Part 13 (1/2)
”I won't stay to watch you; I know you will all obey, so I trust to your honor.” And all did obey, for they loved and respected Mr. Royal, who always appealed to their honor.
The next morning the whole college heard of Bo's rats, and had a good laugh at the description of the hunt.
Bolax made great strides in his studies under the kind care of his tutor, Father Anthony, and his reports delighted his father and mother.
At Easter he received a beautiful picture of the Sacred Heart, as a prize for Catechism.
CHAPTER IX.
AMY'S TRIP TO THE SEASh.o.r.e.
For seven long weeks Amy had been under the doctor's care, suffering from Ch.o.r.ea; she had grown thin and pale, and her mother was beginning to worry over her condition.
”What do you think, Lucy, of sending Amy to Atlantic City?” she asked one day when they were consulting what had best be done for the child.
”Dear sister, I feel sure the salt air is the best tonic for nervous trouble. I will take Amy down, but you know it is impossible for me to stay away for any length of time, as I have an important engagement for the summer.”
”Well, I shall write to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, begging them to receive our invalid for a few weeks.”
Mother Evans, who was Mrs. Allen's particular friend, answered the letter, saying she would gladly care for the little girl, and that she could be sent down as soon as convenient.
When Amy heard of the proposed trip, she was delighted, then upon reflection, expressed herself as being afraid to meet so many strange girls, but when she saw a nice little trunk packed with every article of clothing, suitable for a sojourn by the sea, she was anxious to begin the journey.
When all was ready, Mr. Allen decided that they should take a very early train, so as to arrive in a strange town in full time to be at their destination before dark.
Bo heard the sound of wheels, and looking out saw the pony chaise at the door, Amy gave her mother a fervent good-bye kiss, then all got into the chaise. Bo sprang on the seat, seized the reins, and was soon driving quickly down the road. They were not long in reaching the station. Amy was interested in watching the important business of procuring tickets and seeing her pretty trunk labeled; she wondered if she would be as well equipped as the other girls in the convent, but she need not have wondered, as there are so many little girls and boys, whose treasures bear ample evidence of Mother's loving hands. Those little touches of motherhood, hardly noticed by those whom they are so tenderly lavished upon, seldom, if ever valued until after those dear hands have been removed to another sphere, whence, perhaps, they may be sometimes allowed to come, unseen by mortal eye to bear the loved ones up, whilst these may be longing wearily for that sweet ”Touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still.”
It was a delightful place to visit, that convent by the sea, and many a pleasant hour Amy spent watching the waves come in on the white sands and break over her bare feet. Sometimes she donned her bathing suit, and paddled in the water with the other children, one of the Nuns always watching over them.
It seemed nothing short of a miracle how quickly the child recuperated.
At the end of six weeks she had so far recovered that her mother, who had come to visit her, thought to take her home, but Mother Evans recommended a stay of sometime longer, so it ended in a visit of twelve happy, joyful weeks.
The kind Nuns became very much attached to Amy, and she to them, and dear Mother Evans began her preparation for First Holy Communion.
August was nearing its end when Mrs. Allen paid another visit to Atlantic City, this time, to bring her little girl home. She took board in a cottage near the convent, wis.h.i.+ng to enjoy a few days of sea air.
One day when seated on the beach, both mother and daughter silently watched the waves as they came in gentle ripples almost to their feet.
Amy awoke from her reverie, exclaiming: ”Oh, it is so beautiful!” She had been reading of the early explorers of our country, the self-sacrificing missionaries who crossed this same boundless ocean, which now lay so calm before them. Amy went on musingly, as if talking to herself, such a softness had come into her voice--her eyes took a dreamy far-off look, as though it were fresh in her mind--the story of the gallant De Soto and his brave company of six hundred men, the flower of Spanish chivalry, leaving the sunny slopes of his native Estramadura, sailing across these unknown seas, and landing upon these western sh.o.r.es; day after day pressing on through pathless wilds, on towards the sunset, in pursuit of that fabled El Dorado in which they thoroughly believed. And then that sad death upon the banks of the river which his eyes first of all Europeans had beheld--the sorrowing band who resolved to hide his body in the waters--the little skiff, in the gloom of the soft summer night, pus.h.i.+ng silently out from the shadowy sh.o.r.e, with oars m.u.f.fled and voices hushed, for fear of the savage arrows hidden among the dark vines--the dull sound as they dropped the body in mid-river, and the sweet, sad music as the priest sang low the requiem of the departed chief--the first requiem that had ever sounded upon those solitary sh.o.r.es, where the waves have for four hundred years chanted their long dirge over the man whose prowess first gave them to the world.
There was, too, the grand old Ponce de Leon, who saw one Easter morning, a land rise out of the Western Sea--a land lovely in all its luxuriant vegetation of a Southern spring, with breath and beauty of flowers. What better name could the romantic hidalgo devise than ”Florida,” and where more fitly than here could he search for that wonderous fountain of perpetual youth?
Ah, brave old Spanish Cavalier. Did no soft wind wafted gently from afar over the flowery sunset land, whisper to you that, instead of youth and life perennial you should find, under the magnolia shade--a grave?
A hundred wordless dreams went flitting through Amy's mind. I say wordless; for who shall say how we think; by what subtile art a thousand pictures pa.s.s swiftly on before one's fancy, all so lovely and beyond the power of language--I mean our language to describe.
For this reason it is, I suppose, that when a great poet speaks, all the dumb world recognizes what he unfolds. It is for us to feel, for him to paint.