The Lonely Pilgrim.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVI, Issue 302, 21 December 1935, Page 10 (Supplement)

The Lonely Pilgrim.

By JOAN PAIN.

Scffi lived in a castle in England, old- relic of the past—the coats of armour in the hallway, nak en ebield above the door with v nuaint motto in Latin, and its SvnTmilyereat. Her mother had rtiid when she was yet too young to ■ ?. now <n-ief, and she was very happy £e, eV^ in the "brary, where hVspent so much of her time. And +1,1 little girl would sit there alone Mow?, with her light hair fallL over her face, a book upon her - knee and the last rays of the dying , ««n would stream through the golden nanes of the old casement, while her L er - fingere traced the story that Ihe knew by heart. And presently, 1-hen it became too dark to read, she would sit there so quietly and alone, • dreaming of the crusades, and of the children's pilgrimage; of laughter and of tears, of glory and of shame—the slorious' martyrs whose bodies had been the living torches that had flamed the Old World, bringing light into darkness, and truth, where truth lad never been before. All the power and tie glory of that which was past arose' again in her imagination, a vivid tapestry that glowed and faded before her eyes, saints and martyrs, cardinals and kings—all were part of that forgotten pageantry that beckoned from the past. And hidden deep in her heart, Gloria would keep her answer and love them all the more. In the western wing of the old castle there had once been a long banqueting hall; there were still dark stains upon the wall that spoke all too eloquently of past orgies. When Gloria's father came into his inheritance, the old banqueting room had been turned into a , picture gallery— it contained the portraits of all the past generations of Adens anft was very rarely- opened to the casual visitor.- .With Gloria, however, it was different. She came in quietly,, like a little wandering ghost, and raised, her eyes to theirs fearlessly. / And eo she stood there, dreaming of them all. It grew very still, and the twilight stole in through the old mnllioned windows. And then the little girl would light a slim taper and the grey dusk would hover about the'little horn of flame like a night' moth. But Gloria stood there for a long whiles-long after it was time for bed—her eyes searching intently for the.picture that she loved. And then her "seeking fingers found the hidden' knob upon the oaken scroll. She pressed gently, and with a eoft whirring sound a section of the wall ' flew hack,, disclosing a deeply-set alcove) framed by a design in oak. There was a portrait in the alcove — once a. coat of arms had hung resplendent there. Now only a picture "took its place. But what a picture—as a work of art it was

probably priceless—the artist had done his work superbly. The figure seemed to live and breathe sometimes. Gloria was sure the painted lips formed an unspoken prayer. It was the painting of a man in his early forties—a face remarkable for the- strength of its expression, and the sadness of the steady eyes. It was the face of an aesthete and a dreamer, a eoldier and a saint, a face full of contradictions and a knowledge of the mysteries of life. Perhaps it was the visage of a romanticist too —no Mona Lisa could be so inscrutable. And here eyes, halfhuman, half-divine, that were glorious in their inner fires, depressing in their sorrow. Looking at him in the waning light one realised the meaning of a soul more than ever before. And yet it was a beautiful face, halfhidden by the folds of a monkish cowl, the sombre garment, which was his only adornment, girdled at the waist with a length cf hempen cord. There were sandals on his feet, and on his breast shone a crimson cross, the one touch of colour on his robe. It was no rosary, no jewelled ray, buff a stark emblem of man's inhumanity to man branded there for all time. Gloria, half-ashamed, likened him to God. She called him "the lonely pilgrim" because of the undefined "soul" of his expression. A soft beard hid his rounded chin and throat, the lips above it were tender and seemed divine. Only Gloria was aware of this hidden portrait. For some undefinable reason she had never told her father —she could never really explain this some-, how. It seemed to be wholly hers. Next to God, she loved, and with all the purity of her innocent heart. If only he could speak, thie "man of sorrows." And so the days and months passed. Slowly, like autumn's fingers shear the falling leaves, until spring and summer and autumn had fled, and it was Christmas once again. Christmas—with the snow falling lightly, like a bridal veil across the distant hills, blanketing the little village church with , a mantle of white, knee-deep, beneath the pines. And the robin, with his breast all crimson and brown, came and perched cheekily upon, the frosted windowsill, and the little rosy-cheeked children tempted him with crumbs to hear "his gay carolling. And the robin sang to them of love, and they all stopped their work to listen to his sweet, thin piping, and boys with twig brooms cleared the drift of snow away—their faces glowing with their exertions as they bent over their spades and shovels, their blue, crimson and brown scarves flapping ! in the breeze. And then it was Sunday, and the old cracked bells rang out their joyous peal, swinging musically

