Chapter 7 A DAY OF ENCOUNTERS.

"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?"-The unexpected happens-under the probe-Wise reservation-Born to command-Contrasts-Nothing new under the sun-The se?ora prepares for the fair-Grievance not very deep seated-Bewitching appearance-Se?ora dramatic-Ernesto-Marriage a lottery-Every cloud its silver lining-Gerona en fête-Delormais' mission-Deceptive appearances-Evils of conscription-Ernesto's ambition-Les beaux jours de la vie-Rosalie-A fair picture-Strange similarity-Heavenwards-Anastasia or Rosalie-Her dreams and visions-Modern Paul and Virginia-Eternal possession-A Gerona saint-The better part-

More heresy-Fénélon-One creed, one worship-Not peace but a sword-Not dead to the world-Angel of mercy-H. C. mistaken-Earthly idyll.

THAT same afternoon the people had recovered from their glamour. The fair was in full swing, Gerona festive. It was a general holiday and work was suspended. The shops were open, but no one attempted to make purchases. Even our industrious little lady with the idle husband gave up hoping for customers and turned to pleasure. And she took her pleasure as she did her work, with a great amount of earnestness.

Luncheon had long been over. Black coffee and headache were of the past. The Silent Enigma had gone their way. Mutely they had risen, taken their hats, and marched out in a procession of three. Delormais had duly administered his homily; and after so strangely opening his heart had gone into the town to prosecute his mission. Whether an inspection of the numerous convents, a private embassy from the Pope, or some other weighty matter only to be entrusted to a man of tact and judgment, he did not say.

Before separating we had asked him if his object in visiting Gerona were ecclesiastical or domestic, concerned himself or his office.

"Your question is very natural, but on that point I must be silent," he returned. "My mission-I may tell you so much-is delicate and momentous. It is secret, but the secret is not mine, and can no more be disclosed than a secret of the confessional. Just now when I promised to relate to you a part of my life I was offering you of my own. No one has a right to stay me. My experiences injure none. I might publish them to-morrow and disturb no one's slumbers. But at the present moment I may call myself an ambassador-though not in bondage like St. Paul-and every act I do and every word I utter need be consecrated by prayer and reflection."

"Who would have supposed anything so weighty within this little town?" we remarked. "Before arriving we looked upon it as a deserted village, the ends of the earth. From the train Gerona appears in the last stage of misery and destitution."

"Can a prophet come out of Galilee?" quoth the priest. "The unexpected happens. I have long learned not to judge beforehand; above all not to be prejudiced by appearances. Rags may conceal the noblest heart, and a silken doublet cover the bosom of a Judas. Confess," laughing, "that when I took my seat next to you just now you voted me intrusive; said to yourself: 'Why does this old man usurp my elbow room, with ten vacant chairs lower down? He is troublesome. I will chill him with a proud disdain.' And now all is changed and you ask me to sit next you at dinner. Is it not so?"

So near the truth, indeed, that one felt as though under the searching X-rays. "Suffering is misanthropical," we replied. "Not physical but heart pain brings out the sympathies. So it is dangerous to ask a favour of a man tortured by gout-or headache."

"All which really means that I knew you better than you know yourself," returned Père Delormais, in his rich, round tones. "That is only a general experience. And now I go my way. If all be well, we meet again at dinner. Ah! I never speak without that reservation. How many times have I seen the evening appointment cancelled by death at noon."

STREET IN GERONA.

He left the room; a tall, stately figure with hair white as snow; a man full of life and energy, evidently born to command and fill the high places of earth: a power for good or evil as he should be well or ill-directed. A very different nature from Anselmo, whom we had left at mid-day. The one ruling the destinies of men; the other content to follow in the Divine footsteps of humility and love; satisfied with a limited horizon; doing good by precept and example but asking no wider sphere than his little world. Yet in his way capable of influencing human hearts; of stirring up enthusiasm in a great crusade if only the torch of ambition inflamed his zeal. Very different the method and influence of the two men, though each had the same end in view. But in the many phases of human nature some must be led, others driven. One will hear the still, small voice, another needs the burning bush; James was the Son of Thunder, Barnabas of Consolation. As in the days of old, so now.

STREET IN GERONA.

We too went our way down the broad marble staircase of the ancient palace, but with no secret or delicate mission to perform like Delormais. We had followed rather closely, but up and down the street not a vestige of him remained. Whether he had gone right or left we knew not. The place was deserted. Looking upwards nothing was visible but outlines of the rare old houses. Here and there a gabled roof and dormer window; many a wrought-iron balcony; many a Gothic casement rich in tracery and decoration; many a lower window protected by a strong iron grille, despair of serenaders, consolation of parents, paradise of artists.

