Cupid of Campion

“What time did he get the message?” asked Clarence.

“Just at a quarter past two,” said the Rector, “and he sent the news within fifteen minutes of the gypsies’ arrival there. A friend of his happened to be automobiling, saw the gypsies pitch tent, and hurried at once to let him know.”

“If they camped at two,” said Clarence, “they’ll probably stay for their noon-day meal, and won’t start off till half past three or four. Can we get there before then?”

Father Keenan looked at his watch.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “It’s now twenty minutes to three. Who knows? If our chauffeur keeps up this clip, we may catch them.”

“And when we do catch ’em,” asked Rieler, “what are we going to do with ’em?”

“How many men are in the crowd, Clarence?” asked the Rector.

“Let’s see. There’s Ben, but you needn’t count him. He’ll be with us if it comes to a row. Then there’s Pete, the leader, his two grown sons, and Ezra. Just four in all.”

“I rather think,” said the Rector, “that we can manage things without getting the sheriff of Lynxville to come to our help with a posse.”

“Sure thing,” exclaimed John Rieler, his eyes dancing with enthusiasm. “I’m only sixteen myself, but I’m feeling pretty good, and I would like to tackle Pete.”

“I’ve whipped Ezra once,” cried Clarence, forgetting his avowed distaste for adventure, “and I feel pretty sure I can do it again.”

“I don’t want to blow,” said the brawny muscular giant who was Prefect of the Sodality, “but I really think I’d like to tackle those two older sons of Pete myself.”

“And where do I come in?” asked the Rector.

“You’ve got the worst job of all, Father,” said Clarence, grinning. “You’ll have to take care of Pete’s wife. For myself, I’d as soon fight a bunch of wild-cats. I think she’s possessed by the devil.”

“Well, boys,” said the Rector after a moment’s reflection, and with a certain tone of regret, “I’m not a fighting man. My cloth forbids it. If possible, we must get Dora without striking a blow.”

John Rieler sighed like an auto in full speed with the muffler open.

“We’re going to get Dora anyhow,” pleaded Benton.

“Oh, yes; we’ll get her, no doubt. Now here’s the way we’ll go about it. When we arrive at the camp, Clarence and John Rieler and myself will visit the gypsies. You, Will Benton, will remain in the automobile with the chauffeur.”

“Father, won’t you please let me in on this?” pleaded the chauffeur, opening his mouth for the first time. “If there’s any fighting to be done, I’d like to have a chance.”

“But we’re not looking for a fight,” persisted the Rector, who was clearly on the unpopular side. “Anyhow the three of us will visit the gypsies, and I’ll do the talking. It is my intention to ask for the release of Dora, and, if refused, try to scare the gypsies into giving her up. While I’m talking I’ll take stock of their forces. If I see that we’ll have to fight for it, I’ll raise my hand – my right hand – so.”

And the Rector raised a closed hand with the index finger pointing upward. “That will mean, Benton, that you are to put on all speed for Lynxville, get the sheriff and one other man without delay. But if I see my way to getting the girl without a fight, I’ll raise both hands upwards, and that means that you two are to step out of the machine and join us.”

“All right, Father,” said Will. “But I think we can fix things without any sheriff.”

During the conversation the machine had been whizzing past hamlet, field and forest. Not once since leaving Prairie du Chien had their speed lessened.

“Now, boys,” said the Rector, after the lapse of several minutes, “we’re getting pretty near the place. Suppose we keep silent. Go slowly, now, chauffeur, and make as little noise as possible. And while we’re silent, let us all say a little prayer that we may succeed.”

The machine went forward slowly, cautiously. Clarence noticed the lips of John Rieler moving. Will Benton had removed his hat and sat with head bowed. Several minutes passed in perfect silence. Then the Rector touched the chauffeur’s arm. The machine stopped.

“Look,” whispered the Rector, pointing toward an open space on the river’s edge.

All turned eagerly.

A little tent – Dora’s tent – rose within thirty yards of them; only the one tent – nothing more.

CHAPTER XVII

In which one surprise follows so closely upon the heels of another that Masters Esmond and Rieler lose power of speech and Will Benton strikes a blow which will live forever in the traditions of Campion College

“Follow me – quietly,” whispered Father Keenan to the two boys, Clarence and John.

In single file the three threaded their way through the shrubbery. Suddenly the Rector paused, and put his finger to his lips.

