_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.
Pete and his wife, upon understanding what was going on, were furious;
the woman particularly so. The leader, afraid to wreak vengeance on
Dora, singled out Clarence as the victim to his rage. Many a secret blow
did the boy receive during the day’s journey.
At nightfall there came a heavy rain. All took shelter in the big tent.
Clarence happened to remark how two nights previously he had been
engrossed in a wonderful story called Treasure Island.
“What was it about?” asked Ben.
“Do you want me to tell it?”
“Oh, do,” cried Dora. “I haven’t read a story or heard one for ever and
ever so long.”
“I like a nice story,” said Dorcas, Ben’s wife, beaming on the lad.
“Tell us Treasure Island,” begged one of the children.
And Clarence, thus adjured, set about recounting that wondrous tale of
ships and pirates and buried treasures. At the first words, Pete and his
wife left the tent. But the others remained, and listened to a lad who
coupled an extraordinary memory with a flow of vivid language. The story
was in its first quarter when Pete returned and, to the disappointment
of all, announced bedtime. The guitar was brought, Gounod’s _Ave Maria_
sung, and when sleep visited the eyes of Clarence, who kept himself
awake to hear Dora’s good-night hymn to the Blessed Mother, it visited a
youngster who in twenty-four hours had achieved a partnership with a
singularly lovely child in the leadership of a gypsy band.