It was now that we saw our industrious and amiable se?ora preparing for the fair. Again the mantilla was being gracefully arranged. The lady-very properly-had evidently no idea of neglecting the good looks nature had bestowed upon her.

"Ah, se?or," as we stopped with a polite greeting, "for a whole week this fair is the upsetting and devastation of the town. It comes with all its shows and shoutings; distracts our attention; we may as well close the shutters for all the business that is done; finally it walks off with all our spare money. And who is a bit the better for it?"

But madame's grievance was evidently not very deep-seated, for she laughed as she adjusted the folds of her mantilla more becomingly, and looking across at a mirror could only confess herself satisfied with her bewitching appearance.

Near her stood a good-looking boy of some fourteen years, who evidently just then thought the attractions of the fair far more important than his mother's adorning. He was impatient to be gone.

"Calm yourself, my treasure," she remonstrated. "The day is yet young. Chestnuts will not all be roasted, nor brazen trumpets all sold. These are eternal and inexhaustible, like the snows of the Sierra. Oh! youth, youth, with all its capacities!" she dramatically added. "Ah, se?or, you will think me very old, when you see me the mother of this great boy!"

We gallantly protested she was under a delusion: he must be her brother.

"My son, se?or, my son. I married at sixteen, when I was almost such a child as he, and I really do feel more like his sister than his mother. Ahimé! If I had only waited a few years longer I might have chosen more wisely; perhaps have found a husband to keep me instead of my keeping him. Marriage is a lottery."

We suggested that every cloud has its silver lining.

"True, se?or. And after all if I did not draw the highest number, neither did I fall upon the lowest. This dear youth too is a consolation. He is fond of swords and trumpets, but never shall be a soldier. I have long had the money put by for a substitute in case he should be unlucky. For that matter, Heaven has prospered my industry and in a humble way we are at ease."

This recalled the scene witnessed in the earlier hours of the morning and the appointment half made with the colonel for the morrow.

"Evidently you do not approve of conscription, madame, which to-day seems to be running hand-in-hand with the revels of the fair."

"I see that conscription is a necessary evil," returned madame, "for without it we should not get soldiers; but you will never persuade me any good can come of it. That my son here, who has been carefully brought up, should suddenly be thrown under the influence of the worst and vilest of mankind-no, it is impossible to avoid disaster. So, Ernesto, never fix your affections on a military life, for it can never be, never shall be. I would sooner make you a priest, though I haven't the least ambition that way either."

To do the boy justice, he seemed quite ready to yield, laughed at the idea of priesthood, and if fond of swords and trumpets, his military ardour went no further. If one might judge, a civil life would be his choice, and possibly a successful one, for he seemed to inherit his mother's energy with her dark eyes and brilliant colouring. But for the moment the fair and the fair only was the object of his desires. This was in accordance with the fitness of things. He was at the age which comes once only, with swift wings, when life has no alloy and happiness lies in gratifying the moods and fancies of the moment.

"Now I am ready," said the mother, evidently very happy herself. "Ah, se?or, you are too good," as we slipped a substantial coin into the boy's hand and bade him buy his mother a fairing and himself chestnuts and ambitions. "But after all, the pleasure of conferring happiness is the most exquisite in the world. There is nothing like it. So perhaps I should envy, not chide you."

They went off together, the boy taking his mother's arm with that confidential affection and good understanding so often seen abroad. To him the world was still a paradise, and his mother at the head of all good angels. Les beaux jours de la vie-short-lived, but eternally remembered. So, parents, indulge your children but do not spoil them. The one is quite possible without the other.

It was to be a day of encounters. We followed our happy pair down the deserted street, admiring the graceful walk of the mother, the boy's tall, straight, well-knit form and light footstep. As they disappeared round the corner leading to the noisy scene of action, a quiet figure issued from beneath the wonderful arcades and approached in our direction. She was dressed as a Sister of Mercy and seemed to glide along with noiseless movements.

"Rosalie," we breathed, turning to H. C. for confirmation.

"Without doubt," he replied. "There could not be two Rosalies in one town."

"Or in one world."

On the impulse of the moment we went up and, bareheaded, spoke to her; felt we knew her-had known her long. Anselmo's vivid confession had taken the place of time and custom.

