Cupid of Campion

CHAPTER V

In which Ben, the gypsy, associates himself with the Bright-eyed Goddess in carrying out her will upon Master Clarence Esmond, and that young gentleman finds himself a captive

It was the time when the night-hawk, soaring high in air and circling wantonly, suddenly drops like a thunderbolt down, down till nearing the ground it calls a sudden halt in its fall, and cutting a tremendous angle and letting out a short sound deep as the lowest string of a bass violin shoots up into the failing light of the evening; it was the time when the whippoorwill essays to wake the darkening sky with his insistent demands for the beating of that unfortunate youth, poor Will; it was the time when the sun, having left his kingdom in the western sky, stretches forth his wand of sovereignty from behind his curtains and touching the fleecy clouds changes them into precious jewels, ruby, pearl, and amethyst; it was, in fine, the time when the day is done and the twilight brings quiet and peace and slumber to the restless world.

However – and the exception proves the rule – it did not bring quiet and peace and slumber to Master Clarence Esmond. In fact, it so chanced that the twilight hour was the time when he was deprived of these very desirable gifts; for his sleep was just then rudely broken.

First, a feeling of uneasiness came upon his placid slumbers. It seemed to him, in those moments between sleeping and waking, that a very beautiful fairy, vestured in flowing white, and with lustrous and shining eyes, appeared before him. She gazed at him sternly. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” murmured Clarence. “I’ve been looking for you, star-eyed goddess. Be good enough, now you’re here, to supply me with one or two first-class adventures in good condition and warranted to last.” In answer to which, she of the starry eyes extended her wand and struck her suppliant a smart blow on the forehead. As she did this, the light in her eyes went out, her form lost its outline, fading away after the manner of a moving picture effect into total darkness.

Clarence’s eyes then opened; it was not all a dream – the loose board above him had fallen and struck him on his noble brow. Also, although his eyes were open, he could see very little. Almost at once he realized where he was. Almost at once he recalled, with the swiftness thought is often capable of, the varied events of the day. Almost at once, he perceived that the boat, no longer drifting, was moving swiftly as though in tow.

Clarence sat up. There was a splashing of the water quite near the boat. He rubbed his eyes and peered into the gathering darkness. A brown hand, near the prow, was clasped to the gunwale. Then Clarence standing up looked again. From the hand to the arm moved his eyes; from the arm to the head. Beside the boat and swimming vigorously was a man, whom, despite the shadows of the evening, Clarence recognized as young and swarthy. They were rapidly nearing shore.

“Say!” cried Clarence. “Look here, will you? Who are you?”

The swimmer on hearing the sound of the boy’s voice suspended his swimming, turned his head, and seeing standing in what he had supposed to be an empty boat, a young cherub arrayed in a scanty suit of blue, released his hold and disappeared under the water as though he had been seized with cramp.

The boat freed of his hand tilted very suddenly in the other direction, with the result that the erect cherub lost his balance so suddenly that he was thrown headlong into the waters on the other side.

Simultaneously with Clarence’s artless and unpremeditated dive, the strange swimmer came to the surface. He had thought, as our young adventurer subsequently learned, that the figure in the boat was a ghost. But ghosts do not tumble off boats into the water; neither do ghosts, when they come to the surface, blow and sputter and cough and strike out vigorously with an overhand stroke, which things the supposed ghost was now plainly doing. The stranger, therefore, taking heart of grace, laid the hand of proprietorship upon the boat once more. Clarence from the other side went through the same operation.

“What did you spill me for?” he gasped.

“I didn’t know anyone was in the boat,” returned the stranger with a slightly foreign accent. “When you stood up and spoke, I was plumb scared.”

“I really think I’m rather harmless,” remarked the boy, blithely. “Never yet, save in the way of kindness, did I lay hand on anybody – well hardly anybody. Where are we anyhow?”

“We’re on the Mississippi River,” returned the other guardedly.

“Oh, thank you ever so much. I really thought we were breasting the billows of the Atlantic.”