“Listen,” he said.

“Ben,” came a clear, sweet voice, “do you believe everything that the Catholic Church believes and teaches?”

There was a response pitched so low that the listeners as they pressed steadily forward failed to hear it.

“And do you forgive all who have injured you?”

Clarence thought he could detect Ben’s voice saying – “Yes, yes: I do.”

“And do you forgive Pete?”

“Yes, from my heart.” The three were now quite near and the deeper voice of Ben could clearly be heard.

“And, Ben,” continued the silvery voice, “you wish to die a Catholic?”

“I do – I do.”

“And to be baptized?”

“Yes, Dora.”

“You must know, Ben, that when no priest can be had, anyone may, in case of necessity, baptize. Now, I am going to the river for water; and while I’m gone tell God that you are sorry for your sins.”

Suddenly, the flap of the tent was thrown back, and Dora, like some heavenly apparition, stood revealed. Her face was stained with tears. For the rest, she was in modesty, in expression in dress – blue and white – a Child of Mary.

“Dora,” cried Clarence, no longer able to contain himself. “O, Clarence,” cried the child throwing herself into his arms. “Pete has killed Ben. He stabbed him an hour ago, because Ben defended the statue of our Blessed Mother from Pete and his wife. They were going to burn it.”

“Dora,” said Clarence, “there’s a priest here.” And he pointed to Father Keenan.

“O, thank God! thank God! He has sent you to prepare Ben,” and the child threw herself at Father Keenan’s feet, and in all reverence, kissed his hand.

The practical Father Keenan, as she did so, took the glass from her fingers, and handed it to Rieler.

“Run to the river, John, and get some water.” Then raising Dora kindly, and throwing his hands above his head, the preconcerted signal, the Rector hastened into the tent.

“Dora! Dora!” came a deep voice as the girl was about to follow the priest.

Clarence turned. Will Benton, pale as a sheet, his eyes starting from their sockets, was hastening toward them. He was holding out his arms toward the girl, amazement and incredulity upon his face.

Dora turned. An astounding change came at once upon her face at sight of Will Benton. Pure joy irradiated it.

“O Will! my dear Brother Will,” she cried; and darting forward threw herself into his outstretched arms.

“But,” cried Will, as he caught her up and pressed her to his bosom, “you were drowned. We buried you.”

“No, you didn’t, Will. Thanks to our Blessed Mother, I was saved. A gypsy saved me, Will; and now he’s dying in my tent, dying because he gave his life to save me from the gypsy leader and to preserve our Blessed Mother’s statue from insult. Come, Will, let us see him before he dies.”

Clarence and John Rieler, grouped together and holding each others hands, stood stock-still gazing open mouthed. They looked at each other, as Will and Dora made for the tent, with unutterable awe. Speech was inadequate; and still linked together they followed the brother and sister within.

On Dora’s couch, above him the dear statue for which he had given his life, lay Ben, the sweat and the pallor of death upon his face. On one side, his wife was staunching vainly a gash in his side. On the other, leaned the Rector, talking earnestly in low tones to the dying man. No king could have been more stately in life than was Ben in his dying moments. No saint could have been more humble. Crouching in one corner, wide-eyed and silent, were Ben’s three little children.

“Are all here?” asked the Rector rising and gazing around. “I want you all to see Ben baptized.”

“O dear Ben, we are all here and we all love you,” cried Dora. “And here’s my brother Will, come to see you, too. Will, Ben has been so good to me. I love him as though he were another father.”

The dying man turned dark, wistful eyes to the big brother.

“Will you forgive me? I love Dora,” he said simply.

“And I love anyone that is kind to my sister,” boomed forth Will Benton’s hearty voice. “Your hand, Ben. May God be as good to you as you have been to her.”

“Clarence,” cried the dying man, “will you forgive me too. I have been bad, I am sorry.”

Clarence essayed to speak, but before he could enunciate a syllable fell to blubbering. But he caught Ben’s hand and fondled it.

“I am glad I was stabbed,” said Ben simply, “in trying to save that statue of the very good woman who was the mother of God, I believe. I want to be baptized.”

John Rieler was dabbing his eyes.

“Let all kneel down,” said the Rector.

Even the gypsy children, following the example of Dorcas, fell upon their knees, and then, the priest pouring water on Ben’s head said solemnly, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”

Dora slipped over and pressed her lips to the newly regenerated one’s brow. Dorcas followed the child’s example and, turning to the priest, said:

“Father, baptize me and my children.”

