Bloomington High School, The Gothic, 1915, Page 14

Description:	FourteenThe Gothicfell. He was nearing the church of Chatillon. In the hazeof the summer evening he saw its spire dimly outlinedagainst its background of trees, reflecting the beautifultints from the descending sun. All was silent. Little bylittle, each separate detail crept out of the haze as he ap-proached the cross, shining pure gold on the ivy-grownspire. The stained glass windows were fire red from thesuns rays--in contrast to the gray, cool, moss-grown stoneof which the church was built. A lone bird chirped. Tothe teachers in this church his mother had entrusted hiseducation. But he was not thinking of the church, theteachers, nor his mother at that moment. Someone wasstanding in the path in front of the church. It was herfrom whom he had been tempted to flee as from a sinagainst God.Her face beamed with joy as she recognized him fromafar off. She tried to hide her pleasure as he dismountedhis horse and took her hands half caressingly in both hisown. In the moment he forgot his scruples and gave him-self over to the real and undisguised pleasure of this meet-ing-and his home coming.And how hast thou been, fair Alith, and thy people andmy people?I have been well, Walter, but the days have been long.Not much happens at Chatillon. The men are so busy withwar, and the women grow sick with waiting for peace. Thypeople--I wish--What dost wish, Alith?I wish--Oh, Walter, it is thy mother! Must Alith bethe one who breaks the news?Is my mother--dead ? And her son whom she loved ofall her children not with her in her last hour? Oh, God,what hopes she had of me! You need not tell me, I knowit is true--too true.He dropped her hands and stepped back. A look ofbrooding sorrow and self-contempt took the place of genialcomradeship he had shown the woman he almost loved, andwho truly loved him. She felt the change and it soberedand hurt her deeply. Why, in his sorrow, should she notbe nearer to him than any other? And yet, she felt cutoff--alone.With a hasty word of farewell, he mounted his tiredcharger and spurred him on the road toward Fountaine,where he had left his mother over twleve months before.He remembered the very spot on which they had stood to-gether and what she had said was written on his hearttoday.The times are ripe for great deeds, and the greatest ishe who, availing himself of this crusading zeal, will turnpart of it to the regeneration of a corrupt and sluggishspiritual life which has crept into the devotions of ourclergy. Our monasteries have become places of ease andluxury and impurity. They are not even houses of learningfrom which a man may influence the world. They were en-couraged to write and read books. They taught new andbetter methods of farming and were a great help to society.Only devoted men can effect a change. The imagination ofthe age has fixed its ideal for the champion of Gods cause.Couldst thou not love God better? Walter, dost thou lovea woman? Oh, my son! My son! If thou could be theman.As he recalled all this, once more his thoughts flashedback to Alith standing by the church at Chatillon.PART II.Sometimes it takes years to bring life to that climax forwhich events have been preparing, and yet when that tensemoment arrives for which life has waited, it comes unher-alded. It is a long journey through the weeks and monthsand years from Alith in the path before the old Chatillonchurch to the scene in the Valley of Wormwood, where thesounds of labor or the chants of the choral service alonebreak the silence deep as night. From the hills overlookingthe valley, a stranger looked down. He noted the solitudeof the place, between dense forests in a narrow gorge ofneighboring hills. He noted the dreadful silence, and re-B. H. S. 1915A pony wont always pull you through.
Source:	http://cdm17129.contentdm.oclc.org/cdm/ref/collection/hs-bloom/id/1536
Collection:	Bloomington High School

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