Yes, it was Rosalie. A more beautiful face was seldom seen, never a more holy; all the refinement and repose of Anselmo's added to an infinite feminine grace and softness. They were even strangely alike, as though the same impulse in their lives, a constant dwelling upon each other, their fervent, though purified, affection had created a similarity of feature and expression. Hers was the face of one whose life is turned steadily heavenwards, to whom occasionally, whether waking or sleeping, a momentary glimpse of unseen glories is vouchsafed, one whose daily work on earth is that of a ministering spirit. As far as it is possible or permitted here, Rosalie bore the evidence of a perfect and unalloyed life that had never looked back or attempted to serve two masters. Perhaps she might have become a mystic, but the serious and practical nature of her work kept her mind in a healthy groove, free from introspection. She was walking her lonely pilgrimage along the narrow road of her dream with firm, unflinching steps. The end, far off though it might yet be for Anselmo and for her, could not be doubted.

"Ma s?ur, you are Anastasia, devoted to good works; and once were Rosalie devoted to Anselmo," we said, without waiting to choose our words. "There could not be another Rosalie in Gerona, as there could not be another Anastasia."

"Nay," she returned, "I am Rosalie still, and still devoted to Anselmo. There is no past tense for our affection, se?or, which sweetens my days and makes me brave in life's battles."

She seemed neither surprised nor startled by our sudden address. Calm self-possession never for a moment forsook her, though in our rashness we might have been probing a half-healed wound or rousing long dormant emotions.

But it was far otherwise. Naturally as Anselmo had told us his story she replied to our greeting. They were a wonderful pair, these two. United, their careers would have been very different, but never otherwise than pure and holy. As we spoke to her a slight colour mounted to her pale, lovely face, a light came into her eyes, a sweet smile parted the lips. She looked almost childlike in her innocence, utter absence of self-consciousness.

"Yes, I was Rosalie," she repeated; "and I am Rosalie still, though my life compels me to adopt a new name. But I ever think of myself as Rosalie, and in my dreams am Rosalie of the days gone by. Sometimes my mother visits me in those dreams and calls me Rosalie. If we retain our names in the next world I shall be Rosalie once more. Se?or, you have been with Anselmo and he has told you our story-or how could you know?"

"It is true. We have been with Anselmo, were with him this morning and parted at mid-day. As the clock struck twelve we stood on the ruined citadel and saw you cross the square of San Pedro."

"Ah, se?or, I saw you also, for I recognised Anselmo. He is never within many yards of me but seen or unseen I know it. Some spiritual instinct never fails to tell me he is near."

"You are both remarkable. Your love and constancy ought to be placed side by side with the histories of Paul and Virginia, Abelard and Hélo?se. Yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above them."

"Se?or, if we only knew, there are thousands of histories in the world similar to our own, but they are never heard of. Shakespeare records a Juliet, Chateaubriand an Atala, and they become immortal; but what of the numberless heroines who have had no writer to send them down to posterity? Depend upon it they are as the sand of the sea. And is it so much to give up for Heaven? We possess each other still, Anselmo and I; and the possession is for ever. You think it strange to hear a Sister of Mercy talking of love in this calm and passionless way," she smiled. "You imagine me cold and severe. You do not believe that I have feelings deep as the sea, wide as eternity. It is true that my love for Anselmo is only the love we should all bear towards each other; but for him it is supreme and exalted above all words. In my dreams he comes to me as an angel of light bidding me be of good courage; in my waking hours he is my best and truest friend, my hero and my king. Is not this better than all the passionate vows which rarely survive one's early youth, and too often die under the strain of life's daily work? For me, Anselmo is still surrounded by all the romance of our first youth. He is a sort of earthly shekinah, a pillar of fire guiding me onwards."

"And you never regret the choice you have made? the companionship you have given up? the right of calling Anselmo husband? the sacrifice of motherhood, which is said to be sweetest of all earthly ties to woman?"

CATHEDRAL CLOISTERS: GERONA.

"Regret?" she softly murmured. "A hundred times since it happened conviction has been vouchsafed to me in my dreams, strengthening my faith, showing the wisdom of my choice. Every day of my life I thank Heaven for the power it gave me. Had I married Anselmo, he would have become my religion; my heart's best affection given to him, Heaven would have come second. I know and feel it. And we know Who has said: 'He that loveth father and mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me.' Yet that would have been my case in the earlier years; and in the later-who can tell?-perhaps what I have described."

"Impossible, for Anselmo is worthy of all love, and could never change. One rarely meets any one like him. He seems little less than saint."