Meanwhile, they had drawn within a few feet of the shore, on which Clarence now cast his eyes. On a sloping beach in a grove surrounded by cottonwoods blazed a ruddy fire. Standing about it but with their eyes and attention fixed upon the two swimmers was a group consisting of a man a little beyond middle age, a woman, apparently his wife, a younger woman, a boy a trifle older and larger than Clarence, a girl of twelve, and five or six little children. In the camp-fire’s light Clarence perceived that they were, taking them all in all, swarthy, black-haired, clad like civilized people, and yet in that indescribable wild way of which gypsies possess the secret.

“Come on,” said the man, as the boat touched the shore.

“Excuse me,” said Clarence politely, “but I’m not dressed to meet visitors. The water is fine anyway; and it’s not near so dangerous as it’s cracked up to be. Can’t you get a fellow at least a pair of trousers?”

“You’ll stay here, will you?”

“I certainly will,” answered the youth, turning on his back and floating. “I’ve had enough of being out on the Mississippi to last me for several weeks at the very least. Go on, there’s a good fellow, – and get me something to put on.”

With a not ill-natured grunt of assent, the man walked up the sloping bank. As he passed the watchful group he uttered a few words; whereupon the larger gypsy boy came down to the shore and fixed a watchful eye upon the bather, while the others broke up and gave themselves to various occupations. Clarence’s rescuer went on beyond the fire, where two tents lay pitched beside a closed wagon – a prairie schooner on a small scale. After some search in which the young woman assisted him, he issued from the larger tent with a pair of frayed khaki trousers and an old calico shirt.

Returning to the river’s edge, he beckoned the swimmer, who, quick to answer the call, seized the clothes and darted behind the largest cottonwood. Clarence was dressed in a trice.

“I wish,” he observed, walking up to his rescuer, “to thank you for saving me. I’ve never been on a big river before; and I was afraid to try swimming. I say,” and as Clarence spoke, he gazed ruefully at his nether garment, “who’s your tailor?”

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Clarence Esmond, age 14, weight 110 pounds, height five feet two in my – ”

“And how did you come to be in that boat?”

Clarence, involuntarily gazing at his frail craft and noticing that the older gypsy, assisted by the boy, had already beached it, and was now getting ready to give it a new coat of paint, proceeded to tell at some length his various encounters with the bright-eyed goddess of adventure since his departure that morning from McGregor. While he was telling his rather incredible tale all the party gathered about him. Not all, he observed, were gypsies. The little girl of twelve was as fair-skinned as himself. She was a beautiful child, with face most expressive of any passing emotion. It was to her that Clarence presently found he was addressing himself. One of his subtle jokes, lost on the gypsies, drew a smile of appreciation from the little girl. She was dainty in her dress – which was in no respect gypsy-like.

“There’s another adventure here,” Clarence reflected. “Where did they get her?” However, he was content to keep these thoughts to himself. At the conclusion of his story, Clarence addressed himself to the young man.

“And now, sir, where am I?”

“You’re in Wisconsin.”

“Oh, I’ve crossed to the other side, have I? And about how far down the river am I from the town of McGregor?”

“You are – ” began the younger gypsy, when his senior cut him short, and spoke to him hurriedly for some minutes in a language strange to Clarence’s ears.

“I say,” interrupted Clarence, “my folks must be awful anxious about me. Would you mind letting me know how far I am from McGregor? I want to get back.”

“You are over thirty-five miles from McGregor,” said the older man, thoughtfully doubling the actual distance.

“Whew! Where can I get a train? I’ve got to get back.”

“Hold on,” said the elder; “what does your father do?”

“He’s a mining expert.”

“Is he rich?”

“I suppose he is. That’s what people say; and if you get me back, I’ll see that you’re paid.”

Again the two men conferred. Watching them eagerly, Clarence gathered these items of information: the elder was called Pete, the younger, Ben; they were not in agreement, coming almost to blows; Pete was the leader.

After further talk the two women were called into council. Suddenly the older, a withered hag with deep eyes and heavy and forbidding brows, turned to Clarence.

“Your hand!” she said, laconically.

“Charmed to shake with you,” responded the amiable adventurer, extending his open palm.

Instead of clasping it, the woman caught it tight, and dragging Clarence close to the fire began eagerly to scrutinize the lines on his palm.

“You’ll live long,” she said.

“Not if I have many days like this,” commented Clarence.

“You’ll have lots of wealth.”

“No objection, I’m sure, ma’am.”

“You will learn easy.”

“That’s the very way I propose to learn.”

