim and Douglas had barely left the lot when Deacon Elverson's small, round head slipped cautiously around the corner of the dressing tent. The little deacon glanced exultantly about him. He was monarch of all he surveyed. It was very thrilling to stand here, on this forbidden ground, smelling the sawdust, gazing at the big red wagons, studying the unprotected circus properties, and listening to the lightening tempo of the band.
"Did you see him?'' shouted Strong, who had followed closely upon Elverson's heels.
The little deacon started. Strong was certainly a disturbing factor at times.
"Yes, I—I saw him.''
"Well?''
"He—he—didn't see her.''
"What did he do?'' Strong was beside himself with impatience.
"He—he just talked to the big 'un, and went
"I guess he ain't gone far,'' sneered Strong. "He come over to this lot to see her, and he ain't goin' ter give up till he does it. You wait here; I'll take a look round.'' He went quickly in the direction of the wagons.
Elverson needed no second invitation to wait. He was congratulating himself upon his good fortune, when he all but collided with a flying apparition, vanishing in the direction of the main tent. Sophisticated eyes would have seen only a rather stout acrobat clad in pink tights; but Elverson was not sophisticated, and he teetered after the flitting angel, even unto the forbidden portals of the "big top.''
He was peeping through the curtains which had fallen behind her, and was getting his first glimpse of the great, sawdust world beyond, when one of the clowns dashed from the dressing tent on his way to the ring.
The clown was late. He saw the limp coat tails of the deacon, who was three-quarters in the tent. Here was a chance to make a funny entrance.
Strong returned almost immediately from his unsuccessful search for the pastor. He looked about the lot for Elverson.
"Hey, there, Elverson!'' he called lustily. There was no response.
"Now where's he got to,'' grumbled Strong. He disappeared quickly around the corner of the dressing tent, resolved to keep a sharp lookout for Douglas.
Elverson was thrust from the tent soon after, spitting sawdust and much discomfited by the laughing performers who followed him. His knees almost gave way beneath him when Barker came out of the ring, snapping his long, black whip.
"Get out of here, you bloke!'' roared Barker. and Elverson "got.''
No one had remembered to tell the groom that Polly was not to ride to-night. So Bingo was
"Take him back, Tom,'' Polly called from the entrance, when she learned that Bingo was waiting, "and bring Barbarian. I'm not going on to-night. Eloise is going to ride in my place.''
This was the second time to-day that Bingo had been led away without going into the ring. Something in his big, wondering eyes made Polly follow him and apologise. He was very proud, was Bingo, and very conscientious. He felt uneasy when he saw the other horses going to their work without him.
"Never mind, Bingo,'' she said, patting his great, arched neck, "we'll show 'em to-morrow.'' He rubbed his satiny nose against her cheek. "We'll make them sit up again. Barker says our act's no good—that I've let down. But it's not your fault, Bingo. I've not been fair to you. I'll give you a chance to-morrow. You wait. He'll never say it again, Bingo! Never again!'' She watched him go out of the lot, and laughed a little as he nipped the attendant on the arm. He was still irritated at not going into the ring.
Polly had nothing more to do to-night except to get into her street clothes. The wagons would soon be moving away. For a moment she glanced at the dark church steeple, then she turned to go inside the tent. A deep, familiar voice stopped her.
"Polly!''
She turned quickly. She could not answer. Douglas came toward her. He gazed at her in amazement. She drew her cape about her slightly clad figure. She seemed older to him, more unapproachable with her hair heaped high and sparkling with jewels. Her bodice of satin and lace shimmered through the opening of her cape. The moonlight lent mystery and indecision to her betinselled attire. The band was playing the andante for the balancing act.
She found strength at last to open her lips, but still no sound came from them. She and the pastor looked at each other strangely, like spirits newly met from far-apart worlds. She, too, thought her companion changed. He was older, the circles beneath his eyes were deeper, the look in their depths more grave.
"We were such close neighbours to-day, I—I
"When you're in a circus there isn't much time for calling.''
"That's why I've come to call on you.'' They might have been sheppherd and sheppherdess on a May-day wooing, for the halting way in which their words came.
"You're all right?'' he went on. "You're happy?''
"Yes, very,'' she said. Her eyes were downcast.
He did not believe her, the effort in her voice, her drawn, white face belied her words. How could he get the truth from her?
"Jim said you might not want to see me.''
She started.
"Has Jim been talking to you?''
"Yes, but I didn't let him stop me, for you told me the day you left that you'd never change— toward me. Have you, Poll?'' He studied her, anxiously.
"Why, no, of course not,'' she said, evasively.
"And you'll be quite frank when I ask you something?''
"Yes, of course.'' She was growing more and more uneasy. She glanced about for a way of escape.
"Why did you leave me as you did?''
"I told you then.'' She tried to cross toward the dressing tent.
He stepped quickly in front of her.
"You aren't answering frankly, and you aren't happy.''
She was growing desperate. She felt she must get away, anywhere, anywhere.
He seized her small wrists and forced her to look at him.
"And I am not happy without you, and I never, never can be.'' The floodgates were open, his eyes were aglow, he bent toward her eagerly.
