Chapter XI

"I'se goin' into de Sunday-school-room to take off dat ere widow's finishin' touches," said Mandy, as she came down the steps.

"All right!" called Douglas. "Take these with you, perhaps they may help." He gathered up the garlands which Polly had left on the ground.

His eyes were shining, he looked younger than Mandy had ever seen him.

Polly had turned her back at the sound of Mandy's voice and crossed to the elm tree, drying her tears of happiness and trying to control her newly awakened emotions. Douglas felt intuitively that she needed this moment for recovery, so he piled the leaves and garlands high in Mandy's arms, then ran into the house with the light step of a boy.

"I got the set-sit-settin' room all tidied up," said Mandy as she shot a sly glance at Polly.

"That's good," Polly answered, facing Mandy at last and dimpling and blushing guiltily.

"Mos' de sociable folks will mos' likely be hangin' roun' de parsonage to-night, 'stead ob stayin' in de Sunday-school-room, whar dey belongs.

Las' time dat ere Widow Willoughby done set aroun' all ebenin' a-tellin'

de parson as how folks could jes' eat off'n her kitchen floor, an' I ups an' tells her as how folks could pick up a good, squar' meal off'n MANDY'S floor, too. Guess she'll be mighty careful what she says afore Mandy to-night." She chuckled as she disappeared down the walk to the Sunday-school-room.

Polly stood motionless where Mandy had left her. She hardly knew which way to turn. She was happy, yet afraid. She felt like sinking upon her knees and begging G.o.d to be good to her, to help her. She who had once been so independent, so self-reliant, now felt the need of direction from above. She was no longer master of her own soul, something had gone from her, something that would never, never come again. While she hesitated, Hasty came through the gate looking anxiously over his shoulder.

"Well, Hasty?" she said, for it was apparent that Hasty had something important on his mind.

"It's de big one from de circus," he whispered, excitedly.

"The big one?"

"You know--De one what brung you."

"You don't mean--?" Polly's question was answered by Jim himself who had followed Hasty quickly through the gate. Their arms were instantly about each other. Jim forgot Hasty and every one in the world except Polly, and neither of them noticed the horrified Miss Perkins and the Widow Willoughby, who had been crossing the yard on their way from the Sunday-school-room with Julia.

"You're just as big as ever," said Polly, when she could let go of Jim long enough to look at him. "You haven't changed a bit."

"You've changed enough for both of us." He looked at the unfamiliar long skirts and the new way of doing her hair. "You're bigger, Poll; more grown up like."

"Oh, Jim!" She glanced admiringly at the new brown suit, the rather startling tie, and the neat little posy in Jim's b.u.t.tonhole.

"The fellows said I'd have to slick up a bit if I was a-comin' to see you, so as not to make you ashamed of me. Do you like 'em?" he asked, looking down approvingly at his new brown clothes.

"Very much." For the first time Jim noticed the unfamiliar manner of her speech. He began to feel self-conscious. A year ago she would have said, "You bet!" He looked at her awkwardly. She hurried on: "Hasty told me you were showing in Wakefield. I knew you'd come to see me. How's Barker and all the boys?" She stopped with a catch in her throat, and added more slowly: "I suppose everything's different, now that Toby is gone."

"He'd a-liked to a-seen you afore he cashed in," Jim answered; "but maybe it was just as well he didn't. You'd hardly a-knowed him toward the last, he got so thin an' peeked like. He wasn't the same after we lost you, n.o.body was, not even Bingo."

"Have you still got Bingo?" she asked, through her tears.

"Yep, we got him," drawled Jim, "but he ain't much good no more. None of the other riders can get used to his gait like you was. There ain't n.o.body with the show what can touch you ridin', there never will be.

Say, mebbe you think Barker won't let out a yell when he sees yer comin'

back." Jim was jubilant now, and he let out a little yell of his own at the mere thought of her return. He was too excited to notice the look on Polly's face. "Toby had a notion before he died that you was never a-comin' back, but I told him I'd change all that once I seed yer, and when Barker sent me over here to-day to look arter the advertisin', he said he guessed you'd had all you wanted a' church folks. 'Jes' you bring her along to Wakefield,' he said, 'an' tell her that her place is waitin' for her,' and I will, too." He turned upon Polly with sudden decision. "Why, I feel jes' like pickin' yer up in my arms and carryin'

you right off now."

"Wait, Jim!" She put one tiny hand on his arm to restrain him.

"I don't mean--not--to-day--mebbe"--he stammered, uncertainly, "but we'll be back here a-showin' next month."

