_In which there is another joyful reunion, and Clarence presents
an important letter to the Rector of Campion College._
“Clarence,” said Father Keenan, “there’s good news.”
“Oh, what is it? Were their lives saved? Were they unhurt?”
“Just forty miles to the East of the accident your father received a
telegram. It seems there was some mining trouble in the Southwest, and
he was ordered to go there at once. Both your father and mother got off
at a junction and so missed the accident.”
“Oh, thank God! thank God! And when shall I see them?”
“Very soon, Clarence. On the very day you arrived here, I sent telegrams
to different cities, and had advertisements inserted in the most
prominent papers in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Cleveland and
Cincinnati. The ads. read something like this: Any friends or relations
of Clarence Esmond falsely reported drowned are requested to write or
call upon the President of Campion College, Prairie du Chien, Wis.”
“Did you really do that, Father?”
“Yes, my boy,” answered the Rector, as the two went up the steps and
proceeded in the direction of the infirmary. “And it seems that in New
York a member of the firm that sent the telegram to your father read the
ad. He at once wired your parents—and—and—” the Rector paused.
They were standing just outside the parlor, from which came the sound of
voices.
“_They’re here! They’re here?_” cried Clarence, and burst into the
parlor.
Father George Keenan considerately waited outside until the first
rapture of reunion should have died away; waited and thought with
gratitude to God of his part in a romance of the upper Mississippi, a
romance of childhood and innocence, and the sure, guiding hand of Divine
Providence.
The parlor door opened presently, and Clarence came out.
“Oh, Father Rector, won’t you please come in? Say, Pa, this is the
priest who fed me when I was hungry, clothed me when I was naked, took
me in when I was abandoned, and treated me as if I was a prince in
disguise. Say, Ma, look at him and thank him, if you can. I can’t.” And
Clarence blubbered.
“Father Keenan,” said Mr. Esmond with quivering lips, “if I should think
of trying to thank you, I should become absolutely dumb. I am helpless;
and to think that you should be the member of an Order I’ve been abusing
all my life.”
Mrs. Esmond, in turn, took the dismayed Father’s hand, and tried to
speak. She failed; but her eyes spoke the gratitude her tongue could not
utter.
“Don’t—don’t mention it,” said Father Keenan lamely and with a vivid
blush. “I’m happier than I can say to have done anything for as fine and
as gifted a boy as I have ever met.”
There came an awkward silence. The Rector was confused beyond measure;
Mrs. Esmond had gathered her boy to her arms, and was fondling him as
she had done when he was a little child. Mr. Esmond was endeavoring with
but ill success to master his burst of emotion.
“Say, Pa,” cried Clarence, breaking away in excitement. “There’s one
thing I want to say right off. You said I might choose my religion when
I was fourteen. Well, I’ve chosen. I want to be a Catholic.”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly. I never thought of your joining that
Faith; but you’ll be in good company.”
“And, Father Rector, may I be baptized?”
“Of course, Clarence, since your father so kindly consents.”
“And, Father, will you do it?”
“Gladly, Clarence.”
“Good! thank you. Come on,” and Clarence seized his hat.
“But what’s your hurry, Clarence?” asked Father Keenan, laying a
detaining hand upon the eager neophyte.
“Isn’t this rather sudden, my boy?” inquired Mr. Esmond.
“It’s not at all sudden,” Clarence made answer. “I’ve been thinking
about this and preparing for this ever since I met Dora. Do you think I
want to go to bed to-night with original sin and all my life’s
wickedness on my soul when I can get it off in a few minutes? Of course,
I’m in a hurry.”
“Put your hat down, Clarence,” ordered the Rector. “But I promise you
this: you’ll be baptized and made a child of God and heir of heaven
before you go to bed tonight. And now, Mr. and Mrs. Esmond, I want you
to come out and meet Dora, who did so much for Clarence and whom
Clarence saved from the gypsies; John Rieler, who rescued Clarence from
the river; and Dora’s parents and big brother. For the next hour, we are
going to hold a symposium. Clarence will tell his story from the time he
left McGregor till he took to the river; John Rieler will take up the
theme and tell how he came to make Clarence’s acquaintance; I, myself,
will describe the boy’s first appearance at Campion, and with the help
of Will Benton will tell the tale of our visit to the gypsy camp and
rescue of Dora.”
