"Nay," she returned, "I am Rosalie still, and still devoted to Anselmo. There is no past tense for our affection, señor, 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. Señor, 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, señor, 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 Héloïse. Yet you are distinct and different from these, as you are above them."
"Señor, 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?"