"Don't look at me now," Polly answered, as the dog-like eyes searched her face, "because I have to say something that is going to hurt you, Jim."

"You're comin', ain't yer, Poll?" The big face was wrinkled and care-worn with trouble.

"No, Jim," she replied in a tone so low that he could scarcely hear her.

"You mean that you ain't NEVER comin' back?" He tried to realise what such a decision might mean to him.

"No, Jim." She answered tenderly, for she dreaded the pain that she must cause the great, good-hearted fellow. "You mustn't care like that," she pleaded, seeing the blank desolation that had come into his face. "It isn't because I don't love you just the same, and it was good of Barker to keep my place for me, but I can't go back."

He turned away; she clung to the rough, brown sleeve. "Why, Jim, when I lie in my little room up there at night"--she glanced toward the window above them--"and everything is peaceful and still, I think how it used to be in the old days, the awful noise and the rush of it all, the cheerless wagons, the mob in the tent, the ring with its blazing lights, the whirling round and round on Bingo, and the hoops, always the hoops, till my head got dizzy and my eyes all dim; and then the hurry after the show, and the heat and the dust or the mud and the rain, and the rumble of the wheels in the plains at night, and the shrieks of the animals, and then the parade, the awful, awful parade, and I riding through the streets in tights, Jim! Tights!" She covered her face to shut out the memory. "I couldn't go back to it, Jim! I just couldn't!" She turned away, her face still hidden in her hands. He looked at her a long while in silence.

"I didn't know how you'd come to feel about it," he said doggedly.

"You aren't ANGRY, Jim?" She turned to him anxiously, her eyes pleading for his forgiveness.

"Angry?" he echoed, almost bitterly. "I guess it couldn't ever come to that a-tween you an' me. I'll be all right." He shrugged his great shoulders. "It's just kinder sudden, that's all. You see, I never figured on givin' yer up, and when you said you wasn't comin' back, it kinder seemed as though I couldn't see nothin' all my life but long, dusty roads, and n.o.body in 'em. But it's all right now, and I'll just be gettin' along to the wagon."

"But, Jim, you haven't seen Mr. Douglas," Polly protested, trying to keep him with her until she could think of some way to comfort him.

"I'll look in on him comin' back," said Jim, anxious to be alone with his disappointment. He was out of the gate before she could stop him.

"Hurry back, won't you, Jim? I'll be waiting for you." She watched him going quickly down the road, his fists thrust into his brown coat pockets, and his hat pulled over his eyes. He did not look back, as he used to do, to wave a parting farewell, and she turned toward the house with a troubled heart. She had reached the lower step when Strong and Elverson approached her from the direction of the church.

"Was that feller here to take you back to the circus?" demanded Strong.

She opened her lips to reply, but before she could speak, Strong a.s.sured her that the congregation wouldn't do anything to stop her if she wished to go. He saw the blank look on her face. "We ain't tryin' to pry into none of your private affairs," he explained; "but my daughter saw you and that there feller a makin' up to each other. If you're calculatin'

to run away with him, you'll save a heap of trouble for the parson by doin' it quick."

"The parson!"

"YOU can't blame the congregation for not wantin' him to keep you here.

You got sense enough to see how it looks. HE'D see it, too, if he wasn't just plain, bull-headed. Well he'd better get over his stubbornness right now, if he don't we'll get another minister, that's all."

"Another minister? You don't mean--?" It was clear enough now. She recalled Douglas's troubled look of an hour ago. She remembered how he had asked if she couldn't go away. It was this that he meant when he promised not to give her up, no matter what happened. In an instant she was at the deacon's side pleading and terrified. "You wouldn't get another minister! Oh, please, Deacon Strong, listen to me, listen! You were right about Jim, he DID come to get me and I am going back to the circus--only you won't send Mr. Douglas away, you won't! Say you won't!"

She was searching his eyes for mercy. "It wasn't HIS fault that I kept staying on. He didn't know how to get rid of me. He DID try, he tried only to-day."

"So he's comin' 'round," sneered Strong.

"Yes, yes, and you won't blame him any more, will you?" she hurried on anxiously. "You'll let him stay, no matter what he does, if I promise to go away and never, never come back again?"

"I ain't holdin' no grudge agin him," Strong grumbled. "He talks pretty rough sometimes, but he's been a good enough minister. I ain't forgettin' that."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Strong, thank you. I'll get my things; it won't take a minute." She was running up the steps when a sudden thought stopped her. She returned quickly to Strong. "We'd better not let him know just yet. You can tell him afterward. Tell him that I ran away--Tell him that----"