Cupid of Campion

Suddenly Clarence stopped. The vision of his parents presented itself, – their grief, their bewilderment, their perplexity. His eyes filled with tears.

“What’s the matter, Clarence?”

The boy had not attended boarding school for nothing. With an heroic effort he mastered himself.

“Nothing. Something caught me in the throat. By the way, I’m fourteen now; have been since last June. It’s time for me to get busy and fix up the religious question.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Dora, turning shining eyes and the glowing face of enthusiasm upon her new friend. “I’ll instruct you in the Catholic faith myself.”

“But I don’t intend to be a Catholic. It isn’t up-to-date. There’s too much superstition in it.”

Dora’s eyes opened to their widest.

“Clarence, how can you talk so? I’m shocked. You need instruction badly, and I’m going to begin tomorrow.”

They certainly at this moment looked like life-long friends. Dora, once the question of religion had been raised, had become intensely earnest. Master Ezra, the boat repairing being fairly completed, had drawn near enough to see their faces without being able to catch the exact import of their words. He was plainly disquieted. Tiptoeing his way behind the trees he stole behind the two controversialists, and seizing the end of the log on which they were sitting, gave it a shove and a kick, with the result that the two fell sprawling to the earth.

Clarence was up at once, and with a courtly air caught the girl’s hand and helped her to her feet.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Ezra. His voice was raucous.

“My friend,” said Clarence. “I’m not at all pleased with that laugh of yours.”

“What?” sputtered Ezra.

“It notes the vacant mind,” continued Clarence, with apparent calm. “Also I desire to state that while I don’t mind your spilling me, I do object to your spilling this girl.”

“What?” roared Ezra, doubling his fists and advancing to within a few feet of the youthful knight.

“I’m not deaf, either. The thing for you to do now is to apologize to Dora.”

“What?” roared Ezra, louder than ever.

“Oh, you’re deaf, are you?”

Here Clarence put his two hands like a speaking-trumpet before his mouth and shrilled at the top of his voice.

“Apologize to Dora!”

For answer Ezra’s right hand shot out, aimed direct for Clarence’s jaw. The youngster, expecting such demonstration, jumped back, but not so quickly as to avoid entirely the force of the blow; and as he returned with a facer that caught Ezra between the eyes, the gypsies, man, woman and child, came hurrying to the spot in such short order that, when Ben threw himself between the two, a circle was already formed about the belligerents.

Ezra addressed Ben in gypsy patter. His words were few. Ben nodded.

“Go ahead,” he said, and drew back into the circle; and before Clarence had caught the full significance of these words, a blow planted full below his jaw sent him to the earth. He was up at once, and, on careful guard, warded off several more vicious attacks and waited for an opening. It came presently and left Ezra’s left eye in a state which promised to develop presently into deep mourning.

At this the gypsy lad lost control of himself and proceeded to strike out furiously and wildly. It was easy for Clarence, a trained boxer and agile as a cat, to ward off these blows; easy for him, now and then, to reach his adversary with what are known in sporting circles as love-taps. In a few minutes, Ezra was breathing heavily. Suddenly the gypsy changed his tactics; he tried to catch Clarence in his arms and bear him to the ground. Clarence, not without difficulty, succeeded in breaking away, and, once free, changed his tactics, too. Springing forward, he literally rained blows upon the winded foe. Nose, eyes, mouth, jaw, all received vigorous attention, till Ezra, unable to stand the punishment, jumped back and averted his head.

“Did you say nuff?” asked Clarence, pausing, and standing still in the center of the ring.

For answer, Ezra made a flying leap at his foe, determined by sheer weight and momentum to bring Clarence to defeat. The young knight was quick to adjust himself. Ezra’s head, intended to ram the lad’s chest, found itself noosed within Clarence’s strong right arm. The catch nearly brought the young knight to the earth; but surefootedness won out, and Ezra was in chancery.

“Say ’nuff,” commanded Clarence, with a hug and a punch that were practically simultaneous.

Pete spoke sharply to Ezra.

“’Nuff,” said the gypsy boy.

“All right,” said Clarence, and releasing his hold left Ezra free and evidently much the worse for the short encounter.

The gypsies had been silent throughout the brisk combat. It was impossible to tell from their faces on which side their sympathies lay.

