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’llbe good company for each other while he’s with us.”
Dora held out her hand, her blue eyes all sympathy, her bright facekindling, 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’vegot against you.”
“Why? What have I done?” asked the little miss, dismay showing itself inher 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, thestar-eyed goddess of adventure. I was just half in earnest. You see,I’ve been at Clermont Academy, New York, for three years, where nothinghappened except three meals a day.”
“Oh, I see,” said Dora with the suspicion of a twinkle in her eye. “Themeals 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 beenhappening 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 atonce, and returned very quickly with a plate of cold meat and somecrusts of bread. The repast, if the truth must be told, was not veryinviting. However, it did not seem to strike Clarence in that way atall; for, standing with the plate in his hand, he set about eating witha vigor which promised a speedy disappearance of everything offered him.
“You said you weren’t very hungry,” said Dora, trying to suppress asmile.
“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. Wewere 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 thissummer. Last night I finished Treasure Island, and it got me going. Iwas just crazy to have a few adventures; so I called on the bright-eyedgoddess to come on and set ’em up.”
“Did she come?”
“Come! I should say she did! She’s worn her welcome out already. Butthat’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. Isaw the bright-eyed goddess long enough to get a crack of her wand overthe head, and she looked like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes, your eyes are bright and blue, your complexion is what thenovelists call dazzling, your hair is long and like the bearded cornwhen it is ripe. So was hers. The goddess wore a white dress. So doyou.”
“I always wear white,” said Dora, simply. “When I was a baby, my motherconsecrated me to the Blessed Virgin.”
“What, are you a Catholic, Dora?”
“Yes, Clarence; and mama kept me dressed in white with a blue sash tillI was seven years of age. Then I made my First Communion. On that day, Itold Our Lord that I would stick to the blue and the white as long as Icould.”
“So you dress to please the Blessed Virgin?” queried the startled boy.
They were standing beside the fire, and the flames lighting up thegirl’s features added to the glow of enthusiasm which had come upon herface as she spoke of the blue and the white.
“I wish I could say I did,” she made humble answer. “Sometimes I feelthat I’m thinking too much of how I look. I hope it isn’t a sin to wantto look pretty.”
“Of course, it isn’t,” returned Clarence, promptly. “Why, I’m troubledthat 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 ofthe 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, nowhe 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 thismorning 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 thepeople you’re with.”
Clarence looked around. The twain were practically alone beside thefire. Two other gypsies, men whom he had not seen before, were helpingPete and the boy to give the stolen boat a new appearance. The littlechildren were paddling about in the water. Strangely enough, they scarceuttered a sound. They played, it is true, but their play was largelypantomime. Ben was off to the right tending the horses. The two womenwere in one of the tents.
“Here’s a log,” said Clarence, rolling one forward with some exertiontowards 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 therewas no more to eat. One would think, could one have seen them, that thetwo innocents, as they seated themselves on the log with their facesturned towards the river and their backs to the fire, had beenacquainted 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 overhis mouth and rubbing his upper lip. “And I want to say right now thatI’m not stuck on Pete.”
“He’s not—he’s not—” Dora paused and considered. “Well, he’s not realnice.”
“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 ofone.”
“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 somekind 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 andhelp 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 gotto do with the workhouse?” asked Clarence indignantly.
“Nothing,” laughed Dora. “But if it hadn’t been for Pete’s being in theworkhouse, I wouldn’t be here.”
“Tell me all about it, Dora.”
“I will—tomorrow. There’ll hardly be time tonight. You see, all thesegypsies are on their way to join their own crowd somewhere further northin this State. We’ve been traveling up this way since last May—overfour 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 offon his fingers, murmuring at the same time under his breath.
“Why, good
gracious!” he spoke out, presently. “You haven’t averagedmuch more than four miles a day.”
“Yes; but you ought to see the way we travel. We hardly ever go straightahead. We generally zigzag. We cut across the country in one directionand then we cut across back again in another, always keeping near to theriver. You see, we don’t like to meet people and we always dodge thetowns and villages. I guess it’s partly my fault. They don’t wantstrangers 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 differenttimes; and I found it was no use.”
