Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

"'Anselmo, my beloved,' it said, 'my choice is made and I trust you not to render my difficult task impossible. Last night in a dream my mother visited me; so real her presence that I feel we have held communion together. Her face was full of a divine love and pity, and O so sad and sympathising. Suddenly she pointed and I saw two roads before me. On each I recognised myself. On the one broad road you walked with me hand in hand. We were both bowed and broken and foot-sore. We seemed unhappy, full of care and sorrow. Romance and sunshine? They had fled with the long past years. Nothing was left but to lay down our burden and die.

"'On the other road I walked alone, but I was strong, upheld by unseen support. The way was long, yet my footsteps never wearied. I wore the dress of a Sister of Mercy. At the far, far end, bathed in divine light, a glorified being yet yourself, you beckoned and seemed to await me. Beyond you there was a faint vision of Paradise—I knew you had passed to the higher life. Then my mother turned and spoke. Her voice still rings in my ears. "My child, in the world you should have tribulation such as you are not fitted to bear. Your path lies heavenward." Then she pointed upwards, seemed gradually to fade away, and I awoke. I felt it an indication accorded me, and rising, on my knees dedicated afresh my life to Heaven if it would deign to receive me. Beloved, you will help me; you will lighten my task. Though never united on earth, none the less do we belong to each other; none the less shall spend eternity together.'

"Even now," continued the priest, returning to his own narrative, his voice somewhat agitated: "even now I cannot always think quite calmly of that morning. I sat amidst the birds and flowers, spell-bound, heart-broken. The serene skies and laughing sunshine seemed to mock at my calamity. Earthly dreams were over. Never for a moment did I question Rosalie's decision or seek to turn it aside. I prayed for strength, and it was sent me. She became a Sister of Mercy, I a priest. So our lives are passing, dedicated to Heaven. Not for us the feverish joys of earth, but quiet streams undisturbed by worldly cares."

"And Rosalie? She still lives?"

"Yes, and in Gerona. Her new name is Sister Anastasia. We meet sometimes in the silent streets; sometimes at the bedside of the sick and dying; occasionally at the house of a friend. I believe that we are as devoted to each other as in the days of our youth, but it is love purified and refined, containing a thousand-fold more of real happiness than our first passionate ecstasy. If we are to believe her vision, I shall be the first to enter the dark passage and cross to the light beyond. It may yet be half a lifetime—who knows? I am only thirty-seven, Rosalie thirty-five—but whenever the summons comes for her, I feel that I shall be awaiting her on the divine shores."

We were seated in a room beyond the sacristy where silence and solitude reigned amidst the evidences of the past centuries on walls and crucifix and ancient Bibles—a delightful room in which to receive such a confession. A halo of romance surrounded our priestly guide; his pale, refined face glowed with a light from which, as he said, all earthly dross was purified. And yet he was evidently very human; sympathies and affections were not straitened; his interests in Gerona and its people were keenly alive. It was the kindliness of his nature had caused him to take compassion upon us when his more surly fellow-labourer in the vineyard had turned a deaf ear to our request.

But our golden moments were passing; we could not linger for ever in old-world sacristies listening to heart-confessions. Treasures were locked up, keys placed in their hiding-places; we went back into the church and the closing of the great sacristy door echoed through the silent aisles. More beautiful and impressive seemed the wonderful interior each time we entered; a vision of arches and rare columns and exquisite windows wonderfully solemn and sacred. In darkened corners and gloomy recesses, in shadows lost in the high and vaulted roof, we fancied guardian angels lurked unseen, bringing rest for the heavy-laden, pardon for the sinner, strength for those who faint by the way.

"I have often felt it," said our companion, reading our thoughts by some secret influence; "and have stood here many and many an hour, utterly alone, lost in meditation. At times mysticism seems to take me captive. Visions come to me, unsought, not desired; the church is full of a shining celestial choir; I hear music inaudible to earthly ears; the rustle of angels' wings surrounds me. These visions or experiences—call them what you will—have generally occurred after long fastings, when the spirit probably is less restrained by mortal bonds. But underlying all my days and action, an intangible incentive for good, I feel the influence of Rosalie. You see I am still mortal and the earthly must mix with the heavenly. Nor would I wish it otherwise as long as I have to minister to mortals, or how could I sympathise with the sin and sorrow and suffering around me? Even our Lord had to become human, that being in all things tempted like as we are, He is able to succour them that are tempted."