“’Tis one thing to be tempted,
Another thing to fall.”
SHAKESPEARE.
Since the evening by the seaside so eventful to each, Olmedo had not seen
Beatriz. Indeed he had avoided it, because with his present feelings
he dared not trust himself alone with her. His profession having been
chosen for him by his parents, he had been subjected when so young to
the discipline of his order, that he had been screened from the usual
temptations and experiences of ordinary life. Under any circumstances
he would have been an upright man. In his convent he had early acquired
an excellent character for strict compliance with the ritual of his
faith, benevolence, and study. Some of his brethren, jealous perhaps
of his greater influence among their flock, had hinted occasionally to
their superior, that his opinions were somewhat liberal, and that he
had displayed at times an independence and energy that betokened a more
active mind than was consistent with their order. Whatever truth there
may have been in these insinuations, such was the general respect in
which he was held, that no harm came to him or even notice of them,
except now and then a good-natured suggestion to be cautious in his
expressions before certain of the brethren.
Olmedo was born for a wider sphere than a monastic life. His passions
were active, but pure. There had always existed within him a silent
protest to forced celibacy, for he felt that the family was an
institution of God, while the convent was only of man. His mind, in all
questions that affected the welfare of the human race, naturally took
a broad and correct view, but so thoroughly grounded had he been in
the faith and practices of his church, that when his opinions really
differed, he preferred outwardly to submit to what he considered the
highest authority. Whenever, however, his good sense could consistently
be active in opposition to the narrow or fanatical views of other members
of his order, he had invariably spoken, and in general with effect;
and on all occasions which required self-devotion or the exercise of a
stricter rule of conduct, he had been the most prompt among them.
He was eminently qualified to be a missionary. His sincerity of faith
had not cramped his sympathies of human action. Active and thoughtful,
self-denying, yet charitable, firm to his convictions while obedient
to lawful discipline, with a winning, quiet manner, that commanded
respect and confidence, he was just the man to go forth to the world as
an example and preacher of the pure tenets of Christianity. The newly
discovered continent of America, with its novel races, greatly interested
him. There he could be freer than in Spain. Accordingly he had obtained
permission to embark for this new field of religious enterprise.
Although Olmedo had come from Spain with her father, it so happened that
it was in Cuba that he had first made the acquaintance of Beatriz. From
that moment he found himself strongly drawn towards her by their mutual
comprehension of each other’s character, which to each filled their
want of sympathy in the deeper aspirations of their natures. To either
their friendship was a new and sweet experience. Olmedo’s heart finding
refreshment in the ingenuous feelings and impulses of Beatriz, while her
mind expanded and strengthened in the intellectual resources of his.
Their intercourse, or mental confidence it would be more proper to term
it, as it related so exclusively to their minds, was the more complete,
that while each was actually governed by the real affinities from which
true love must spring, both were unconscious of any alloy of passion.
Such an intimacy as existed between them, could not have been between
brother and sister, neither between lovers, for while it was undoubtedly
warmed by an undercurrent of feeling unknown to the former, it was free
from all the embarrassments or dangers growing out of its recognized
existence with the latter. Olmedo was her spiritual father, and
something more; the magnet of her soul. She was his spiritual daughter,
and filled to his then well disciplined nature the void which lack of
female communion had ever caused. Hence both were free, unreserved, and
affectionate. Theirs was of its kind a perfect love, because it had no
fear, but now the time had come when the eyes of both were opened.
The effect on Olmedo of this sudden disclosure of his passion, was no
less a source of acute misery to him than the same self-confession of
Beatriz had been to her. Perhaps his sufferings were even greater. Hers
were impulsive and passive. An intuitive perception disclosed all at
once the joys a complete union of hearts like theirs might realize,
while faith forbade the banns. With her, therefore, it was simply a
struggle, not against reason, for that sided with her, but a conscience
educated in opposition to nature. There is no source of mental misery
more poignant than this, because it is the actual right struggling
against the conventional wrong, which by a false view of the laws of
God has been made to appear the right. It is God’s conscience against
man’s conscience, claiming to be of God. And although the latter may
not be right in itself, yet from having been chosen as a moral guide,
circumstances may have woven so strong a web around it, that to suddenly
break the woof would be a wrong. Hence, the eternal wrong having become
the present right, nothing remains but to obey duty and leave the
justification of God’s ways to his own good time.
