THROUGH STORM TO THE RAINBOW.
"And you will come out to see me every Sunday and Tuesday and Thursday,
Uncle?"
"Yes, pet, unless something very important happens to prevent my doing
so. In that case, we shall have a long chat over the telephone. I
know that you will be very happy here, little one, with Aunt Mary to
look after you, and so many, many friends among the Sisters and little
girls."
But in spite of his words, the Doctor felt the hand within his own
tighten its hold and saw a very wistful light in the blue eyes raised
to his.
It was the first week of May. The beautiful spring day had tempted the
Doctor and Mary to walk from the station, and they had just entered the
big gates at the entrance to the convent grounds.
"See that orchard! Isn't it a picture? And those shrubs in blossom!
Really, I would not mind being a little girl myself if I could go to
school in such a beautiful place."
"Oh, I know that I shall like to go to school here, Uncle; but I do
wish I could see you every evening. Couldn't you live with Father
Hartley and go into the city on the train every day?"
"That would not be possible, Goldilocks; but I shall invite myself to
stay over night with the chaplain now and then since you wish it so
much."
Sister Madeline had a warm welcome for the travelers. The Doctor
remained for dinner and left on the early afternoon train; and Mary
began her life as a boarder at Maryvale. It was the custom for
children of her age to sleep in a dormitory; but Mrs. Selwyn had
written to Mother Johanna, asking that Mary might have her own room
fitted up with her furniture from home. And a very dainty little room
it was, with pale blue-tinted walls and light woodwork, soft mull
curtains looped back with pale blue ribbons, the brass bed, satin-wood
dresser, writing desk, and chairs, and the little bookcase from her
playroom. On the top of this stood her marble statue of our Blessed
Mother and a pair of vases which Mary always kept filled with fresh
flowers. Her toy box with a few sofa cushions on it made a very good
window seat; and all the girls agreed that Mary Selwyn's room was the
very prettiest one in the house.
As a surprise to her father and mother, she was allowed to begin to
study music and soon showed so much talent for it that Sister Dominic
was delighted with her. She never begged to be excused from practice;
for was she not "making a s'prise" for those whom she loved better than
all the fun and frolics in the world? And every time she was called to
the parlor to see her uncle, the same question was on her lips: "How
many days is it now, Uncle, before they will be home?" until he at last
brought her a large calendar and a blue pencil with which she could
mark off each day before she went to bed at night. Toward the end of
May, she sighed when she found that there were five whole pages of days
to be marked off before the first of November.
But, somehow, the summer passed more quickly than she had believed
possible. She was glad to find that September has only thirty days;
and when October came, she could scarcely wait for the letter that
would tell the exact date when her dear ones would sail for home.
Toward the end of the month, the Doctor came with a letter, yes,--but
the little girl was sorely disappointed; for baby Beth had been very
ill, and the doctor who had attended her would not hear of her being
brought back to New York just at the beginning of the long, cold
winter. So the return home must be put off until the next May.
Poor little Mary! For her Uncle's sake she tried to be brave and
agreed with him when he reminded her of how much better able she would
be to play the piano in another six months; but the longing for her
father and mother and the babies grew stronger than ever, and she
studied the calendar to see whether there were more months of thirty
than of thirty-one days between November and May. Looking over the
pages which she had turned back when she had first hung the calendar in
her room, she danced about at sight of only twenty-eight days in
February, and ran to Sister Austin to ask whether the new year would
bring any change in the number. But she learned that it would not be a
leap year and went away somewhat consoled that there would be no extra
day to put off her happiness.
Again the month of May came; but into it and the months which followed
were crowded sorrows and trials which seldom fall to the lot of so
young a child. The sad, sad news of her father's death in distant
India was swiftly followed by word of her mother's illness which again
delayed the homecoming. And when, shortly after her tenth birthday,
the Doctor, pale and haggard, came to Maryvale and as gently as
possible told her of the wreck of the great ocean steamer and the loss
of those so dear to them, she felt that she was indeed his little Mary,
and that she now belonged to our Blessed Mother in a very special way.
For some weeks her aunt and uncle were much worried about her, for she
became so thin and pale and played no more with the little ones who
were spending the summer vacation at the convent; but after a month
with the Doctor in the mountains and another in Georgia at the home of
Wilhelmina Marvin, the little daughter of old, old friends of her
father, mother, and uncle, she returned to Maryvale looking more like
herself.
Many long, lonely hours did she spend. She could not talk much about
her sorrows to her uncle and aunt, for she knew that they felt the
terrible loss almost as deeply as she did; but she had learned where to
find the comfort she so sorely needed; and when she could no longer
bear the merry laughter and noisy pranks of her playmates, she would
steal away to the chapel and whisper all that she wished to say to the
loving Heart in the Tabernacle.
Wilhelmina and she had become fast friends; for the little Southern
girl had come as a boarder to Maryvale the year before. Mary had found
her the same lively, fun-loving, little romp whom the Doctor had
described to her, with just one difference--she had grown more lively,
more fun-loving, more full of mischief; and poor Sister Austin's nerves
were sorely tried, for Wilhelmina was never happier than when swinging
from the highest limbs of the very tallest trees she could find.
Sister Madeline had been made Mother Superior at Maryvale; and
Wilhelmina was a frequent visitor to her office, where she was called
to answer for her pranks. But she was such a truthful, generous,
whole-hearted child that no one could be very hard on her. In a short
time, she had Mary playing base-ball and many games which she had never
heard of; and by degrees, our little girl lost some of her
old-fashioned manner, while her gentle ways did much toward keeping
Wilhelmina within bounds.