As everybody following hard upon introduction insisted upon talking at
once, Father Keenan experienced no little difficulty in carrying out the
proposed program. It was fully an hour before the story—the strange
romance of the upper Mississippi—was clearly unfolded to the wondering
grown folks.
“I say,” urged Clarence, when the various adventures had been adequately
commented on, “isn’t it time for me to be baptized?”
“Oh,” said Dora. “Is it all arranged?”
“Yes, Dora.”
“And—and—may I be your godmother?”
“Delighted!” cried the boy. “Nothing could please me better.”
“You ought to know,” observed John Rieler, “that the Church has erected
an impediment between godmother and godson. If you carry out that
program, you two can never marry.”
“Marry!” cried Dora, “I’m not to marry. I’m to dedicate my life to
Mary.”
“Marry!” remonstrated Clarence. “Who ever thought of such a thing? Dora
and I don’t intend to discuss that subject ourselves; and we
don’t”—here he looked severely at John—“care about hearing anyone else
discuss it.”
“All right, Clarence,” said John, “if that’s the case I want to be
godfather.”
After supper, Clarence, alone, went to the boys’ chapel, where for
fifteen minutes he prayed and recalled in sorrow all the sins of his
life. Then came Dora, John, Will and the two married couples followed by
Father Keenan; and in the quiet of the evening Clarence Esmond filled
with faith and love received upon his brow the regenerating waters of
baptism and became a faithful child of the true Church.
On the next morning the three children and Will Benton attended the six
o’clock Mass and together received Holy Communion.
Clarence frequently during that day pronounced it the happiest day of
his life.
On Sunday evening Clarence, who had passed most of the time with his
parents, entered Father Keenan’s room.
“Why, Clarence! How happy you look.”
“That’s because I’m a hypocrite, Father.”
“Surely, you haven’t come to bid me good-bye?”
“Oh, I should hope not, Father.” Here Clarence fumbled in his pocket.
“This is a letter my Pa gave me to bring to you.”
“So you were godfather for Dorcas and her children!”
“Yes, Father Rector, and Dora was godmother. Pa says it was awful good
of you to pay the expenses of Ben’s burial and to pay for the board of
Dorcas and her little ones; but he’s going to do the rest. He has an
interest in the ranch in the Southwest, and they need a woman to feed
the men and keep the house. Dorcas gets the position.”
“Can she hold it?” asked the Rector.
“Oh, yes! Dora says that Dorcas cooks nicely and is fine at the needle,
and is very neat.”
“I hope she’ll have a chance to go to church,” continued Father Keenan.
“There’s a church ten miles from the ranch; and the foreman is a good
Catholic. He is to bring Dorcas every Sunday.”
“Excellent,” said the Rector.
“And did you hear about Pete?” asked Clarence.
“No; how is he?”
“Pa just got word. It took him thirty-six hours to recover from the blow
that Will Benton gave him. He was unconscious all that time.”
“Let us hope and pray that God may bring him to repentance,” said the
Rector.
“The jail doctor says he’ll never do harm again. And, Father, tomorrow
Dorcas goes to Communion; then she’s coming up to bid you good-bye, and
then off she starts to her new work.”
“Thank God,” said Father Keenan. “And now, Clarence, sit down while I
read your father’s letter.”