[Illustration]
Olmedo now saw plainly that God had as fully constituted him for marriage
as any other man; that even his partial intercourse with woman had been
the means of his greater soul-awakening; that it was an error to view God
as a being who delighted in asceticism. On the contrary he rejoiced, and
all nature showed it, in man’s innocent appropriation of all the sources
of enjoyment and knowledge, created expressly for him. The feasting
and sociality of Christ, his love for women and children and constant
intercourse with them, his generous disregard of the letter of the law,
all spoke to him as they never had before. He was satisfied that man was
right only, in the degree that he exercised all his faculties in the
direction for which they were created; that to deny some to the intent
to exalt others, was a fatal mistake. Harmony proceeded solely from the
mutual and free action of all, in accordance with general principles
which all nature except man instinctively recognized, but which to
man were often perverted by the wantonness of Reason. In demanding to
be his sole guide, Reason claimed too much. There were lessons to be
learned through his affection as well as through his intellect. The
more childlike he became, the more direct was his intercourse with God.
Nature, children, and, above all, the heart of woman had become to him
new sources of inspiration. There was then a Holy Book in all created
things. Words of life could be read alike in the phenomena of nature, the
sports of innocence, and the warm affections of humanity. Revelation was
not confined to the printed page.
Such thoughts as these would have brought him to the stake in Spain.
In the dull routine of convent-life, they probably would never have
been awakened. Here he was in a new world. The church, as a human
institution, was himself. There was no official authority superior to
his own; no guide above his own reason or conscience. Naturally free
and inquiring, how could it be otherwise than that the lessons of his
new life should be felt in his soul. He saw that hierarchies were not
indispensable roads to heaven. He even dimly imagined the time when each
man should be again his own priest, and the intercourse between God and
his children be direct as it once was. But I cannot follow him through
all the foreshowings of his newly aroused religious aspirations. The
Age and his education still had deep hold upon him. Fain would he now,
however, redeem himself a man.
“Why should I not?” thought he. “Am I always to obey a vow taught me by
others before able to judge for myself? Is the scope of another’s mind to
be the measure for mine? Here Beatriz and myself must pass our days, away
from our native lands, with no bars between our loves except such as have
been made for other places and circumstances. Must we obey them and deny
ourselves all that God appoints for our union, because man has put us
asunder?”
His heart rebelled at this thought, and his passions grew clamorous.
They were none the less forcible from long restraint. He loved Beatriz
truly, but he loved her as a man; his whole nature panted for hers, but
with his intensity of feeling there was perfect chastity, for he could
as soon have warmed towards a vegetable as towards one he did not love.
His passion was begotten of his love. He felt its impulses, but neither
analyzed nor thought of them, except in relation to their object. Did
this monk sin?
His thoughts now reverted to her. “She is my spiritual child. Her soul is
in my keeping. Should I not be false to my charge to permit a union which
the Church anathematizes? I may risk my own soul, but not hers. No! No!
Be quiet, heart! She is pure and artless, the child of heaven; she must
remain so,” and he sighed as if his last breath was parting, as he strove
to bring his will to this self-renunciation.
With him, passion, opportunity, reason, and even his new views of
religion plead for the union. Greater temptation of circumstance and
argument never assailed a man. On the other hand, arose the still, small
voice, “You are her spiritual father; love you may and must, but to
confess that love, to tempt her, would be a sin against the Holy Ghost;
for has she not been confided to thy charge? Was ever such a crime known
to one, who has vowed to God for his better service here, and for higher
reward hereafter, to renounce the honors and pleasures of this life,—to
know no wife, or child; to crucify alike passions and affections for the
love of Heaven. Have a care, priest! the devil baits his hook temptingly
for thee!”
The full tide of a broken faith swept over his soul with retributory
energy. He trembled with horror. Clasping his crucifix tightly to
his breast, and frantically kissing it, he rushed from the house,
exclaiming, “Save me, Jesus, save me from myself; save her, at least,
whatsoever thou wilt do with me.”