“Boy,” said Ben, slipping into the ring, “I’d advise you to shake hands with Ezra.”

“Happy thought,” gasped Clarence. “Say, Ezra, if you’ll tell Dora you’re sorry for taking liberties with her, I’ll be glad to shake hands with you.”

For answer, Ezra broke into half audible maledictions.

“What did he do?” asked Ben.

Clarence explained.

“You apologize,” said Ben sternly, on hearing the story, “or I’ll give you another licking myself.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ezra, with the worst possible grace.

Then Clarence caught Ezra’s hand and pumped it up and down with an assurance which was amazing.

The night was now well advanced, and dark clouds, black and heavy, had within the last half hour shut out the friendly eyes of the stars. A peal of distant thunder was heard.

“We’d better get ready for bed,” said Ben.

At his word, all seated themselves about the dying fire, save Pete and his wife who at once made for the larger tent. One of the children came running to Ben with a guitar; whereupon Dora rose and with clasped hands stood beside the young gypsy.

Ben, striking a few chords, nodded to Dora, who, at the nod, opened her lips and broke forth in as sweet a voice as ever awoke the woodlands of Wisconsin into – Gounod’s Ave Maria.

Clarence was spellbound. He was exalted, carried out of himself. It was not the voice alone, though the voice was thrillingly sweet; not the music, though the air was one that holds music-lovers rapt the world over; not the accompaniment, though it was supremely exquisite in the sacred silence of the night. There was more than all this; faith, and love, and purity, and innocence – all springing from the heart of a child – supplied undertones beyond the reach of art that music could supply.

As the song proceeded, the rain began to fall, but the rain was heeded by none – not even by the little children. Towards the end, the down-pour grew heavy; but spellbound, no one moved. As the last note died into silence, there ensued a few breathless seconds; then came a burst of thunder and a forked prong of lightning which seemed to strike into their very midst. All jumped up and made for cover.

“Come with me,” said Ben, catching Clarence’s hand. “Your quarters will be in the wagon. She sings,” he added, “that song every night, and,” continued the musician, as he helped Clarence into his new sleeping quarters, “she sings it like an angel.”

“So she does.”

“And,” added Ben, in a whisper, “she is an angel.”

Ten minutes later Clarence was lying upon a bed of straw, and meditating upon the events of the most adventurous day in his life. Around him lay four gypsy men – Ezra, Pete’s two older sons, and Ben. But he was, to all intents and purposes, alone. And then in bitterness and sorrow the young adventurer wept salt tears and checked with difficulty the sighs of utter misery. He was captive; his parents were, he supposed, frantic with grief. Perhaps they thought him dead. And so Clarence, frightened and unnerved, wept freely.

Suddenly the quiet was broken. The same sweet voice, low and clear, trilled out from the little tent:

“Mother dear, O pray for me,  While far from heaven and theeI wander in a fragile bark  O’er life’s tempestuous sea.”

Clarence, at the first notes, stopped crying.

“By George!” he said to himself at the end of the first stanza, “Here’s the difference between that girl and me. I address myself to the bright-eyed goddess of adventure – and see where I am! And she calls on her dear Mother, who is also the Mother of God, and just look what Dora is!”

Before the second stanza was quite finished, the exhausted youth fell into a disturbed sleep. He tossed uneasily for a time, then murmuring as he turned, “Mother dear, O pray for me,” he was wrapped in a slumber which no noise could disturb.

CHAPTER VII

In which the strange tale of Dora, another victim of the Bright-eyed Goddess, is told to Clarence

When Clarence awoke the next morning, it dawned upon him very slowly that he was in the firm grasp of a stronger hand, and, without any effort on his part, walking up and down the greensward at a pace not unworthy of a professional walker. A further survey brought to his notice the gypsies grouped together and eyeing him with interest. At her tent door, Dora, fresh as a dew-washed rose, stood laughing at him heartily. It was Ben, he also realized, who, holding him by arm and collar, was causing him to walk with such tremendous strides.

“I say, Ben, drop it. Let me go. What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been trying to wake you for five minutes,” said Ben smiling and puffing. “I rolled you over first where you were lying in the wagon, and shouted and pounded you; and when you didn’t show any signs of life, I thought you were dead.”

“Well, I’m alive all right,” said Clarence, and, as Ben freed him from an iron grasp, proceeded to rub his eyes.