“Well, I’ll not stand for it. Why, it seems to me it would be easy toget away some time or other when nobody’s on the watch. Why, Dora, we’vebeen talking here for fifteen minutes, and nobody’s been bothering aboutus in the least.”
“Don’t you believe it, Clarence. Those two women have been keeping theireyes on us ever since we shook hands. They take turn about, and thewatching is going on night and day.”
“Is that so? By the way, I notice that boy helping those fellows at theboat is looking this way very often.”
“That’s Pete’s youngest son. He’s a bit quarrelsome. He’s generallypretty nice to me; but I think that’s because Ben gave him a shaking upone day when he was rude to me. His name is Ezra. I think he’s a sort ofbully. 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 ofsorts 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 oftrouble.”
“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 besure to like you, because you are a good fellow.”
Dora broke into so ringing a laugh that all the artists engaged upon theboat 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 withthe 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 Ican’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 thoselittle children paddling in the water are Ben’s, and the other twobelong 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 toldhim about wearing blue and white in honor of our Blessed Mother, he gotme a lot of nice white dresses and three blue sashes, and his wife isjust as kind. Her name is Dorcas. She helps me wash my things, and sewsfor 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 everynight; 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, theOur Father, I’ve partly forgotten.”
“I’ll teach you all I know,” said Dora. “And,” she continued, “when I’vefinished my prayers, I sing a little hymn to the Blessed Virgin. Thenshe 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 myselftill I go to bed. I call that—I call that—delicate.”
“I can sing some myself,” said Clarence, more affected by Dora’sdeclaration 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 wasbecause they didn’t know any better. But you didn’t tell me anythingabout that old woman who raised such a fuss about seeing a cross on myhand. What was the matter with her?”
“She hates Catholics. I don’t know what to make of her. She acts as ifshe would like to poison me because I’m a Catholic. She thinks you’reone.”
“But I’m not.”
“What are you, Clarence?”
“I’m nothing. My father said I was to wait till I was fourteen before Ithought anything about religion.”
Suddenly Clarence stopped. The vision of his parents presenteditself,—their grief, their bewilderment, their perplexity. His eyesfilled with tears.
“What’s the matter, Clarence?”
The boy had not attended boarding school for nothing. With an heroiceffort he mastered himself.
“Nothing. Something caught me in the throat. By the way, I’m fourteennow; have been since last June. It’s time for me to get busy and fix upthe religious question.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Dora, turning shining eyes and the glowingface of enthusiasm upon her new friend. “I’ll instruct you in theCatholic faith myself.”
“But I don’t intend to be a Catholic. It isn’t up-to-date. There’s toomuch 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, oncethe question of religion had been raised, had become intensely earnest.Master Ezra, the boat repairing being fairly completed, had drawn nearenough to see their faces without being able to catch the exact importof their words. He was plainly disquieted. Tiptoeing his way behind thetrees he stole behind the two controversialists, and seizing the end ofthe log on which they were sitting, gave it a shove and a kick, with theresult that the two fell sprawling to the earth.
Clarence was up at once, and with a courtly air caught the girl’s handand 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 ofyours.”
“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 doobject to your spilling this girl.”
“What?” roared Ezra, doubling his fists and advancing to within a fewfeet of the youthful knight.
“I’m not deaf, either. The thing for you to do now is to apologize toDora.”
“What?” roared Ezra, louder than ever.
“Oh, you’re deaf, are you?”
Here Clarence put his two hands like a speaking-trumpet before his mouthand 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 soquickly as to avoid entirely the force of the blow; and as he returnedwith a facer that caught Ezra between the eyes, the gypsies, man, womanand child, came hurrying to the spot in such short order that, when Benthrew himself between the two, a circle was already formed about thebelligerents.
Ezra addressed Ben in gypsy patter. His words were few. Ben nodded.
“Go ahead,” he said, and drew back into the circle; and before Clarencehad caught the full significance of these words, a blow planted fullbelow his jaw sent him to the earth. He was up at once, and, on carefulguard, warded off several more vicious attacks and waited for anopening. It came presently and left Ezra’s left eye in a state whichpromised to develop presently into deep mourning.