And this is what Father Keenan read:
“My dear Father Keenan: I am trying to write what I have found it
impossible to say. To borrow the language of my little boy—who, I
believe, borrowed from the words of Christ in the New
Testament—Clarence was hungry and you fed him, naked and you clothed
him, and outcast and you took him in. He was sorrowful and you consoled
him; orphaned, and, at the sacrifice of your precious time, you took the
place of father and mother. He needed, too, someone to take hold of his
complicated situation and you by telegram, telephone, letter and in
every conceivable way unravelled the tangle within a few hours; and in
doing so brought gladness to sad and suffering hearts; in a few hours,
you effected the rescue of his dear little girl friend; and, when we
arrived, had everything in the finest condition imaginable and everybody
happy. In all this you were aided and abetted by that little saint,
Dora—the most wonderful girl I have ever met—by John Rieler, that
paragon of good-nature who saved my boy’s life; and by that prince of
young men, _Strong-Arm_ Benton, which quick performance at the gypsy
camp will never be forgotten by those who hear it told.
“To have my boy the intimate of Will, Dora and Rieler—the most
wonderful trio one could bring together—I esteem a rare privilege and
an honor. Their friendship is touched with youth, and purity and faith.
“You will be glad to know, Reverend Father, that, in my opinion,
Clarence is not altogether unworthy of such splendid companions. At
Clermont School in New York, where he attended for three years, he
maintained a reputation for cleanness of speech and delicacy of conduct,
which, among the faculty, made him a marked boy. He was the center of a
group—some seven or eight in number—who had professed and followed out
lofty and lovely ideals. God, I know not why, has been singularly good
to my boy, and kept him from dangers to morals only too common in these
pagan days.
“The duty of thanking you, of showing you my gratitude, will be with me,
I trust, a life task. I can never forget how when my little boy—a
veritable Dan Cupid up to date—arrived you took him in hand.
“His entrance into the Church pleases me more, the more I think of it.
When his mother gave up hope of ever seeing Clarence again, it seemed
for a time as though she would lose her mind. She insisted that Clarence
had been taken from her untimely because she had not lived up to the
Catholic Faith, in which, as a child, she was baptized. It was in vain
that I pointed out to her that she had not been brought up a Catholic,
that she was raised a Protestant; that she had been in no way
responsible. She would not be consoled. Finally, with my full
approbation, she promised God that should Clarence be returned to us,
she would once more embrace the Faith of her fathers. She intends to go
to confession and receive Holy Communion before we bid an unwilling
adieu to Campion. She has already called at St. Mary’s Academy and
engaged a splendid nun there to give her a course of instructions.
“In a short time—by Christmas at the latest—I am going to join the
Church that received Ben and Dorcas with the same arms of welcome as it
receives the princes and potentates of the earth. This, my fixed
determination, is sudden; but for all that, it is none the less firm. It
came to me last night, as I watched the radiant Dora and the reverent
John holding my boy, whose face was aflame with zeal and faith as you,
Father, poured the water of baptism upon his head.
“And now, Father, I’ve been thinking much of what you did for my boy.
There must be other cases like his—cases of boys being thrown upon
you—not coming in the guise of Cupid, it is true—but coming to you
asking for education, board and books; but without money. In memory,
then, of your kindness to my little boy, I enclose you a check for five
thousand dollars as a fund for a perpetual scholarship to carry year
after year through Campion College some boy whom God has given brains
and ambition, but denied money. And if God continues to bless me in my
enterprises, this will not be the end, by any means, of my help in that
same line.
“And now, one more matter of business. Clarence is bent on going to
Campion College. He loves the grounds, the buildings, the boys, and, so
far as he knows them, the faculty. His mother and I are almost as
anxious that he should attend your school as he is. We intend to stay
here for a week or ten days to get better acquainted with our dear
little boy—dearer a thousandfold that, having been lost, he is found.
We, therefore, beg of you, Father, as a special favor, to register the
boy at once; but to allow us his company till we leave. His board and
tuition expenses are to begin, of course, from the opening day of
school—two weeks back. Before leaving, I will make you a check to cover
his expenses for the entire year.
“This is the longest letter I have written since the time I was engaged
to her who is now my wife. It is long because I have been endeavoring,
with poor success, to express my gratitude. But the task is beyond me.
Beyond me, too, is it to express the present happiness of my wife, of
Clarence, of Dora and of
“Yours with a heart full of gratitude,
“CHARLES ESMOND.”