“You’ll marry three times.”

“Oh, I say; cut out at least two of those wives, won’t you?”

“You’ll have a big family.”

“No objection to children, ma’am.”

Suddenly the woman paused, gazing fixedly at the boy’s palm.

“Oh!” she suddenly screamed. “The cross! the cross! It’s there. I see it. Say, boy, you’re a Catholic.”

“You’re another,” retorted Clarence, indignantly.

“You are! You are!” And with a cry like that of some wild animal, the woman ran and hid herself in the larger tent.

“Boy,” said Pete, “we’re going to take care of you.”

“Thank you; but if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon take care of myself.”

“You’ll do as I tell you,” said Pete, gazing angrily at the lad. “You may be a fraud. We will find out, and if your story is true, we’ll see about getting you back to your people.”

“Oh, you will, will you? – Good night!” and with this Clarence turned and dashed up the river. Pete, followed by Ezra, was after him at once. The old man was quick to catch up with him, and he made this fact known to the boy by striking him with his closed fist a blow on the mouth which brought him flat to the earth. Pete kicked his prostrate prey as he lay, and was about to renew his brutality, when Ben roughly pulled his senior away.

“Look here!” cried Clarence ruefully, as he picked himself up. “Next time you want me to do something, tell me. You needn’t punch ideas in through my mouth. I guess I can take a hint as well as the next one.”

“You’d better do what Pete says,” whispered Ben not unkindly. “It’s no use trying to get away from him. I’ll be your friend.”

“Thank you. By the way, would you call kicks and cuffs adventures?”

The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, I was singing the praises of the goddess of adventure this morning. I wanted to meet her the worst way. Well, I’ve been meeting her all day and I’m kind of tired. If I get my hands on her, I’ll hold her under water till she’s as dead as a door-nail.”

“Oh, yes!” said the mystified Ben.

But the adventures of that day were not yet over, as Clarence, to his cost, was soon to learn.

CHAPTER VI

In which Clarence meets Dora, learns much of his gypsy companion, fights Ezra, and is sung to slumber

“Dora,” said Ben, as they neared the campfire, “come here.”

The little girl came running at his call.

“I want you to show this boy around. He’s one of your kind, and you’ll be good company for each other while he’s with us.”

Dora held out her hand, her blue eyes all sympathy, her bright face kindling, her smile all welcome.

“Glad to meet you, Dora. My name’s Clarence Esmond,” said the lad, taking her hand and shaking it cordially. “There’s only one thing I’ve got against you.”

“Why? What have I done?” asked the little miss, dismay showing itself in her rounded blue eyes.

“It isn’t what you’ve done; it’s what you are.”

“Oh, indeed!” ejaculated Dora, her brows going up in bewilderment.

“Yes, indeed. I started out this morning in quest of my lady, the star-eyed goddess of adventure. I was just half in earnest. You see, I’ve been at Clermont Academy, New York, for three years, where nothing happened except three meals a day.”

“Oh, I see,” said Dora with the suspicion of a twinkle in her eye. “The meals happened three times a day.”

“Oh, go on! You know what I mean.”

“Oh, that’s a fact!” cried Dora. “Talking of meals, aren’t you hungry? You’ve had nothing since breakfast.”

“I ought to be hungry,” admitted Clarence, “but somehow things have been happening so fast that it’s interfered with my appetite.”

“That’s too bad,” said Dora. “Of course, if you don’t want anything – ”

“Oh, I say,” interrupted Clarence, “I simply said I wasn’t very hungry. If you’ve got anything to eat – ”

There was no need for Clarence to finish his sentence. Dora was off at once, and returned very quickly with a plate of cold meat and some crusts of bread. The repast, if the truth must be told, was not very inviting. However, it did not seem to strike Clarence in that way at all; for, standing with the plate in his hand, he set about eating with a vigor which promised a speedy disappearance of everything offered him.

“You said you weren’t very hungry,” said Dora, trying to suppress a smile.

“I’m not,” replied Clarence, continuing to do yeoman’s work.

“When you are hungry, I’d like to be around,” said the girl.

“Suppose,” said Clarence, “that we come back to our original subject. We were talking about you and the bright-eyed goddess of adventure.”

“Yes. Do go on, Clarence.”