Pete, who had just brought the horses to the wagon, where his two older sons took them in charge, came running over, snarling like a wildcat, and seizing the boy by both shoulders shook him without mercy. How long the punishment would have lasted, had it depended upon Pete, is problematic; for Clarence, now thoroughly awakened, cleverly slipped down to the ground and sprang between the Gypsy leader’s legs. As he did so, he thoughtfully humped himself in transit, with the result that Pete measured his length on the earth.

“I wish,” gasped Clarence, “that you’d tell me what you want. I’m not a deaf mute.”

Pete sprang for a stick in the bushes; but before he had quite made up his mind which to choose, Ben whispered remonstratingly in his ear. Ben was angry and determined. Bestowing a look of strong disfavor on Clarence, Pete gave an order of some kind to his company, who at once proceeded to break up camp.

“You go and help Dora,” said Ben.

“Good morning, Clarence. How do you feel?” asked the child with a smile and the extended hand of welcome. The roses of dawn were upon her cheeks.

“Feel! I’m sleepy. Why, it is hardly daylight.”

“We always travel early in the morning; it is cooler, and there are not so many people about. Towards noon we camp in some quiet place, generally by the river side; and then about four we go on, again, and keep on going sometimes till it’s too dark to see. Come on now, Clarence; we’ve got to work fast, or Pete will be down on us.”

Under Dora’s direction, Clarence made himself quite useful. He was quick and intelligent. The two had their share of the work finished several minutes before the others.

“Where are we going?” asked Clarence.

“We’re going to zigzag, I suppose,” laughed Dora. “We’ll strike into the country for four or five miles, and then we’ll strike back again, and by the time we’ve pitched our camp tonight at the riverside we may be six or seven miles – at the most ten – further up the river than we are now.”

“Do we ride or walk, Dora?”

“It’s this way: the women and the children stay in the wagon. Pete takes the wagon too, now and then. The men walk and keep a lookout all the time. I generally walk myself; but sometimes I ride. Ben told me that I could walk with you any time I wanted.”

“Ben’s all right,” said Clarence.

In the splendor of a roseate dawn, the party set out. For an hour they pushed into the interior, when, reaching a deeply wooded grove, they halted for breakfast. Within half an hour they were upon their way again; Pete and one of his sons in the advance, then the wagon, behind it Clarence and Dora with Ben and the other gypsies bringing up the rear. The road they were pursuing was overgrown with weeds and neglected – a road, evidently, where few ventured.

“Say, I never enjoyed a breakfast more in my life than that one. Bacon and eggs! I kept on eating them till I saw Pete looking at me pretty hard; and then I just had to quit. You must know, Dora, I’m a very bashful youth.”

“You took five eggs and lots of bacon,” said the candid girl, “and I don’t know how much bread. This morning before you got up, two of the gypsies traded your boat for over fifteen dollars’ worth of provisions. You say you are a bashful youth. I’m glad you told me, for I’m very sure I would never have found it out myself.”

“I manage to conceal all my virtues,” returned the affable lad, smiling broadly. “And now, Dora, if it is all the same to you, I wish you’d be good enough to tell me how you came to be here.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, we’ve plenty of time, and if you can stand telling it, I reckon I can stand listening. Were you kidnapped?”

“That’s a hard question to answer, Clarence. The best way will be for me to begin at the beginning.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, when I was seven years old I made my first Holy Communion. You know what that means, don’t you?”

“I know what you people believe,” answered Clarence. “I’ve read a lot about it. But, say, do you really believe that Christ is present, and that what looks like bread is really His body?”

“Of course I do!” cried Dora resolutely.

“But why?”

“Because Our Lord told us so. That is faith, we believe on the word of God.”

“Well, go on, Miss Theology.”

“After making my first Communion, I started to go every day and I never missed once for over two years. We lived just a little outside of Dayton, Ohio, and I had to walk a mile to the church.”

“You did – and fasting?”

“Of course, and I just loved to go. Last April it was raining almost all the time. It was often hard to get even to church, and the rivers and streams around Dayton kept rising higher and higher. People said that if the rain didn’t stop, there would be a terrible flood. Well, the rain didn’t stop, and one day in May after three days of terrible rain I went to church, received Communion and started home.”

“Were you alone?”

