A Complete Story

New Zealand Tablet, Volume L, Issue 30, 2 August 1923, Page 9

A Complete Story

(By Sister M. Gonzaga, in the Sentinel of the Blessed i Sacrament.)

A Lily Among the Lilies

George Hilton was slowly pacing up and down the terrace walk of his beautiful home at Bellmont, in the Adirondacks. Lelia, his only child, would be twenty-one the following week. What gift would she like? What would please her most? He was a millionaire, and mo 'ey meant nothing to him. What would she like? He was so lost in thought that he did not see Lelia standing on the terrace, till she laughingly asked him what on earth was puzzling him. “You, my dear you are the (puzzle,” he replied. ”1a puzzle,” she echoed. “Why, Dad, what have .1 done?” “Nothing at all—nothing, really, but T want you to choose. What will you have for a birthday gi' t ? A tour of Europe, a trip to the Rockies, jewels, a yacht?” Lelia paused, and her father watching her, thought what a perfect picture she made. Her slim figure in a. simple white gown was boldly outlined' against the mountains. In bet arms she held a sheaf of lilies. Her face was as pure and as sweet as the flowers; her dark blue eyes and her black hair of Celtic descent, for her mother, dead now for eighteen years, had been an O’Sullivan from Kerry. After a few moments’ thought, Lelia spoke. “The tour of Europe, Dad, that is what I would like best. But, of course, you must come with me. I do want to see Florence and the (paintings and everything. I’ve been longing for this. And Dad, I want -so much to see Ireland, my mother’s land.” “No, no, not there,” ho said firmly. “I cannot take you there.” She acquiesced, but she wondered at his decision. Later on she understood. Together they planned the tour. It was then the end of July. In August they would sail from New York. September would find them in Geneva —then Lucerne and the Rigi. In October they would go south. This programme was followed. Chillon on Lake Leman aroused all the latent romance in Lelia’s soul. She was simply ravished with its beauty. And the Rigi! She wrote thus to a former school friend : “If you have ever doubted that there was a God, copie here and see the sun rise over the Alps. There in the dawn, the great heights in crystalline glory, stretch from the green valleys to the purple sky. Then a streak of gold in the east, and over it a curtain of delicate rose tint reaching from north to southa shaft of dazzling light! The Day-king, preceded by cloudlets of green and amethyst, casts a spear of gold at each crystal peak—from summit to summit the colors flash, and the Akps are aglow with pink and gold and green and violet. Who but God could work such a wonder?” In October, Mr. Hilton and his daughter went to Italy by way of Lugano. Lelia felt like “Alice in Wonderland.” She had never dreamed of such beauty. Later they went to Florence, where they established their headquarters. From their hotel on the Lung’Arno they sallied forth each day to see some of tile sights. For Lelia the Church of “Santa Maria del Fiffri” had a special charm She would sit for hours watching the sunbeams as they played “hide and seek” among , the lilies in the mosaic that paves the central aisle. But the girl felt more than a mere artistic pleasure in the church. She had been brought up in the Protestant belief, but she was conscious of a something supernatural when she sat there. She had a strange feeling that she was, in some mysterious way, in touch with the mothei whom she could not remember It was as if her mother’s Friend lived there, and was able to give news of her. . She mentioned this casually to her father, and at once she saw he did not like it. “What’s coming over you, Lelia he said crossly; “You are becoming a dreamer. You’ll write poetry soon ! I must look out for an artist who will give you lessons. That will occupy you usefully.” ■ ’