"Oh, you mustn't,'' she begged. "You mustn't.''
"You've grown so close,'' he cried. "So close!'' She struggled to be free. He did not heed her. "You know—you must know what I mean.'' He drew her toward him and forced her into his
For the first time he saw the extreme pallor on her face. He felt her growing limp and lifeless in his arms. A doubt crossed his mind. "If I am wrong in thinking you feel as I do, if you honestly care for all this,'' he glanced about at the tents, "more than for any life that I can give you, I shan't interfere. You'll be going on your way in an hour. I'll say good-bye and God bless you; but if you do care for me, Polly,'' he was pleading now, "if you're not happy here— won't you come back to me? Won't you, Polly?''
She dared not meet his eyes, nor yet to send him away. She stood irresolute. The voice of Deacon Strong answered for her.
"So! You're here, are you?''
"Yes, Deacon Strong, I'm here,'' answered the pastor, as he turned to meet the accusing eyes of the deacon, who had come quickly from behind the dressing tent.
"As for you, miss,'' continued Strong, with an insolent nod toward Polly, "I might have known how you'd keep your part of the bargain.''
"Bargain?'' echoed Douglas. "What bargain?''
"Oh, please, Deacon Strong, please. I didn't mean to see him, I didn't, truly.'' She hardly knew what she was saying.
"What bargain?'' demanded Douglas sternly.
"She told me that you and her wasn't ever goin' ter see each other agin,'' roared Strong. "If I'd a-knowed she was goin' to keep on with this kind o' thing, you wouldn't er got off so easy.''
"So! That's it!'' cried Douglas. It was all clear to him now. He recalled everything, her hysterical behaviour, her laughter, her tears. "It was you who drove that child back to this.'' He glanced at Polly. The narrow shoulders were bent forward. The nervous little fingers were clasping and unclasping each other. Never before had she seemed so small and helpless.
"Oh, please, Mr. John, please! Don't make him any worse!''
"Why didn't you tell me?'' he demanded.
"It would have done no good,'' she sobbed. "Oh, why—why won't you leave me alone?''
"It would have done all the good in the world. What right had he to send you back to this?''
"I had every right,'' said Strong, stubbornly.
"What?'' cried Douglas.
"It was my duty.''
"Your duty? Your narrow-minded bigotry!''
"I don't allow no man to talk to me like that, not even my parson.''
"I'm not your parson any longer,'' declared Douglas. He faced Strong squarely. He was master of his own affairs at last. Polly clung to him, begging and beseeching.
"Oh, Mr. John! Mr. John!''
"What do you mean by that?'' shouted Strong.
"I mean that I stayed with you and your narrow-minded congregation before, because I believed you needed me. But now this girl needs me more. She needs me to protect her from just such injustice as yours.''
"You'd better be protectin' yourself. That's my advice to you.''
"I can do that without your advice.''
"Maybe you can find another church with that circus ridin' girl a-hangin' 'round your neck.''
"He's right,'' cried Polly. "You couldn't.'' She clung to the pastor in terrified entreaty. "You couldn't get another church. They'd
"Listen, Polly.'' He drew her toward him. "God is greater than any church or creed. There's work to be done everywhere—His work.''
"You'll soon find out about that,'' thundered Strong.
"So I will,'' answered Douglas, with his head thrown high. "This child has opened a new world to me; she has shown me a broader, deeper humanity; she and I will find the way together.''
"It won't be an easy one, I'll promise you that.'' Strong turned to go.
"I'm not looking for the easy way!'' Douglas called after him, then he turned to draw Polly's arm within his; but Polly had slipped from his side to follow the deacon.
"Oh, please, Deacon Strong, please!'' she pleaded. "You won't go away like that. He'll be all right if you'll only wait. I'm not coming back. I'm not—honestly. I'm going on with the show, to-night, and I'm going this time forever.''
"You are going to stay here with me,'' cried Douglas.
"No, no, Mr. John. I've made up my mind, and I won't be to blame for your unhappiness.'' She faced him firmly now. "I don't belong to your world, and I don't want to try any more. I'm what he called me—I'm a circus riding girl. I was born in the circus, and I'll never change. That's my work—riding, and it's yours to preach. You must do your work, and I'll do mine.''
She started toward the ring. Eloise and Barbarian were already waiting at the entrance
"Eloise!'' She took one step toward her, then stopped at the sound of Barker's voice.
"Ladies and gentlemen,'' he called. "Although we are obliged to announce that our star rider, Miss Polly, will not appear to-night, we offer you in her place an able substitute, Mademoiselle Eloise, on her black, untamed horse, Barbarian.''
Eloise put her hands on the horse's back to mount.
"No! No!'' cried Polly.
The other girl turned in astonishment at the agony in her voice.
"Polly!''
"Wait, Eloise! I'm going to ride!''
"You can't, not Barbarian! He don't know your turn.''
"So much the better!'' She seized the bridle from the frightened girl's hand.
"Polly!'' shouted Douglas. He had followed her to the entrance.
"I must! I will!''
She flew into the ring before he could stop her. He took one step to follow her.
