Those horrid Hart boys are over there, and they've been staring at you as if you belonged to them. Such impudence!"

CHAPTER IX

THE LONELY ROAD

The day of the circus was not a happy one for Mary Hart. She watched Sue go down the street, and her heart went out toward her friend. What a darling she was! How pretty she looked, and how well the plumed hat set off her delicate, high-bred face, and the little air she had of owning the world and liking her possession! Now that there were no mincing steps beside her, she walked with her own free, graceful gait, head held high, eyes bent forward, ready for anything.

"She ought really to be a princess," thought humble-minded Mary; and in her glow of admiration she did not see the troubled look in Sue's bright eyes.

The day went heavily. The boys, too, went off to the circus in the afternoon. Mary might have gone with them, but she had been given her choice between this treat and the concert that was coming off a week or two later, and had chosen the latter. If she and Sue could have gone together with the boys, that would have been another matter. She longed to tell the boys her secret, and beg them to keep an eye on Sue, in case she should get into any trouble. Several times the words were on the tip of her tongue, but the thought of her promise drove them back. She had promised in the solemn school-boy formula, "Honest and true, black and blue"; and that was as sacred as if she had sworn on any number of relics. There was a dreadful pa.s.sage in "Lalla Rookh": "Thine oath! thine oath!"

She and Sue had decided long ago that they would not take oaths, but that a promise should be just as binding. The promise lay heavy on Mary's heart all day. She found it hard to settle down to anything.

Sue's face kept coming between her and her work, and looked at her from the pages of her book. Her imagination, not very lively as a rule, was now so excited that it might have been Sue's own. She saw her friend in every conceivable and inconceivable danger. Now it was a railway accident, with fire and every other accompaniment of terror.

She could hear the crash, the shrieks, and the dreadful hiss of escaping steam; could see the hideous wreck in which Sue was pinned down by burning timbers, unable to escape. Now a wild beast, a tiger or panther, had escaped from his cage and sprung in among the terrified audience of pleasure-seekers. She saw the glaring yellow eyes, the steel claws. This time she screamed aloud, and frightened Lily Penrose, who, luckily, came over at that very moment to ask advice about the cutting of her doll's opera-cloak. Mary forced herself to attend to the cloak, and that did her good; and there was no reason why Lily should not be made happy and amused a little. Then there were some errands to do for her mother, and then came her music lesson; and so, somehow or other, the long day wore away, and the time came for the arrival of the circus train from Chester. The time came, and the train with it. Mary heard it go puffing and shrieking on its way. She stationed herself at the window to watch for Sue. Soon she would come by, twinkling all over, quicksilvering with joy as she did when she had had a great pleasure--making the whole street brighter, Mary always thought. But Sue did not come. Five o'clock struck; then half-past five; then six. Still no Sue. In an anguish of dread and uncertainty, Mary pressed her face against the pane and gazed up the fast-darkening street. People came and went, going home from their work; but no slight, glancing figure came swinging past.

What had happened? What could have happened? So great was Mary's distress of mind that she did not hear her mother come into the room, and started violently when a hand was laid on her shoulder.

"My dear," said Mrs. Hart, "I think the boys must have missed the train. Why--why, Mary, dear child, what is the matter?" for Mary turned on her a face so white and wild that her mother was frightened.

"Mary!" she cried. "The boys! Has--has anything happened? The train--"

"No, no!" cried Mary, hastily. "It isn't the boys, mother. The boys will be all right. It's Sue--my Sue!"

Then it all came out. Promise or no promise, Mary must take the consequences. On her mother's neck she sobbed out the story: her foolish "solemn promise," the day-long anxiety, the agony of the last hour.

"Oh, what can have happened to her?" she cried. "Oh, Mammy, I'm so glad I told you! I'm so glad--so glad!"

"Of course you are, my dear little girl," said Mrs. Hart. "And now, stop crying, Mary. Thank goodness, there's your father driving into the yard this moment. Run and tell him; he will know just what to do."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "MARY STATIONED HERSELF AT THE WINDOW."]

The glory was over. The scarlet cloths and the gold spangles had disappeared behind the dingy curtains; the music had gone away in green bags; and the crowd poured out of the circus, jostling and pushing. Sue was walking on air. She could hear nothing but that maddening clash of sound, see nothing but that airy figure dashing through the ring of flame. To do that, and then to die suddenly, with the world at her feet--that would be the highest bliss, beyond all other heights; or--well, perhaps not really quite to die, but swoon so deep that every one should think her dead. And then, when they had wept for hours beside her rose-strewn bier, the beautiful youth in pale blue silk tights, he with the spangled velvet trunks, might bend over her--having read "Little Snow-white"--and take the poisoned comb out of her hair, or--or something--and say--

"Ow!" cried Clarice, shrilly. "That horrid man pushed me so, he almost tore my dress. I think this is perfectly awful! Say, Sue, let's go and see the Two-headed Girl. We've lots of time before the train."

Sue for once demurred; she did not feel like seeing monstrosities; her mind was filled with visions of beauty and grace. But when Clarice pressed the point, she yielded cheerfully; for was it not Clarice's party? But already the glow began to fade from her sky, and the heavy feeling at her heart to return, as they pushed their way into the small, dingy tent, where the air hung like a heavy, poisonous fog.