N To himself he said: “I had better take care. She is getting more and more like her mother. It’s well Lelia does not know that slip lived and died a Catholic. ' How hard she pressed me when she was dying to promise to have the child brought up in her faith—and I dared not promise. Lelia was very ill at the timedying, we thought, and the poor mother rejoiced when she heard it, and said: ‘ Thank God, thank God, she will be among the lilies for aye.’ ... “Surely, there is something in heredity,, and in telepathy, too. Lelia does not know that it was in Florence we spent our honeymoon, her mother and myself—and well I remember the fascination that church had for her. I must look up a painter and arrange about lessons.” True to his word, ho engaged the best artist in Florence to teach his daughter. Her lessons were an endless delight, and she made great progress. In the spring the teacher was commissioned to paint his pupil’s portrait. He sketched her in a simple white gown with a sljpaf of lilies in her arms —and the hills of Fiscole as a background. In his own mind the artist called the picture “A lily among the lilies,” but the scroll bore the one word, “Lelia,” and in a corner was the painter’s name, “Benedetto del Rosso.”, It was his masterpiece. He so loved it that he painted a miniature one for himself. v Before leaving for Rome in April, Mr. Hilton directed Rosso to have the portrait safely packed and to forward it to his home in New York. On seeing the address, the artist exclaimed: “Strange, T go there soon. Americans of wealth have promised me many orders. I go in June.” .“Good,” replied Mr. Hilton, “we want men like you over there —real artists. My daughter will resume her lessons in the fall—we don’t return to New- York till then.” The lessons were resumed, and anyone could forsee what was bound to follow—but somehow Lelia’s father did not. Rosso was so perfect a gentleman that he never betrayed his feelings, but he knew intuitively that it was with his pupil as with him. After Christmas there was a. change in Lelia. She was thoughtful, preoccupied. There was seemingly no cause, but her teacher clearly saw she was suffering. The fact was religion, the Catholic religion, had become a necessity to the girl. She hungered for the faith. . She longed for the peace, the restfulness of belief. Day and night she thought and struggled. She knew well her father’s unreasnoing dislike of Catholics; she knew' also that as a Mason he could not allow her to embrace the hated creed, and she was absolutely sure that to declare her intention of embracing Catholicism would be to evoke his sentence of banishment from the home she loved. She simply could not do that. Leave her homoher own suite of rooms, her, beautiful roof garden, her dainty pictures, her well-chosen library. She could not' give them up. Again and again she implored God to have pity on her, and not to ask such a sacrifice. * . Night after night she lay awake, struggling ever. Then she gave up her painting. She was tired, she told Rosso —and she certainly looked it. Her maid, Clara O’Donovan, a Catholic from the County Cork, got ill suddenly—a bad heart attack. Lelia did all she could to relieve her sufferings, and tried to cheer her up. "n “Afraid! Miss Lelia?” said Biddy. “Sure, how could 1 lie afraid to meet Our Lord? Sure, I loved Him always. And Father O’Brien, that’s the priest was here just now —he’s bringing me Holy Communion.” “0 Ciara! May I stay here? I’ll kneel over there and won’t be in the way. Do lot me stay.” “Sure you can, and welcome, miss, and who, knows but the Lord will have a message for you?” ~ Clara’s words were indeed true, for no sooner had the priest, carrying the Blessed Sacrament, entered the room, than all Lelia’s struggles ceased. She believed, and her heart sang the Words: “Lord. Lord, Thou hast conquered.” That same night she told her father of her resolve. At first anger and amazement held him speechless, then he said slowly: “Henceforth we are as strangers. You are no longer my child. You must seek a home elsewhere.” She quailed not, but gently left him. She packed the few things she cared to take, collected her painting materials. She .had a,- small .annuity. t “Just enough for candies,” > her father had once laughingly remarked.