“Well, anyhow, I’ve been reading books of travel and adventure all this summer. Last night I finished Treasure Island, and it got me going. I was just crazy to have a few adventures; so I called on the bright-eyed goddess to come on and set ’em up.”

“Did she come?”

“Come! I should say she did! She’s worn her welcome out already. But that’s not what I wanted to say. Just before I woke up in that boat, which Pete and his friends are painting over right now – ”

“They’ll sell it tomorrow for a few dollars,” interpolated Dora.

“Oh, indeed! How thoughtful! Well, just before I woke, I had a dream. I saw the bright-eyed goddess long enough to get a crack of her wand over the head, and she looked like you.”

“Like me?”

“Yes, your eyes are bright and blue, your complexion is what the novelists call dazzling, your hair is long and like the bearded corn when it is ripe. So was hers. The goddess wore a white dress. So do you.”

“I always wear white,” said Dora, simply. “When I was a baby, my mother consecrated me to the Blessed Virgin.”

“What, are you a Catholic, Dora?”

“Yes, Clarence; and mama kept me dressed in white with a blue sash till I was seven years of age. Then I made my First Communion. On that day, I told Our Lord that I would stick to the blue and the white as long as I could.”

“So you dress to please the Blessed Virgin?” queried the startled boy.

They were standing beside the fire, and the flames lighting up the girl’s features added to the glow of enthusiasm which had come upon her face as she spoke of the blue and the white.

“I wish I could say I did,” she made humble answer. “Sometimes I feel that I’m thinking too much of how I look. I hope it isn’t a sin to want to look pretty.”

“Of course, it isn’t,” returned Clarence, promptly. “Why, I’m troubled that way myself.”

Dora began to giggle.

“You’re laughing at me,” said Clarence, flushing.

“Excuse me,” said Dora. “I – I – ”

This time she broke into silvery laughter.

Clarence gazed down upon himself. He had forgotten, in the interest of the conversation, his present attire. For a youth of fourteen, bare-footed, clad in a rusty calico shirt and trousers of uncertain age, to accuse himself of taking pride in his apparel and appearance was, now he came to think of it, highly comical. He joined Dora in her laughing.

“And yet I was not always thus,” he said. “You should have seen me this morning in my natty sailor suit. I really think I was stuck on myself. Dora, by George, you’re a good fellow.”

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll tell you something about the people you’re with.”

Clarence looked around. The twain were practically alone beside the fire. Two other gypsies, men whom he had not seen before, were helping Pete and the boy to give the stolen boat a new appearance. The little children were paddling about in the water. Strangely enough, they scarce uttered a sound. They played, it is true, but their play was largely pantomime. Ben was off to the right tending the horses. The two women were in one of the tents.

“Here’s a log,” said Clarence, rolling one forward with some exertion towards the fire. “Suppose we sit down, and criticize the whole crowd.”

Clarence had come to an end of his meal. He ate no more, because there was no more to eat. One would think, could one have seen them, that the two innocents, as they seated themselves on the log with their faces turned towards the river and their backs to the fire, had been acquainted with each other from their nursery days.

“First of all,” began Dora, “there’s Pete.”

“Oh, yes, I know Pete all right,” said Clarence, passing his hand over his mouth and rubbing his upper lip. “And I want to say right now that I’m not stuck on Pete.”

“He’s not – he’s not – ” Dora paused and considered. “Well, he’s not real nice.”

“Nobody would say he was.”

“And he’s the leader of this band.”

“Gypsies, eh?”

“Yes, gypsies. It isn’t a regular band you know. It’s only a piece of one.”

“It’s a big enough one for me,” Clarence observed with emphasis.

“You see, Pete got into some trouble last spring in Ohio. He made some kind of a horse-trade and was sentenced to the workhouse for a month. He’d have been there longer, only Ben was sent down to wait for him and help him pay off his fine. And that’s how I came to be here.”

“What have you got to do with paying off Pete’s fine? What have you got to do with the workhouse?” asked Clarence indignantly.

“Nothing,” laughed Dora. “But if it hadn’t been for Pete’s being in the workhouse, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Tell me all about it, Dora.”

“I will – tomorrow. There’ll hardly be time tonight. You see, all these gypsies are on their way to join their own crowd somewhere further north in this State. We’ve been traveling up this way since last May – over four months.”

