Glories of Spain

by Charles W. Wood

"Ah, no, señor. Rather is it the other way. He has been my guide and king, as I told you yesterday. Anselmo is above all earthly mortals, all human aid. But you will meet him again and know him better. This your first visit to Gerona will not be your last. Few people come here, but those who do always return. I think of it as a place apart, possessing ideal beauties, a separate atmosphere. And for me," she smiled, "everything seems imbued with the charm of Anselmo. The bells ring out his name; I hear it in the song of the birds, the whispering of the trees. Romance is not dead within me because I am Sister Anastasia."

Here H. C. struck in, unable to contain himself any longer.

"If I were here very long," he cried excitedly, "I should fall madly in love with you myself, and write reams of poetry to your lovely eyes. I have never seen such eyes. They have all the light of heaven in them, and—and—all the beauty of earth."

Rosalie laughed.

"You are very outspoken, señor. I could have told you were a poet from your look. But you must exercise your genius on a worthier theme. On me it would be wasted; my life, all I have, all I am, is dedicated to Heaven. Time is passing. Will you not go with me on my way that I may show you one of the loveliest spots in Gerona?"

So Rosalie walked through the quiet old-world streets with an escort on either side. We felt we were attending an angel. H. C. did not attempt to conceal his rapture. It is a weakness of which he seems unconscious. Rosalie pointed out many a house in which she had ministered; here soothing the pillow of the dying, there rescuing one from the grasp of death. Under her guidance the streets seemed more beautiful than ever; a holier atmosphere surrounded them.

At length we reached the wonderful steps leading to the cathedral. They were flooded with sunlight and gave dignity to the ugly west front, so unworthy of the splendid interior. Passing under the fine old gateway and turning to the left, we found ourselves close to the old church of San Filiu. In days gone by, when the Moors captured Gerona and changed its cathedral into a mosque, the Christians had worshipped here. Whatever its interior at that time, it is now dark, gloomy and depressing.

Rosalie entered a quiet street beyond, a short narrow turning of only a few yards, then halted.

It was, as she had said, one of the loveliest spots in Gerona; so hidden that few would find it by chance. A small house of great antiquity but perfectly preserved. An exquisite Gothic archway over which the house was built led into a small quadrangle. Beside this archway was a mullioned window with latticed panes. We imagined the quaint old room within and longed to enter. Above this was another latticed window with Gothic mullions and ornaments. It was open, and sweet-scented flowers threw their perfume upon the air. This was crowned by a sloping roof with red tiles bearing all the tone and beauty of age. At least three centuries must have rolled over them unmolested. Even H. C. forgot the charms of Rosalie and became enthusiastic in favour of still life.

"It is my destination," said Rosalie. "I was hastening here yesterday when you saw me crossing the square of San Pedro. Where those lovely flowers are scenting the air, a lovelier earthly flower is passing away. Consumption is doing its work. The only child of a mother who will soon have no tie left on earth. So Heaven sometimes sees well to draw our souls upwards. There are those who need this discipline. Trouble, like everything else, enters into the wise economy of God's purposes. I doubt if a single unnecessary care or pain is dealt out to us. But here the hand of affliction is charged with a heavy burden. The invalid is a fair maiden of seventeen, pure and beautiful. Her resignation is a gift from heaven, a lesson to us all. But for that I don't know what would become of the mother."