After Mary's visit to Sunnymead, as Wilhelmina's home was called, the
two little girls returned to school, Wilhelmina full of good
resolutions, most of which she broke the first day. She and Mary were
in the same class; for, although eight months younger than Mary, she
had not missed nearly a whole year of school on account of illness, and
she had been taught at home by a governess--that is, when that young
woman could find her and keep her in the schoolroom long enough to
teach her anything. She, too, took music lessons; and poor Sister
Dominic had her hands full with her. Wilhelmina's favorite tunes were
_Yankee Doodle, The Wearing of the Green, Oh, Dem Golden Slippers_, and
several others which she had picked out for herself on the piano at
home, and which she faithfully practiced instead of the lesson which
her teacher expected her to prepare.
"But, Sister, I can't play scales and exercises for folks. The boys
would chase me out of the house if I tried it. You don't know what it
means to have eight brothers. They want tunes with lots of swing and
go to them."
"The lively things will come later, Wilhelmina, after you have mastered
these very important scales and exercises. How can you expect to play
runs and trills and such things unless you learn to do it properly?"
"This is the easiest way to play a run, Sister." And the young lady
drew her thumb quickly across the length of the keyboard.
Sister Dominic sighed. So did Wilhelmina.
And still, between this harum-scarum little girl and Mary there sprang
up a warm friendship, which grew stronger and stronger as the years
went on, each of the children gaining much from the good traits she
found in the other.
During the fall and winter, many things which Mary had heard about the
wreck passed and repassed through her busy little brain; and at last
she made up her mind that the stories did not agree, and that there
must be a mistake somewhere. She spoke of the matter to her uncle; but
he insisted that everything possible had been done at the time of the
wreck to make sure that there was no mistake. Mary was not convinced
and began praying to our Blessed Mother to obtain for her light and
guidance. Many a half hour she spent in the chapel, besides denying
herself candy and other goodies; and her belief that her dear ones had
not been lost in the wreck grew stronger and stronger as the bright
spring days went by. Where they were, why they had sent no word of
their rescue, she had no idea; but she felt sure that our Lady would in
some way make it known to her. So she prayed and trusted and made
hundreds of little acts of self-denial.
And then----_then_ things began to happen so quickly as almost to take
her breath away.
One night in the early part of June, she went to bed wondering how many
more prayers she would have to say before her uncle would begin to feel
as she did; and the very next morning, she noticed a marked change in
him. She did not ask what had caused it. It was enough for her to
know that her prayers had at last been partly answered. And beyond
asking a few questions and showing unusual restlessness, the Doctor
said nothing of the story he had heard from a boy who had been saved
from the wreck, and who insisted that Mrs. Selwyn had been in the same
lifeboat and had reached Bordeaux, France, very ill, but still alive.
But the fact that she had sent no word of her rescue made the Doctor
fear that she had died before she was able to do so; and he made up his
mind not to arouse Mary's hopes until he was perfectly sure that there
was no danger of her being again cruelly disappointed. He at once
began to make use of every means in his power to follow up the slight
clue the boy had given him; but it was not through notices in the
newspapers, nor through his visits to all the hospitals and orphan
asylums in Bordeaux, nor through the efforts of the many detectives
employed on the case that Mary's trusting prayer was answered. An
errand of pure charity brought the Doctor face to face with his loved
sister. The sight of him and the sound of his voice restored her
memory, which she had completely lost as a result of the shock of the
wreck.
And six weeks later Mary's cup of happiness was filled to overflowing
by the sudden return of her father, who had been captured, but not
killed as was reported, by a savage tribe in India.
On the eighth of September, our Blessed Mother's birthday, there was a
wonderful family gathering in the big east parlor at Maryvale, where
Mother Madeline listened, her eyes filled with grateful tears, to the
story which Mr. Selwyn told.
And the twins! the dear, mischief-loving, four-year-old twins were
hugged and kissed and petted until, if their little curly heads had not
been so filled with "s'prises" which they were planning for everyone
present, they would have been badly spoiled that day.
Then, to Mary's delight, the whole family walked across the lawn and
through the orchard to the little gate in the low stone wall which
separated Maryvale from Bird-a-Lea, a beautiful place east of the
convent. Here Mother Madeline left them to continue their way over the
velvety lawn to the big, homey-looking, gray stone house with its roof
of warm red tiles. On the wide porch, which ran all the way around the
house, sat Mrs. Elliot, a dear old lady who owned this beautiful home.
The Doctor had met her once before, and Mary knew her quite well, for
she and Wilhelmina had often been sent to her with messages from Mother
Madeline. She wished to sell Bird-a-Lea; and while Mr. and Mrs. Selwyn
and the Doctor talked matters over with her, Mary took the little ones
to see the big bird cage around near the barn. It was built so as to
enclose two small trees in which rare birds sang and flitted about.
Next to it stood a small house where these birds lived during the
winter; for they had been brought from warm countries and would die if
left out in the cold. Besides these beautiful birds, there were
peacocks strutting about under the great old trees; while robins,
bluebirds, orioles, and other birds which the children had often seen
before came quite close to them, and frisky gray squirrels peeped
around the trunks of the trees at them.
Returning to the front porch, the children learned that Bird-a-Lea was
to be their new home; and the twins were much disappointed because they
could not take off their hats and begin to live there at once.