from the old- broken tower, halfcoated with snow. Then presently the carriages rolled up, the plump and jovial squire and his blooming daughters, the lords and ladies of the land, and little bright-eyed children muffled in woollen great-coate, brushing the snow off their garments, clinging shyly to their mother's gowns. And then the old pastor mounted into the pulpit and looked with glistening eye at his congregation, and his old blue-veined hand trembled slightly as he turned the pagee of the Book of the Word, "And unto Mary was born in the city of Bethlehem a son, whom they called Christ the Lord"—and all the saints upon the. stained glass windows seemed to nod and say, "We bare* witness that the Son of God liveth now and for ever more." And Gloria raised her eyes beyond the altar, and the vases that were full of Christmas lilies, three, because of the Trinity, to the glorious panel above them all. There the Shepherd stood alone an oureole of light above his bowed head, a little lamb trustfully resting in the crook of his arm, a staff within the other, and underneath the sunlight formed in letters of living gold, "Thou shalt have no other gods but me." Instantly Gloria thought of the lonely pilgrim, "No," she cried passionately to herself, "it can't be true. My lonely pilgrim—yes, I worship him!" When it wae all over, and they drove back again to the castle, before she removed here little bonnet with its wreath of roses she went straight away to the banqueting hall. Her fingers found the knob—pressed it, and the secret panel slid away. "Gloria!" Her father etood in the doorway." He shut the massive oaken door behind him and came over to her side. "Gloria, my darling—" Gloria sobbed. "Father —" and later, "Is it really valuable —who can it be?" "I'll see later," he said gently, and was as good as his word. After some trouble they removed it from its frame, no easy task, and placed it face downwards upon the table. In faded lettering they read the name together—Anthony Aden. ("Then he was an ancestor of ours," thought Gloria), and directly beneath, "A prisoner of most gracious Majesty of Spain, discovered during an attempt to escape in the habit of a man of God, recaptured and hanged for treason at Porto Diae, this year of our Lord." Hanged, and for treason. No, ehe could never, never believe it, thought Gloria, looking at the pictured face. The ■eyes reassured her. She turned to her father. "Did he—do you believe—" Her father laughed. "Come, now, all those pretty tears for a traitor who died centuries ago. This will never do. Come"—he turned to go. "Wait"—Gloria pulled his sleeve. "My picture, put it back." "All right" (good naturedly), and then, "Now, will you come," moving away. "In one minute." Gloria continued to gaze, and then followed him to rest.

Later that night she awoke suddenly and lit a taper. The house was deathly still, and outside the pale moonlight was shining on the glistening snow. She tiptoed to the window and pulled the curtains aside and gazed out on the expanse of whiteness spread out before her. Crystal clear, a little stream ran through the meadow like a ribbon of silver. Every branch and twig groaned beneath its burden of snow. It was an enchanted fairyland she sdw, and so it would remain until the thaw began. Now, however, the turrets of the castle were fingers that pointed upwards to God —the moon, a silver cockleshell, tossed upon shoreless seas. With a little shiver she turned from the window and tiptoed downstairs, barefooted, in her little white gown, her light hair falling over her shoulders. The candlelight flickered uncertainly upon the castle walls. She pulled upon the latch of the oaken door, but it refused to open. A sob shook her elight, ethereal form. The door was locked. All her efforts were in vain. And then a slight draught stirred the tapestry upon the wall, the curtains parted slowly, and a shadowy figure advanced towards her. Gloria did not scream. Afterwards she could not remember why she remained so calm —perhaps it was because she loved him so that the phantom figure of the lonely pilgrim awoke in her no fear. She noticed that although the sandalled feet never touched the polished floor, and the ghostly draperies were dim and undefined, the cross upon his breast shone forth with startling clarity. And then he stood at last before her in the spirit, as once he had stood before her in the flesh, a smile of almost divine compassion upon his lipe. And although he spoke scarcely above a whisper, she could understand perfectly all he had to say. "Gloria Aden, your love alone has made this possible. Without it how could ye hope to see me here? My time is short, and when I have gone hence ye shall see me no more, until a certain day. I, who died a traitor's death, and was yet no felon—" (Gloria gave a glad cry—her lips parted in ecstasy)—"and I eay unto you that He whom I love and who is the Father of us all, died the death of a felon who wae no traitor. Has it not been said, times without number, 'the innocent shall 6uffer with the guilty,' and did not we both suffer, I who died to save a brother, He who died to save the world. And did ye not love me and doubt God. Nay, more, and desire to see me before you. And will ye not love Him that through your love one perfect day ye may see Him also. Love casteth out fear. Ye did not fear me once, ye do not fear me now. Farewell." As he said these laet, he seemed to fade away. The candle went out and she had to climb the stairs in darkness and go to bed alone. Before that, however, she drew aside the curtains again and let the moonlight stream into the room. ' "Love is God," she said, and fell asleep, and when ehe awoke it was Christmae Day.