Cupid of Campion

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.”