“Not yet, my child,” said Father Keenan. “Wait a little longer, so it can be done in church. Boys, kneel down, while we say the prayers for the dying.”

Suddenly Ben raised his head.

“Clarence and Dora,” he cried.

“Yes,” answered both coming to his bedside.

“Take care of Dorcas, my wife, and my children. Make them good Catholics.”

“Yes, Ben,” said Dora.

“Yes, Ben,” said Clarence.

“O,” said the poor fellow – poor, that is according to the world’s standard – “how happy I am. I am ready to – ”

He fell back unconscious.

The Rector who had taken out his “Excerpts from the Roman Ritual,” began, at once, the Litany of the Dying. Before the final invocation was uttered, Ben, the simple, the loving, the repentant, breathed his last.

“Let all leave the tent,” said Father Keenan, on coming to an end of the prayers for the dying, “except the wife and the children. Wait for me without. I will be with you in a few minutes.”

Dora, weeping freely, caught her big brother’s arm. Clarence and John followed the two. There was, quite near the river, an avenue formed by nature, a clear space of nearly a hundred yards in length, bounded on the river side by willows and cottonwoods with a dense growth of shrubbery below, on the other by majestic elms. Up and down this court of nature walked brother and sister followed by the two amazed boys. The stabbing of Ben, his beautiful death, the reuniting of brother and sister had come together so closely, one upon the heels of the other, that Clarence and John were almost speechless. When they did speak, it was in interjections.

Will quickly comforted his little sister. His task was, indeed, not so difficult. News from home, news of the dear ones is to the exile one of the most engrossing things in the world. And it was all good news. Everyone was well, business was flourishing; the only sorrow that had fallen upon the family was the loss of Dora – and that sorrow was now turned into exquisite joy for Will, as it would be for his parents and the children when they received the good tidings by wire that very day.

“And, Will,” said Dora, “I don’t regret all that has happened. It was bitter to be away from mama and all the dear ones at home; and it was hard to miss Holy Communion; and I was so afraid of Pete and his wife all the time; but it’s all over now. Tomorrow, please God, I will go to Communion once more; and then home, home, home!”

The child’s eyes shone with joy. They had reached the end of the avenue, and turning started back. Clarence and John were now in the advance.

“As likely as not,” said Will, holding his sister’s hand, “father, on getting the telegram tonight, will take the train at once. I’m sure he will; and if mother can get away, she will come, too. I’ll wire them on the road back to Campion. But why, Dora, do you say you’re not sorry for all that happened?”

He paused, as he asked this question, directly before a thick clump of bushes, and, catching Dora’s two hands in his, gazed lovingly and eagerly into her starry eyes.

“Because,” answered the girl simply, “I believe I have helped to save the soul of dear, good, kind Ben. Oh, how happy I was when the priest poured the water on him and baptized him in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”

Will Benton, still gazing into the eyes of his sister, thought he heard proceeding from the bushes which he was facing a low, sibilant sound. It was not the hiss of a snake; it was the hiss of hate. His keen eyes darted from Dora’s and peered into the bushes. In a flash he threw the girl violently to one side, flinging her to the ground, and with a spring crashed into the shrubbery. He was not a moment too soon. Behind the bushes, an immense boulder in his right hand, a man, whose eyes shot hate and whose features were demon-like with passion, was in the very act of bringing it down upon the unsuspecting girl’s head.

It was not a moment too soon: Ben caught the man’s upraised arm and gave it a wrench which sent the boulder thudding to the earth. That wrenched arm was never to be used again. A howl of pain arose which was stilled as suddenly as it began; for, still holding the paralysed arm in his grasp, Will Benton struck out with his left hand. It was an awful blow. Its receiver as it struck him under the jaw lost voice, and crumpled to the earth.

“Oh!” cried Dora, who had arisen, “it’s Pete.”

Will Benton drew the girl to his side.

“I know now,” he exclaimed, “why you feared him. I saw his face for a second, and there was murder in it, murder and hell.”

The two boys who, hearing the short-lived scream of the gypsy, had turned in time to see the memorable blow which had brought Pete to earth, were gazing in awe at the Prefect of the Sodality. It was something to be remembered. It was a blow which was to go down in the traditions of Campion College. For Pete, the murderer of Ben, the would-be murderer of Dora, never came to face trial. He lingered for several weeks. But the blow made trial unnecessary.