It happened that they were just behind a large party of noisy people, men and women laughing and shouting together, and the showman did not see them at first. They had made their way to the front, and were gazing at the two slim lads who, tightly laced into one crimson satin bodice, and crowned with coppery wigs, made the Two-headed Girl, when the showman--an ugly fellow with little eyes set too near together--tapped Sue on the shoulder.

"Fifty cents, please," he said civilly enough.

Sue looked at him open-eyed.

"Fifty cents," he repeated. "You two come in without payin'. Quarter apiece, please."

Sue put her hand to her pocket, which held both purses (Clarice had no pockets in her dresses; she said they spoiled the set of the skirt), but withdrew it in dismay. The pocket was empty! She turned to Clarice, who was staring greedily at the monstrosity. "Clarice!" she gasped. "Clarice! did you--have you got the purses?"

"No," said Clarice. "I gave mine to you, to put in your pocket; don't you remember?"

"Yes, of course I do; but--but it is gone! They are both gone!"

"Come, none o' that!" said the man. "You've seen the show, and you've got to pay for it. That's all right, ain't it? Now you hand over them fifty cents, little lady; see? Come! I can't stand foolin' here. I got my business to attend to."

"But--but I haven't it!" said Sue, growing crimson to the roots of her hair. "Somebody--my pocket must have been picked!" she cried, as the truth flashed upon her. She recalled the dense crowd, the pushing, the rough lad who had forced his way between her and Clarice just at the doorway.

"Oh, Clarice," she said, "my pocket has certainly been picked! What shall we do?"

"What shall we do?" echoed Clarice. "Oh, Sue, how could you? I don't see why I let you take my purse. There was a ten-dollar gold piece in it. I might have known you would lose it!" And she began to whimper and lament.

This was poor comfort. Sue turned from her friend, and faced the angry man bravely.

"I am very sorry," she said. "My pocket has been picked, so I cannot pay you. We did not know that we had to pay extra for the side-shows.

I hope you will excuse--"

"Not much I won't excuse!" said the man, in a bullying tone, though he did not raise his voice. "You'll pay me something, young ladies, before you leave this tent. I ain't runnin' no free show; this is business, this is, and I'm a poor man."

Sue looked round her in despair. Only vacant or boorish faces met her eyes; it was not a high-cla.s.s crowd that had come to see the Two-headed Girl. Suddenly a word of Mr. Hart's flashed into her mind like a sunbeam:

"If you are ever in danger away from home, children, call a--"

"Is there a policeman here?" she asked eagerly. "There must be one outside, I am sure. Will you call him, please?"

"No; there ain't no policeman!" said the man, quickly. He glanced warily about him, and added in a conciliatory tone: "There ain't no need of any policeman, young ladies. I guess we can settle this little matter right now, between ourselves, friendly and pleasant. You step right in this way, out of the jam. There's a lady here'll be real pleased to see you."

He half led, half pushed, the frightened girls into an inner compartment of the tent, where a stout, greasy-looking woman was counting greasy coppers into a bag. The woman looked up as they entered, still counting: "Seventy--seventy-five--eighty--and twenty's a dollar. What's the matter, Ed?"

"These little ladies got their pockets picked, so they say!" said the man, with a wink. "They're real ladies; any one can see that with half an eye. They don't want to rob a poor man like me. Maybe they've got some jew'lry or something they'd like to give you for the money they owe. You see to 'em, Min; I got to go back."

With another wink at the woman, and a leer at the children which was meant to be attractive, he slipped out, and left them alone with the stout woman.

"Well!" she began, in a wheedling voice, "so you had your pockets picked, my dears, had you? Well, now, that was a shame, I should say!

Let me see!"

She advanced toward Clarice, who retreated before her, cowering in a corner and crying: "I haven't got any pocket; it's her! She took my purse, and now she's lost it. Oh, dear! I wish we hadn't come!"

"Let me see, dear," said the woman.

She felt Clarice all over with swift, practised fingers.

"Sure enough, you ain't got no pocket," she said. "I thought you might be makin' a mistake, you see. There! why, what's this? Stand still, ducky! I wouldn't hurt ye for the world; no, indeed--such a sweet, pretty young lady as you be. Ain't this a pretty chain, now? and a locket on the eend of it--well, I never! It ain't safe for young ladies to be goin' round alone with such a lot of jew'lry. Why, you might be murdered for it, and laid welterin' in your blood. I guess I'll take this, dear, to pay for the show; it'll be safer for you goin' home, too. What's this, again? gold stick-pins? Well, now, I call them dangerous! I don't see what your ma was thinkin' of, lettin'

you come out rigged up like this. I'm doin' you a kindness takin' 'em off'n ye; they might cost ye your life, sure as you stand here.

There's a terrible rough set o' folks round these grounds, specially come night."

All the while she was talking she was quietly stripping Clarice of her trinkets. Clarice was too frightened to speak or move; she could only moan and whimper. But after the first moment of stupefaction, Sue came forward with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. "How dare you?" she cried. "How dare you steal her things? Her father or Mr. Hart--Mr.