Next clay she called on Father O’Brien. He was very kind and arranged to give her instructions. He introduced her to a Catholic family named O’Doherty, who gladly received her and with their help she secured some pupils. One afternoon, some months later, in a street car, she met Signor Rosso. She nodded to him, and he at once came to the vacant seat near her. She bent towards him .and whispered : “You will be glad to hear lam a Catholic.” “Thank God, thank God,” he exclaimed, “but your father?” “I have not seen him for months,” she replied. “And your home?” he questioned. “Is mine no longer. -I earn my own living now,” she said. • Joy and pain and triumph all struggled for mastery in Rosso soul. Lelia was now within his reach. He had now a fair chance. Should he try? He did try, and that evening Delia told Father O'Brien of their engagement, and he heartily approved. “A perfect gentleman, a grand Catholic. God is good to send you such a husband,” so Father O’Brien declared. Henceforth Delia’s life was one of comparative ease — and the crowning joy was the coming of a baby daughter “Annunciata,” she was called, but the name was shortened to Zia. Three years later, Delia died. This was a terrible blow to Rosso. He left New York, and went West —moving from city to city. When Zia was twelve, her father became dangerously ill. Mrs. O’Doherty was sent for, and to . her care he confided the child. She, too, was to keep the precious miniature till Zia had attained her twenty-first year. But only in death would he Tart from it—the image of Christ Crucified and the portrait of his dead wife were the last things his dying eyes rested oil. Of worldly wealth, he had little to leave his childjust enough to educate her, and to defray the expenses of training for some profession. Mrs. O’Doherty sent her to the Sacred Heart Convent —s—> and Zia made amazing progress. When she had been four years at school, Nita Forrestes, a girl of her own age, a convert, came to be prepared for her First Communion. The two became great friends, and when Nita returned the following term, they were inseparable. They were marked contrasts, Nita was fair, Zia had her mother’s dark blue eyes and black hair; Nila was petite, Zia tall and slender; Nita had wealth untold and Zia just a small aim unity, Nita often said that Zia- was very, like someone she had seen— and the resemblance puzzled her.* “No.” she corrected herself, “it is a patting. You are exactly like a portrait called * Delia’ that I saw in granduncle’s house.” Both girls graduated the same year; then came the end of school days. Arm in arm, the friends paced the beach avenue that last evening. Nita was saying: “Suppose granduncle should find his daughter, or'her* children —they would inherit all, and 1 should no longer bo his heiress. I really think that would kill me. I could not live without lots of money.” “Well, comfort yourself,” laughed Zia, “it’s only in novels people ‘ turn up,’ as you say.” They parted. Nita for the Adirondacks, and Zia for the hospital, where she intended to train as a. nurse. three years later, with full diplomas, she was staying with Mrs. O’Doherty and had seen for the first time the beautiful miniature of her mother. She was examining it intently when a telegram was given her. It was from Nita, and ran as follows: Bellmont, Adirondacks. Granduncle very ill. Come on at once. He will have no nurse but you. Come by night express. I will meet you.—Nita. Theie uas barely time to pack her case — and Zia was off. The precious portrait which was enclosed in a locketshaped casket, she wore as a pendant. . On reaching Bellmont, Nita at once took her to the sick room. The patient was asleep when they entered but the slight noise awoke him. He opened his eyes, and looked at Zia in wonder. “Lelia, Lelia,” he whispered have you come back to me?” “No, dearest,” said Nita, “this ispiy friend, Zia, come here to nurse you,” Delia, Delia, come to me. Will you stay with me?” he pleaded. .

Thinking it was just a sick man’s-whim Zia answered: “Just as long as you please.” He was satisfied, and closing his eyes, slept again. That afternoon, Nita brought Zia to the library. “You must see the picture,” she said. “It is so like you that you might have been the model.” ■ Drawing aside a silken curtain, Nita disclosed Rosso’s masterpiece. Zia drew a quick breath. Her heart seemed to stop beating. Here was the original of her mother’s miniature, There was her father’s name. As in a dream, she heard Nita say: “Delia was her name. She became a Catholic, and granduncle drove her away from him. She married this great painter. They had one child, a girl, then Delia died. Some people say the child died also. At any rate, Rosso died about ten years ago.” A gasp made Nita look at her friend. She was clinging to a chain for support, and she looked so white and wan that Nita thought she must faint. But Zia pulled herself together quickly. She asked for a drink of water, hut this was because she wanted to be alone for a few moments. She wanted to realise that that washer mother’s portrait, and that her grandfather lay ill upstairs. She must not betray herself, to make herself known, would be to deprive Nita of her inheritance. That she would never do. A ext day, as she bent over the invalid, her precious pendant caught in the counterpane, the chain snapped; and the locket flew open. The patient seized it. He started, looked fixedly at Zia, and asked: “Who painted it?” Somehow his eyes compelled her, and she replied“My father.” “Benedetto del Rosso?” questioned the old man. “Yes,” she assented. “And your mother was?” he continued. “Delia, but I never heard her surname,” she answered. “I knew it,” he went on, “my heart told me when I first saw you. Child, child, can you forgive me? I drove your mother from her home because she wanted to become a Catholic. Dater I learned that she had married Rosso. 1 hen I read of her death. I am sure she forgave me, and prayed for me, for God has given me the great gift of faith, and now He gives me back my child in you.” “But I cannot take Nita’s inheritance. Nita is my best friend. I cannot take what she has always considered as hers,” pleaded Zia. “Her inheritance!” he echoed. “Nita never had it. Delia’s fortune has never been touched for three and twenty years. Nita. will have the portion I always intended for her. You, and you only, will have your mother’s inheritance. You are so like her, child. She was always loyal to her friends. Won’t you try to be loyal to me?” “I don’t need to try,” replied Zia, “my heart went out to you from the first.” “God bless you,” said Mr. Hilton reverently, “Once more Bellmont has a £ Dily among the Dilies.’ ”