“I was that morning. Generally some one of the family came with me; but the ground was so muddy that morning that my big sister who had intended coming with me backed out.”

“If I’d been there, I’d have gone with you,” volunteered her gallant companion.

“Anyhow, I had hardly got more than half a mile towards my home, when a man and two women came running past me. They were very scared-looking and out of breath. As they passed me the man said, ‘The dam! the dam! It’s broken! Run for your life!’ Just then a lot of other people came running, and I turned around, and do you know what I saw?”

“What?” cried Clarence.

“Men and women and children all running towards me, and further back – maybe it was two or three miles – a sort of a wall of water, and it was moving towards me.”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Clarence. “What did you do?”

“I started to run and I did run. After a while, I got so out of breath that I began to stagger. I looked behind and it seemed to me that the wall of water was getting closer, and I started to run again. Somehow I hit my foot against a log and fell, rolling over to one side of the road, and when I tried to get up I couldn’t use my foot. I had turned my ankle.”

“Oh, I say,” exclaimed Clarence, “What did you do then?”

“I was scared, and I began to cry.”

“I’d have done that myself,” commented the boy.

“Then I got on my knees and, while the people in crowds were hurrying past me on the road – you see I was to one side where I had fallen – I cried ‘Oh, my dear Mother Mary, be my mother now and save me.’”

“And she did it?” asked the boy.

“I was still kneeling when there came dashing towards me a man on horseback. He saw me and checked the horse, and as he passed me he leaned over like a circus man and caught me up, and then set the horse at breakneck speed, and then I fainted.”

“Gee!” said Clarence.

“The next thing I knew I opened my eyes to find myself in a gypsy camp. It was Ben who had saved me. He had just paid Pete’s fine and got him out of the workhouse. They were all in a hurry to get away, because they were afraid Pete might be arrested for something else he had done. So they started off. Ben told me he would send me back to my parents just as soon as they had pitched camp for the evening. And he meant it too. But when evening came, and he started to get his horse ready, Pete made a fuss, and Pete’s wife stood by him. They all got very angry. Then Pete’s boys took their father’s side. Indeed I thought there was going to be a fight. In the long run, Pete had it all his own way, and Ben came to me and told me to wait a little longer on account of the flood. And I’ve been waiting ever since.”

“Four months?” said Clarence.

“Yes; and never a word from my mother or father. I don’t know whether they are living or dead. Often I cry at night; but then I think of my Blessed Mother and I stop.”

“I don’t blame you for crying,” said Clarence. “And I’ll bet your parents think you’re drowned.”

“There were ever so many people drowned in that flood, I have heard,” said Dora. “Anyhow I ought to be grateful to God for sparing my life.”

“I say, Dora. We’re both in the same boat. You know when I was shoved out into the river in my swimming suit, my clothes were lying on the shore. I’ll bet my ma is crying now.” And Clarence rubbed his shirt sleeves over his eyes.

“I miss my brothers and sisters so much,” continued the girl. “Ben and his wife are good and kind, but I do get so homesick. Sometimes I am so lonely.”

“I haven’t got any sisters to miss me,” pursued the boy. “I had two, but both of them were travelling with pa once in Mexico and they drank some polluted water and died of typhoid fever within two days of each other. And my little brother died when he was five. And now my father and mother will think I am dead, too.”

Again Clarence used his shirt sleeves to wipe his brimming eyes.

“Sometimes Clarence, I dream that I’m home again and that mama is holding me in her arms and kissing me, and then I’m so happy till I wake; and then sometimes I dream that I’m receiving Holy Communion, and I’m as happy as can be.”

“You are?” said Clarence.

“Of course. Why, I have not received Our Lord for months, and I’m – I’m just hungry for Him.”

“Dora, you are a good fellow.”

“You told me that last night.”

“Do you know that I’m thinking seriously of adopting you?”

“What?” cried the girl.

“Adopting you. I’m short on sisters, and you could help to fill the supply.”

“Oh, thank you; you think I’ll do, do you?”

“You’ll do first rate,” answered Clarence tranquilly and failing to detect the mischief in Dora’s glance. “First chance we get to see a lawyer, we’ll have it fixed up. Say, is there no way for us to escape?”

“I’m afraid not; you’ll see for yourself as we go on.”

At this point of the conversation, Pete came running towards them, and catching Dora’s eye, held up his hand.