"You'd better let her alone and get out o' here,'' said Strong. His voice was like a firebrand to Douglas. He turned upon him, white with rage.
"You drove her to this.'' His fists were clenched. He drew back to strike.
Jim came from behind the wagons just in time to catch the uplifted arm.
"Leave him to me, this ain't no parson's job.'' The pastor lowered his arm, but kept his threatening eyes on the deacon's face.
"Where's Poll?'' asked Jim.
"In there! Douglas pointed toward the main tent without turning his head. He was still glaring at the deacon, and breathing hard.
"What?'' cried Jim, in alarm. He faced about and saw Eloise. He guessed the truth. A few
"My God! Why don't Barker stop her?''
"What is it?'' called Douglas. He forgot the deacon in his terror at Jim's behaviour, and Strong was able to slip away, unnoticed.
"She's goin' ter ride! She's goin' ter ride Barbarian!''
Douglas crossed to his side and looked.
Polly was springing onto the back of Barbarian. He was a poorly trained horse, used by the other girl for more showy, but less dangerous feats than Polly's.
"She's goin' through her regular turn with him, she's tryin' ter break her neck,'' said Jim. "She wants ter do it. It's your fault!'' he cried, turning upon Douglas with bloodshot eyes. He was half insane, he cared little whom he wounded.
"Why can't we stop her?'' cried Douglas, unable to endure the strain. He took one step inside the entrance.
"No, no; not that!'' Jim dragged him back roughly. "If she sees you now, it will be the
Douglas drew back, his muscles tense, as he watched the scene inside the ring. Eloise stood at the pastor's side, horror-stricken at Polly's reckless behaviour. She knew Barbarian. It was easy to guess the end.
"She's comin' to the hoops,'' Jim whispered, hoarsely.
"Barbarian don't know that part, I never trained him,'' the other girl said.
Polly made the first leap toward the hoops. The horse was not at fault; it was Polly. She plunged wildly, the audience started. She caught her footing with an effort. One, two, three hoops were passed. She threw herself across the back of the horse and hung, head downward, as he galloped around the ring. The band was playing loudly, the people were cheering. She rose to meet the last two hoops.
"She's swayin','' Jim shrieked in agony. "She's goin' to fall. He covered his face with his hands.
Polly reeled and fell at the horse's side. She mounted and fell again. She rose and staggered in pursuit.
"I can't bear it,'' groaned Douglas. He rushed into the ring, unconscious of the thousands of eyes bent upon his black, ministerial garb, and caught the slip of a girl in his arms just as she was about to sink fainting beneath the horse's hoofs.
Barker brought the performance to a halt with a crack of his whip. The audience stood on tiptoe. White-faced clowns and gaily attired acrobats crowded around Polly and the pastor.
Douglas did not see them. He had come into his own.
"He's bringin' her out,'' whispered Eloise, who still watched at the entrance. Jim dared not look up, his head was still in his hands.
"Is it over?'' he groaned.
"I don't know. I can't tell yet.'' She stepped aside as Douglas came out of the tent, followed by a swarm of performers. He knelt on the soft grass and rested Polly's head upon his knee. The others pressed about them. It seemed to Douglas that he waited hours; then her white lids quivered and opened and the colour crept back to her lips.
"It's all right, Jim!'' called one of the men from
Polly's eyes looked up into those of the parson —a thrill shot through his veins.
"It was no use, was it?'' She shook her head with a sad little smile. He knew that she was thinking of her failure to get out of his way.
"That's because I need you so much, Polly, that God won't let you go away from me.'' He drew her nearer to him, and the warm blood that shot to her cheeks brought back her strength. She rose unsteadily, and looked about her. Jim came toward her, white and trembling.
"All right, Poll?''
"Oh, Muvver Jim!'' She threw herself into his arms and clung to him, sobbing weakly.
No one could ever remember just how the audience left the big top that night, and even Barker had no clear idea of how Jim took down the tents, loaded the great wagons, and sent the caravan on its way.
When the last wagon was beginning to climb the long, winding road of the moon-lit hill, Jim turned to Polly, who stood near the side of the
deserted ring. His eyes travelled from her to the parson, who waited near her. She was in her street clothes now, the little brown Quakerish dress which she had chosen to wear so much since her return from the parsonage.
"I guess I won't be makin' no mistake this time,'' he said, and he placed her hand in that of the parson.
"Good-bye, Muvver Jim,'' faltered Polly.
He stooped and touched her forehead with his lips. A mother's spirit breathed through his kiss.
"I'm glad it's like this,'' he said, then turned away and followed the long, dotted line of winding lights disappearing slowly over the hill.
Her eyes travelled after him.
Douglas touched the cold, little hand at her side.
"I belong with them,'' she said, still gazing after Jim and the wagons.
"You belong with me,'' he answered in a firm, grave voice, and something in the deep, sure tones told her that he was speaking the truth. She lifted one trembling hand to his shoulder, and looked up into his face.
"Whither thou goest, will I go, where thou diest, will I die.''
He drew her into his arms.
"The Lord do so to me and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.''
| Chapter XIV Polly of the Circus | |