“O Will!” cried John Rieler, “how did you manage to see him hiding there?”

“He gave himself away,” answered the young giant. “His fury and hatred got the better of him. When Dora spoke about Ben’s dying a Catholic and used the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, he couldn’t stand it. He had his arm raised holding that stone, and was just about to bring it down on Dora’s head. A hiss escaped him, and I spied him while his arm was still moving: and – and – I really don’t know how I caught him in time.”

Father Keenan arrived at this juncture; and the two boys and Dora all began explaining at once. Out of the babel he gathered that Pete who, after stabbing Ben, took flight with his wife and kinsfolk, had returned – as murderers sometimes do – to find out the result of the stabbing; how his hatred goaded him on to attempt Dora’s life, and how the brother with lightning speed had inflicted with his one hand a wrench, and with the other a blow which no one who had seen them could ever forget.

“Dan,” called Father Keenan to the chauffeur, having ascertained that Pete was alive, “get busy. Bring Pete to the Sheriff at Lynxville; hire another automobile – a large one for Dorcas and her children. We are going to bring Ben’s body to Prairie du Chien. I shall go with them. And come back here as fast as you can. We’ll be ready to start long before that.”

The Rector and the chauffeur put the insensible Pete in the tonneau.

“One moment, Dan,” said Will Benton, who had taken out a pad and written a few lines. “If Father Rector has no objection, I’d like you to send this telegram to my father.” Then he read aloud: “Dora alive, well, and found. She is with me. Hurrah! – Will Benton.”

“Good for you, Will,” said the Rector. “Your mind works as well as your fists. Thank you, for reminding me.”

Before the return of the chauffeur, the Gypsy camp was dismantled, the tent, converted into a shroud for Ben, the furniture abandoned, and the precious statue placed in the hands of Dora, who vowed she would keep it as long as she lived.

Master John Rieler took little hand in these preparations for departure. He could not remove his eyes from the giant Prefect of the Sodality. Will Benton was considered the gentlest boy in attendance at Campion College. John was bursting to be back and to tell the boys the wonderful blow he had seen with his own eyes.

The kind Rector gave all his attention to Dorcas and her children. He soothed as much as was in his power the awful hours when death is the family visitant. The machines arrived sooner than they were expected. The Rector went off first with the sorrowing wife, her children and the dead.

John still stood staring wide-eyed at Will Benton; remained thus while the young man assisted his sister into the machine and followed himself.

“Oh, it is excellent to have a ‘giant’s strength,’” said Clarence, catching John’s arm.

Rieler came to from his trance, and smiled enthusiastically. “Oh, Crickey!” he answered, “you bet it is.”

CHAPTER XVIII

In which there are a joyful return, a sad duty and a picnic, ending with a reunion of loved ones

The ride back to Campion College, so far as the boys and Dora were concerned, was a thing of joy. Dora nestled beside her brother and gazed her fill of that splendid young man. John Rieler, seated on the other side, took his share of the gazing; love was in Dora’s eyes; admiration, deep, unspeakable admiration, in John’s. Occasionally, he put forth a timid hand to feel the muscle of the strong left arm.

“Will is a southpaw,” he explained to Clarence, when that watchful youth happened to catch him in the act.

“What does he diet on?” asked Clarence seriously.

But Dora’s admiration was not confined to her big brother. She drew from the willing lips of Clarence an account of his arrival at Campion College. In detailing Rieler’s share in the event Clarence waxed so eloquent that the young water-rat flushed furiously.

In a word, the little party, very soon resolved itself into a highly satisfactory mutual admiration society, of which Will Benton, in view of his recent exploit, was incontrovertibly the uncrowned king.

“Clarence,” said the giant, “it is owing to you that my sister has been found. You have put our family under an obligation we shall never forget.”

“If John hadn’t fished me out of the river, she’d be with the gypsies yet,” said Clarence. “Thank John and not me.”

“And,” said John, “if you hadn’t cranked Pete’s hand and struck out with your good left arm there wouldn’t be any Dora to save. Thank yourself.”

“It is Dora that has saved me,” said Clarence.

“I? How, Clarence?”

