The Rose in the Ring

by George Barr McCutcheon

He could see that the girl had been crying. Mrs. Braddock's face was white and set.

"Yes," said the older woman. "And you are going home, David?" She spoke quietly.

"I—I don't know yet," he stammered. Christine's face had been averted. Now she looked at him.

"You—oh, David, you don't really think of staying with us?" she cried, her eyes glowing.

"You must not think of it, David," whispered her mother hastily. "Your place is at Jenison Hall. You belong there. Lose no time, my dear boy, in returning to your home."

They had come to a little park adjoining a church-yard where there were benches. He led them to one of the seats farthest removed from the pavement. Joey and Ruby strolled into the churchyard.

"I suppose I shall have to go back," said David gloomily. "For a few days, at least. They will be expecting me. And the property is mine now—and all that. But, Mrs. Braddock," he went on feverishly, "I am coming back. In a week, yes, or less than that. I am coming back to be with you—to help you. I can't stay away now, Mrs. Braddock. It would make me too unhappy. I must be near Christine. She's more to me now than anything else in all this world."

Mrs. Braddock smiled wanly. "You are very young," she said, "and very impulsive. Do you think it would be kind to Christine if you were to follow the show for no other reason than to be near her? Would that be the act of a sincere friend? She would be compromised, I think you will admit. It was different before. You were one of us. Now you are an outsider. Even the easiest-going of the performers would resent your attitude if you were to follow us now. It is an unwritten law among us that an outsider is always an outsider. We are like gypsies. Even you, who have been one of us, can have no future standing in our tribe—for that is what we are, David. You must take your place among those who look on from afar. As individuals we will always greet you and give you the best of our love; collectively we cannot take you among us. That is over. You are—"

"But I may still be a performer," he cried insistently. He had taken Christine's hand in his, only to have it gently withdrawn by the girl.

"No, David," said Mary Braddock firmly, "it is out of the question. You are no longer a soldier of fortune. You are a Jenison of Jenison Hall. We can't build a bridge for that."