"He is very saintly," replied Rosalie, with almost a look of ecstasy. "I frequently meet the priesthood in the sick-room, at the bedside of the dying. The difference in the ministrations is wonderful. The very entrance of Anselmo brings consolation, seems to sanctify the chamber. Sometimes it is almost as though an angel spoke."

If she at all exaggerated, who could wonder? She saw and heard and judged everything through her own nature; and to the sick and sorrowing no doubt came herself as a rainbow of hope.

"You have done wisely and chosen the better part," we said. "Your life in consequence is peaceful and happy."

"It could not be more so," answered Rosalie. "I have my earthly shekinah to lighten my path. My heart is so much in my work that if I lived for a century I should never weary of it. What higher mission or greater privilege could there be? I am constantly at the bedside of the sick, assisting the last moments of the dying, helping to restore others to health. The love they give me is unbounded. My existence is made up of love. I feel I have many in the other world who pray for me, perhaps watch over my daily life."

"But are they not in purgatory?" For of course Rosalie was a Roman Catholic.

"I do not believe in purgatory," she murmured in subdued tones. "I have seen many die who cannot possibly be going to torment. If there be a transition state, it is one of bliss and holiness, where the soul, in gratitude to God for His mercies, grows and expands until it becomes fit for the heaven of heavens."

"But this is perplexing. Here are two devout Romanists who reject the very first conditions of their faith. Anselmo believes not in confession, you reject purgatory. Of course we agree with you, but then we are Protestants."

"Hush!" murmured Rosalie. "The very walls of Gerona have ears. We can only act up to our convictions, and where they disagree with the Church keep differences to ourselves. What Anselmo believes, I believe. It is wonderful how we think alike in all great matters. This morning I had the privilege of a long conversation with Père Delormais, who is staying for a week here. There, indeed, is a broad-minded Churchman who ought to be Pope of Rome. He would favour Protestants as much as Roman Catholics-and scandalise the narrow-minded community. In that he reminds me of the Abbé Fénélon, who is so earnest and devout. Do you know his 'Spiritual Letters,' se?or?"

"It is one of our favourite books, Rosalie. Those who read and follow Fénélon will hardly go wrong. We have always felt he was a Protestant at heart."

"A follower of Christ at heart," returned Rosalie, "without distinction of forms and ceremonies. To him if the heart was right, the rest mattered little. He cared not whether a soul worshipped within or without the Church of Rome. Would that all errors could be swept away and we were all Protestants and Catholics, united in one creed and ritual, even as we worship the one true God and believe in the all-sufficient Saviour."

"That day is far distant. We must wait the millennium, Rosalie. Until then it is not to be peace but a sword. The bitterest persecutors are those who fight for what they call Religion."

"'A man's foes shall be they of his own household,'" quoted Rosalie. "That applies equally to the 'Household of Faith.' There is the prophecy. I suppose we must not look for a Church Triumphant until the Church Militant has ceased. But I must go my way. Se?or, I rejoice that you spoke to me. I am glad to know you. Whether the acquaintance be of hours or years, you are evidently Anselmo's friends, therefore mine. Do not think my heart closed to all human interests because I wear a religious garb and go through life as Sister Anastasia, ministering to the sick and dying. On the contrary, I take pleasure in all the worldly concerns of my friends. I like to hear of their being married and given in marriage. Nothing delights me more than the sight of a happy home and devoted family. And I like to hear of all the changes, improvements, inventions that are turning the world upside down and revolutionising the lives of men. If you are staying in Gerona we shall meet again. I am constantly flitting to and fro. My life is a great privilege, as I have said. You will keep a corner in your heart for me and for Anselmo; one niche for both. Adieu, se?or. Adieu."

She glided away rapidly with her quiet graceful motion; an angel of mercy, we thought, if earth ever held one.

"Never, never should I have had strength to give her up," said H. C., following her with all his susceptible nature in his eyes. "This morning I admired Anselmo, now I feel quite angry with him."

"You do wrong and are mistaken. It was her choosing, not his. He behaved nobly. They have found their vocation. Both are happy, and we cannot doubt it is Heaven's ordering. There is no shadow in their lives; remember how rare that is. You know Mrs. Plarr's lines:

'There are twin Genii both strong and mighty,

Under their guidance mankind retain,

Never divided where one can enter,

Ever the other doth entrance gain;

And the name of the lovely one is Pleasure,

And the name of the loathly one is Pain.'

For them the genii have separated. Their life has no pain. Think of Rosalie's vision. Had they married it might have been all sorrow and suffering. No, best as it is. Their story is an idyll too perfect for this world. They have had their romance, and have kept it."