“Well, you got me to thinking right about the Catholic Church. I was almost ready to join when I left you by the river route. The boys at Campion – especially John and Will – got me to thinking of it still more. But when I heard you as we got near your tent, talking to Ben and asking him if he wanted to be baptized, there seemed to be a sort of explosion in my brain. When it passed away, I was determined to be a Catholic. All hesitation was gone. If that Church doesn’t save my soul, nothing can do it.”

“Say, Clarence,” said Dora with a smile, “how about that lawyer?”

“Lawyer?”

“Yes: you proposed to adopt me. Can’t we find the right man at Prairie du Chien? Clarence,” exclaimed the child to her brother, “told me one day at the gypsy camp that he proposed to adopt me, because he had no sisters of his own.”

“I’d be delighted,” broke in Will Benton, “to have you as a brother, Clarence: you have been in very deed, a brother to my little sister. She told me all about your lively scrap with Ezra. And I’m sure my father and mother would make our home yours.”

Clarence, thinking of his own dear ones, struggled hard to keep down his emotion. His lips quivered.

“O, I beg pardon!” said Will much confused. “I forgot.” And in a few words he told Dora of the railroad accident.

“Clarence,” said Dora, “did you pray to our Blessed Mother for the safety of your parents?”

“Yes;” said Clarence humbly: “I thought of what you would do, and so I prayed to her.”

“I’ll join with you. And tomorrow, Clarence, I’m going to Communion again. Oh, I never felt so happy in all my life. I’m going tomorrow.”

“We’ll all go tomorrow,” added Rieler, “and we’ll all pray for your parents.”

And then the four innocents fell to laughing and talking till at length Campion College was reached.

Dora at once demanded a confessor; and while John Rieler hastened to do her bidding, Clarence and her brother brought her to the students’ chapel. For the first time in four long, long months, Dora had the privilege of visiting the Blessed Sacrament. Presently a confessor arrived, the young sinner entered the confessional, and came out within a few minutes in an almost perceptible aura of peace and joy.

The President, in the meantime, had returned. He was awaiting them outside.

“Well,” he said, “everything has been arranged. Ben is to be buried at the Bohemian Church tomorrow at seven o’clock. Will Benton, you should serve; and you may get John Rieler to help you.”

“Thank you, Father,” cried Will.

“On Sunday next – the day after – Ben’s wife and children will be received into the Church. They are now quartered with a friend of mine in the lower town.”

Dora grew happier than ever.

“I want to be received with them, Father,” pleaded Clarence.

“I can’t grant you that permission, I fear, Clarence. Besides, you need instruction.”

“But I’ve had instruction already – at least,” Clarence added, correcting himself, “I’ve had some. Dora told me a lot, and I’ve done some reading.”

“And I’ll teach you enough, Clarence, before Sunday,” said the girl.

“Well, we’ll see,” said Father Keenan.

The group, as this conversation went on, was moving slowly towards the concrete walk which fronts the entire line of the main Campion College buildings. In the meantime, Master John Rieler had been holding spellbound nearly every lad of the Junior division with his account of Dora’s rescue, and of Will Benton’s wrench and blow. As the party then reached the walk, coincidently with the conclusion of John Rieler’s exciting narrative, the small boys, detecting their approach, spread out and, keeping at a respectful distance, devoured with their eyes Clarence, who swam to Campion; Dora, who lived a gypsy life four months; and, though his face had been familiar enough, the big Prefect of the Sodality. It is only fair to state that it was to Will Benton that they paid the most respectful attention. He was the hero of the hour. The Rector – a most unusual thing – was hardly considered.

Dora smiled and waved her hand.

“Three cheers for the Gypsy Queen,” yelled an enthusiast. They were given with wild and artless energy.

“And three cheers for Strong-Arm,” piped another. The cheers were deafening: Bedlam had broken loose.

“Let’s run,” said Will to Dora.

The child took him at his word: and the two darted along the walk, and tripped up the steps of the middle building.

The Rector with Clarence caught up with them shortly.

“Dora,” he said, “we have no place for you here; but there’s a nice family just north of our residence building who’ll keep you as long as you’re with us. I’ve sent them word already, and they have prepared a fine supper – a sort of banquet, for you and Will and Clarence and John Rieler.”

“Did I hear my name?” asked John, just then joining the group.

“Yes, you go to the banquet, too.”

“Oh,” said John, “this whole thing is like taking candy from a child. Say, Clarence,” he added in a whisper, “they’ve got a first-class cook there, and I am hungry.”