“How far have you traveled?”

“Ben told me that we’re about five hundred miles from where we started.”

“Five hundred miles! Let me think a minute.” Clarence began checking off on his fingers, murmuring at the same time under his breath.

“Why, good gracious!” he spoke out, presently. “You haven’t averaged much more than four miles a day.”

“Yes; but you ought to see the way we travel. We hardly ever go straight ahead. We generally zigzag. We cut across the country in one direction and then we cut across back again in another, always keeping near to the river. You see, we don’t like to meet people and we always dodge the towns and villages. I guess it’s partly my fault. They don’t want strangers to see me.”

“And I suppose they won’t want anybody to see me either,” said Clarence. “Say, did you ever try to break away?”

“I did in the beginning. Pete gave me an awful beating three different times; and I found it was no use.”

“Well, I’ll not stand for it. Why, it seems to me it would be easy to get away some time or other when nobody’s on the watch. Why, Dora, we’ve been talking here for fifteen minutes, and nobody’s been bothering about us in the least.”

“Don’t you believe it, Clarence. Those two women have been keeping their eyes on us ever since we shook hands. They take turn about, and the watching is going on night and day.”

“Is that so? By the way, I notice that boy helping those fellows at the boat is looking this way very often.”

“That’s Pete’s youngest son. He’s a bit quarrelsome. He’s generally pretty nice to me; but I think that’s because Ben gave him a shaking up one day when he was rude to me. His name is Ezra. I think he’s a sort of bully. I am afraid of him.”

“I don’t like bullies myself,” said Clarence.

“He’s watching you,” continued Dora. “He always gets angry and out of sorts when anybody is friendly to me. Those little gypsies all like me. But Ezra, when he notices them about me much, gives them a lot of trouble.”

“Maybe he’s jealous,” suggested the artless youth.

“Jealous? Why should he be jealous? He doesn’t care for me.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Clarence. “Anybody who meets you would be sure to like you, because you are a good fellow.”

Dora broke into so ringing a laugh that all the artists engaged upon the boat stopped their work to turn their gaze upon the two children.

“Oh, but you are the funniest boy,” she said.

“Thank you kindly; I do try my best. But come on, let’s finish up with the crowd before they get done with that boat.”

“That’s so. It’s so long since I’ve had anybody I could talk to that I can’t help wandering. Well, those two men with Pete are his oldest sons. They don’t seem to count much one way or the other. Three of those little children paddling in the water are Ben’s, and the other two belong to the oldest of Pete’s sons. His wife is dead, and Ben’s wife, that young woman, takes care of them. She’s real nice, and so is Ben. Ben is very kind to me. He treats me like a little princess. When I told him about wearing blue and white in honor of our Blessed Mother, he got me a lot of nice white dresses and three blue sashes, and his wife is just as kind. Her name is Dorcas. She helps me wash my things, and sews for me, and – you see that little tent over there?”

“It seems to me I do.”

“Well, that’s my tent. Ben got it for me. His wife sleeps with me every night; but she never comes in till I’ve said all my prayers.”

“All your prayers.”

“Yes, all of them.”

“I know only two,” observed Clarence regretfully, “and one of them, the Our Father, I’ve partly forgotten.”

“I’ll teach you all I know,” said Dora. “And,” she continued, “when I’ve finished my prayers, I sing a little hymn to the Blessed Virgin. Then she knows that I’m going to bed and she comes in. Isn’t that nice?”

“I don’t know,” returned Clarence, “I haven’t heard you sing yet.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that. I mean her staying out and leaving me to myself till I go to bed. I call that – I call that – delicate.”

“I can sing some myself,” said Clarence, more affected by Dora’s declaration than he cared to show.

“Oh, can you? We’ll get up some duets.”

“The kids at my school used to like to hear me sing, but perhaps it was because they didn’t know any better. But you didn’t tell me anything about that old woman who raised such a fuss about seeing a cross on my hand. What was the matter with her?”

“She hates Catholics. I don’t know what to make of her. She acts as if she would like to poison me because I’m a Catholic. She thinks you’re one.”

“But I’m not.”

“What are you, Clarence?”

“I’m nothing. My father said I was to wait till I was fourteen before I thought anything about religion.”