At this the gypsy lad lost control of himself and proceeded to strikeout furiously and wildly. It was easy for Clarence, a trained boxer andagile as a cat, to
ward off these blows; easy for him, now and then, toreach his adversary with what are known in sporting circles aslove-taps. In a few minutes, Ezra was breathing heavily. Suddenly thegypsy changed his tactics; he tried to catch Clarence in his arms andbear him to the ground. Clarence, not without difficulty, succeeded inbreaking away, and, once free, changed his tactics, too. Springingforward, he literally rained blows upon the winded foe. Nose, eyes,mouth, jaw, all received vigorous attention, till Ezra, unable to standthe punishment, jumped back and averted his head.
“Did you say nuff?” asked Clarence, pausing, and standing still in thecenter of the ring.
For answer, Ezra made a flying leap at his foe, determined by sheerweight and momentum to bring Clarence to defeat. The young knight wasquick to adjust himself. Ezra’s head, intended to ram the lad’s chest,found itself noosed within Clarence’s strong right arm. The catch nearlybrought the young knight to the earth; but surefootedness won out, andEzra was in chancery.
“Say ’nuff,” commanded Clarence, with a hug and a punch that werepractically simultaneous.
Pete spoke sharply to Ezra.
“’Nuff,” said the gypsy boy.
“All right,” said Clarence, and releasing his hold left Ezra free andevidently much the worse for the short encounter.
The gypsies had been silent throughout the brisk combat. It wasimpossible to tell from their faces on which side their sympathies lay.
“Boy,” said Ben, slipping into the ring, “I’d advise you to shake handswith Ezra.”
“Happy thought,” gasped Clarence. “Say, Ezra, if you’ll tell Dora you’resorry for taking liberties with her, I’ll be glad to shake hands withyou.”
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 giveyou 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 anassurance which was amazing.
The night was now well advanced, and dark clouds, black and heavy, hadwithin the last half hour shut out the friendly eyes of the stars. Apeal 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 andhis wife who at once made for the larger tent. One of the children camerunning to Ben with a guitar; whereupon Dora rose and with clasped handsstood beside the young gypsy.
Ben, striking a few chords, nodded to Dora, who, at the nod, opened herlips and broke forth in as sweet a voice as ever awoke the woodlands ofWisconsin into—Gounod’s _Ave Maria_.
Clarence was spellbound. He was exalted, carried out of himself. It wasnot the voice alone, though the voice was thrillingly sweet; not themusic, though the air was one that holds music-lovers rapt the worldover; not the accompaniment, though it was supremely exquisite in thesacred silence of the night. There was more than all this; faith, andlove, and purity, and innocence—all springing from the heart of achild—supplied undertones beyond the reach of art that music couldsupply.
As the song proceeded, the rain began to fall, but the rain was heededby none—not even by the little children. Towards the end, the down-pourgrew heavy; but spellbound, no one moved. As the last note died intosilence, there ensued a few breathless seconds; then came a burst ofthunder and a forked prong of lightning which seemed to strike intotheir very midst. All jumped up and made for cover.
“Come with me,” said Ben, catching Clarence’s hand. “Your quarters willbe in the wagon. She sings,” he added, “that song every night, and,”continued the musician, as he helped Clarence into his new sleepingquarters, “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 meditatingupon the events of the most adventurous day in his life. Around him layfour gypsy men—Ezra, Pete’s two older sons, and Ben. But he was, to allintents and purposes, alone. And then in bitterness and sorrow the youngadventurer wept salt tears and checked with difficulty the sighs ofutter misery. He was captive; his parents were, he supposed, franticwith grief. Perhaps they thought him dead. And so Clarence, frightenedand 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 thee I 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’sthe difference between that girl and me. I address myself to thebright-eyed goddess of adventure—and see where I am! And she calls onher dear Mother, who is also the Mother of God, and just look what Dorais!”
Before the second stanza was quite finished, the exhausted youth fellinto a disturbed sleep. He tossed uneasily for a time, then murmuring ashe turned, “Mother dear, O pray for me,” he was wrapped in a slumberwhich no noise could disturb.
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