“What does he want?” Clarence inquired.

“That’s his sign to tell us to get in the wagon.”

“What for?”

“Probably there are some people on the road. Here now, jump in. We have to stay till he tells that we are free to go out.”

For half an hour they remained hidden. They could hear outside strange voices and the passing of some vehicle.

“This is funny,” observed Clarence.

“Do you know, Clarence, that since I joined the gypsies I have never seen a stranger’s face till you came yesterday?”

Clarence meditated for a moment.

“Oh!” he said presently, and with his most engaging smile. “It was worth your while waiting, wasn’t it?”

CHAPTER VIII

In which Clarence enters upon his career as a gypsy, and makes himself a disciple of Dora

Clarence learned in the course of that day a good deal of his companions. It was a divided camp. Pete was the official leader, but his authority was weak. He was a dried-up man with furtive eyes and hang-dog aspect. He had a genius for breaking the law and getting into trouble. If there were twenty ways of doing a thing, Pete invariably chose the least honest. His range as a thief went from chickens to horses. In this, as in all other things, he was ably abetted by his shrewish wife. That remarkable woman had a gift for fortune-telling which was uncanny. It was not without reason that Dora suspected Pete’s wife of having dealings with the devil. The woman had an intense hatred for anything that savored of the Catholic faith. Her eyes, whenever they fell upon Dora, shot forth a baneful light. It was Ben who stood between the child and her malignity.

Ben was of different mould. He was brave, open and kind. A certain gentleness and refinement were observable in him and his wife. Dora noticed these things and pointed them out to Clarence. But she did not tell him, for she did not know it, that it was her presence, her example, her sweetness and modesty, which had, to a great extent, developed in the gypsy couple these lovely qualities.

And, in truth, it was Dora who was, in a sense, the real leader. She was the uncrowned queen. Neat, spotless in attire, graceful of form and of dazzling complexion, she was always fresh and bright and candid and sweet. Upon the perfect features there was a certain indefinable radiance – the radiance one finds so rarely on the faces of those who appear to have been thinking long and lovely thoughts of God and whose “conversation is in heaven.” Dora knew well the companionship of saints and angels. A keen sense of humor, made known now in rippling laughter, now in the twinkling of an eye, showed that the child was wholesomely human. Ben seemed to worship the ground she trod upon; his wife was a no less ardent devotee, and the little children vied with each other in winning her word or smile. Even Pete’s two graceless sons put aside their coarseness and what they could of their evil manners in her winning and dainty presence. Wherever she moved, she seemed to evoke from those she met undreamed-of acts of gentleness and sweetness and love. And indeed before the day was spent, the child unwittingly won a new devotee – Master Clarence himself. Clarence, be it known, was in most respects a normal boy. He was also unusually clean in thought and in word and in life. He had never used a really coarse expression, and he recoiled from any sort of foulness. If one were to ask why this was so, there would be no adequate answer, save that there is no accounting for the uncovenanted graces and mercies of God. A sort of instinct had guided the boy, during his three years at Clermont Academy, in the choice of his companions. He was always seeking the society of those he considered his betters. It took the lad little time to discover that Dora was pure, innocent, gentle, gracious, and high-minded above all whom he had ever met. Before nightfall, he too was her slave.

Let there be no misunderstanding. The reader who considers this a case of puppy love has missed the point. Clarence was at an age and development when the normal boy is little interested in the girl. But to him Dora was something apart. She was set high on a pedestal. She was an ideal. She stood to him for all that was good and beautiful and inspiring in human nature.

As for Dora herself, she had never before encountered a youth so blithe, so debonair, so clever of speech and quick of wit as the young adventurer. She perceived something in the boy of which he himself was scarcely aware – a knightliness, a gallantry that went with high ideals, a serene and lovely purity of heart. She, in turn, placed Clarence upon a pinnacle, and was in intent his devoted slave. Within twenty-four hours, she was unconsciously depending upon him.

On the very afternoon of their first day’s travel, she organized a “Catechism class,” consisting of Clarence, Ben, and his wife. It was held in the wagon and lasted for an hour. Before it was ended, each member knew how to make the sign of the cross, and Master Clarence himself, who had asked many questions and put many objections, was beginning to see that the Catholic Church was not so encrusted with superstitions, as he had supposed, nor in any wise, as he had once held, out of date.