The Rose in the Ring Part 47

For the first time in their acquaintance David saw d.i.c.k 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 h.e.l.l 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, d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k 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 antic.i.p.ated--and which was secretly dreaded, to be quite candid--had grown more intense under the test. What would be her att.i.tude 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 d.i.c.k 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.

She interrupted him once, to ask him to tell her again how Braddock looked and how he had acted. As he repeated the description, her perplexed, even doubting, expression caused him to hesitate, but she shook her head as if putting something out of her mind and signified that he was to proceed.

"I would not have known him," he concluded, "he was so unlike the man I knew."

"He had not touched whiskey, you say--not since--"

"Not in three years. It has wrought an unbelievable change in him."

"I knew him, David, before he drank at all," she said, staring past him. "Perhaps the change would not be so great to me."

"He has aged many years. There are hard, desperate lines in his face.

You _would_ see a change, I am afraid, Mrs. Braddock."

She was silent for a moment. "Go on, David," she said, suddenly pa.s.sing her hand before her eyes in a movement as expressive as it was involuntary. "d.i.c.k Cronk has a certain amount of influence over him, you say."

"It will not last. When Colonel Grand hears that he is back in town his first step will be to have him thrown into jail on one pretext or another. Braddock realizes this. He has made up his mind to strike first. I think he believes in you, Mrs. Braddock--in fact, I am sure he does. I know he loves Christine. But he hates Colonel Grand even more than he loves her or--you. He--"

"Oh, he does not love me, David. You need not hesitate," she said drearily.

"As I have already said, he gave d.i.c.k a half-promise that he would try to see you. He has two questions he intends to ask, I believe. I think, Mrs. Braddock, you will be doing a very wise thing if you see him--of your own free will. He will probably insist on seeing you in any event--even in the face of opposition. You can avoid a great deal of trouble by--well, by not barring him out. I know how it must distress you. I wish I could take all the worry, all the trouble off your shoulders. But there would be only one way in which I could do it--and that would be a desperate one."

It was then that she laid her trembling, icy hand on his, and said, "Search for him until you find him."

David hesitated a moment before putting his next question. It touched on a very tender subject.

"Have you thought of divorcing him?"

"No, David," she said quietly. "I made my bed years ago, as Joey would say. Tom is Christine's father. He is my husband. You may well say, G.o.d help both of us. But, David, while I cannot live with him, I intend to remain his wife to the end. I am ready to promise anything to him if he will go away. I will give him all of the money I received for my share of the hateful business. He must accept it quietly, sanely. It is for _her_ sake, and he must be made to see it. The world knows that I ran away to be married, but it has forgotten the circ.u.mstances. The general belief is that my husband died years and years ago, and that I have lived abroad ever since. There is one thing to his credit, David. I shall not forget it. When he was arrested, he thought of Christine and--and--well, he gave an a.s.sumed name, an alias, to the police.

Colonel Grand kept his own silence, and for years he has held this over me as a threat. I have had many letters from him, believe me. Christine is no longer the little, unheard-of circus rider. She is--well, she is a _personage_. Do you understand?"

He nodded his head. She went on hurriedly.

"Tell Tom I _want_ to see him. Tell him I am ready to discuss everything with him. Tell him that nothing must happen that can injure her."

"He may insist on seeing--her."

"She does not know that he has been in prison," she said miserably.

"But if he should insist?"

"I should have to prepare her, David. She knows that he is alive--but-- Listen, David!" She leaned forward to give emphasis to her words. "If he comes to her now with the story of his--his wrongs, of his sufferings, she will forget all that has gone before. Her heart is tender. I am afraid of the stand she may take--and she may compel me to take it with her."

"I'll do all that I can, Mrs. Braddock, to--" he began. The sound of voices in the vestibule came to them at that moment. Good nights were being called from the steps to the street below. Then the door was opened and closed quickly. Some one came rapidly down the hall. There was a swift rustling of skirts, the low humming of an air from "Pinafore." David was on his feet in an instant, visibly excited by the impending encounter.

Christine came into the library. She was half-way across the room before she realized that the tall young man beside her mother was a stranger... She stopped. Her questioning gaze lingered on his face. His smile puzzled her. Her eyes narrowed, then suddenly they were distended; her lips parted in amazement, tremulously struggling into a smile of wonder and unbelief. No one had spoken.

"It--it is David," she said, a quaver of breathlessness in the soft tones.

He sprang forward, his hands extended.

"Yes," he cried, transported by the new aspect of loveliness.

She stood straight and slim before him, still unbelieving. Slowly her hands were lifted to meet his, as if impelled by a power not her own.

He clasped them; they were cold. Something in their limp unresponsiveness chilled him as if he had been touched by ice. He gently released them and drew back, dismayed within himself.

"Why--why didn't you tell me, mamma?" she cried, the flutter in her voice increasing. A swift wave of color rushed to her cheeks. She suddenly held out her hands to him again, an eagerness in the action that caught him unawares and lifted his spirits to dizzy heights. "Oh, I am so glad--so glad to see you, David," she cried. Her firm little hands were warm now, and trembling.

"Christine," he half whispered, "are you--are you truly glad to see me?

Do you mean it?"

She was looking straight into his eyes. In her own glowed a dark appeal; she seemed to be delving in the secret recesses of his heart.

"David," she cried, forgetful of everything else in the world, "does it mean that you--you still care for me? You haven't changed? I have been wondering--oh, how I have been--"

The plaintive note drove all doubt from his mind. He was suddenly exalted. Speech was beyond him. His dream had come true. She was incomparably fairer than his waking hours had pictured her during the five years of probation; only in fond dreams had she appeared to him as she now appeared in reality. He could only look down into her face, mute under the seal of wonder. All that he had longed for and prayed for was here revealed to him; he could have asked for no more. He went suddenly weak with joy.

"My little Christine," he murmured.

"I have been so afraid," she was saying, still searching his soul through his eyes. "I am still afraid, David. It has been a long time.

So many things may have happened. We were such young, foolish things.

Oh, David, you don't know how I have worked and planned and striven to make myself what you would like, if you were ever to come to see me again. I--"

"You are perfect--you are divine!" he cried, all the pa.s.sion of his soul ringing in the tender words. "I can't believe it! You really care, Christine? You have not changed? It has always been the same with you?"

"Changed, David," she whispered, her lip trembling, a sudden mist swimming in her sweet young eyes. "Changed?"