The day following was filled to the brim with bustling activity. Josè
plunged into his new life with an enthusiasm he had never known
before. His first care was to relieve Rosendo and his good wife of the
burden of housing him. Rosendo, protesting against the intimation that
the priest could in any way inconvenience him, at last suggested that
the house adjoining his own, a small, three-room cottage, was vacant,
and might be had at a nominal rental. Some repairs were needed; the
mud had fallen from the walls in several places; but he would plaster
it up again and put it into habitable condition at once.
During the discussion Don Mario, the Alcalde, called to pay his
respects to Josè. He had just returned from a week's visit to Ocaña,
whither he had gone on matters of business with Simití's most eminent
citizen, Don Felipe Alcozer, who was at present sojourning there for
reasons of health. Learning of the priest's recent severe illness, Don
Mario had hastened at once to pay his _devoirs_. And now the Holy
Virgin be praised that he beheld the _Cura_ again fully restored! Yes,
the dismal little house in question belonged to him, but would the
_Cura_ graciously accept it, rent free, and with his most sincere
compliments? Josè glanced at Rosendo and, reading a meaning in the
slight shake of his head, replied that, although overwhelmed by the
Alcalde's kindness, he could take the cottage only on the condition
that it should become the parish house, which the Church must support.
A shade of disappointment seemed to cross the heavy face of Don Mario,
but he graciously acquiesced in the priest's suggestion; and
arrangements were at once concluded whereby the house became the
dwelling place of the new _Cura_.
Rosendo thereupon sent out a call for assistants, to which the entire
unemployed male population of the town responded. Mud for the walls
was hastily brought from the lake, and mixed with manure and dried
grass. A half dozen young men started for the islands to cut fresh
thatch for the roof. Others set about scraping the hard dirt floors;
while Don Mario gave orders which secured a table, several rough
chairs, together with iron stewpans and a variety of enameled metal
dishes, all of which Rosendo insisted should be charged against the
parish. The village carpenter, with his rusty tools and rough,
undressed lumber, constructed a bed in one of the rooms; and Juan, the
boatman, laboriously sought out stones of the proper shape and size to
support the cooking utensils in the primitive dirt hearth.
Often, as he watched the progress of these arrangements, Josè's
thoughts reverted longingly to his father's comfortable house in
far-off Seville; to his former simple quarters in Rome; and to the
less pretentious, but still wholly sufficient _ménage_ of Cartagena.
Compared with this primitive dwelling and the simple husbandry which
it would shelter, his former abodes and manner of life had been
extravagantly luxurious. At times he felt a sudden sinking of heart as
he reflected that perhaps he should never again know anything better
than the lowly life of this dead town. But when his gaze rested upon
the little Carmen, flying hither and yon with an ardent, anticipatory
interest in every detail of the preparations, and when he realized
that, though her feet seemed to rest in the squalid setting afforded
by this dreary place, yet her thought dwelt ever in heaven, his heart
welled again with a great thankfulness for the inestimable privilege
of giving his new life, in whatever environment, to a soul so fair as
hers.
While his house was being set in order under the direction of Rosendo,
Josè visited the church with the Alcalde to formulate plans for its
immediate repair and renovation. As he surveyed the ancient pile and
reflected that it stood as a monument to the inflexible religious
convictions of his own distant progenitors, the priest's sensibilities
were profoundly stirred. How little he knew of that long line of
illustrious ancestry which preceded him! He had been thrust from under
the parental wing at the tender age of twelve; but he could not recall
that even before that event his father had ever made more than casual
mention of the family. Indeed, in the few months since arriving on
ancestral soil Josè had gathered up more of the threads which bound
him to the ancient house of Rincón than in all the years which
preceded. Had he himself only been capable of the unquestioning
acceptance of religious dogma which those old _Conqueros_ and early
forbears exhibited, to what position of eminence in Holy Church might
he not already have attained, with every avenue open to still greater
preferment! How happy were his dear mother then! How glorious their
honored name!--
With a sigh the priest roused himself and strove to thrust these
disturbing thoughts from his mind by centering his attention upon the
work in hand. Doña Maria came to him for permission to take the moldy
vestments from the _sacristía_ to her house to clean them. The
Alcalde, bustling about, panting and perspiring, was distributing
countless orders among his willing assistants. Carmen, who throughout
the morning had been everywhere, bubbling with enthusiasm, now
appeared at the church door. As she entered the musty, ill-smelling
old building she hesitated on the threshold, her childish face screwed
into an expression of disgust.
"Come in, little one; I need your inspiration," called Josè cheerily.
The child approached, and slipped her hand into his. "Padre Rosendo
says this is God's house," she commented, looking up at Josè. "He says
you are going to talk about God here--in this dirty, smelly old place!
Why don't you talk about Him out of doors?"
Josè was becoming innured to the embarrassment which her direct
questions occasioned. And he was learning not to dissemble in his
replies.
"It is because the people want to come here, dear one; it is their
custom."
Would the people believe that the wafer and wine could be changed into
the flesh and blood of Jesus elsewhere--even in Nature's temple?
"But _I_ don't want to come here!" she asseverated.
"That was a naughty thing to say to the good _Cura_, child!"
interposed Don Mario, who had overheard the girl's remark. "You see,
Padre, how we need a _Cura_ here to save these children; otherwise the
Church is going to lose them. They are running pretty wild, and
especially this one. She is already dedicated to the Church; but she
will have to learn to speak more reverently of holy things if she
expects to become a good Sister."
The child looked uncomprehendingly from, one to the other.
"Who dedicated her to the Church?" demanded Josè sharply.
"Oh, Padre Diego, at her baptism, when she was a baby," replied Don
Mario in a matter of fact tone.
Josè shuddered at the thought of that unholy man's loathsome hands
resting upon the innocent girl. But he made no immediate reply. Of
all things, he knew that the guarding of his own tongue was now most
important. But his thought was busy with Rosendo's burning words of
the preceding day, and with his own solemn vow. He reflected on his
present paradoxical, hazardous position; on the tremendous problem
which here confronted him; and on his desperate need of wisdom--yea,
superhuman wisdom--to ward off from this child the net which he knew
the subtlety and cruel cunning of shrewd, unscrupulous men would some
day cause to be cast about her. A soul like hers, mirrored in a body
so wondrous fair, must eventually draw the devil's most envenomed
barbs.
To Josè's great relief Don Mario turned immediately from the present
topic to one relating to the work of renovation. Finding a pretext for
sending Carmen back to the house, the priest gave his attention
unreservedly to the Alcalde. But his mind ceased not to revolve the
implications in Don Mario's words relative to the girl; and when the
midday _siesta_ came upon him his brow was knotted and his eyes gazed
vacantly at the manifestations of activity about him.
Hurrying across the road to escape the scalding heat, Josè's ears
again caught the sound of singing, issuing evidently from Rosendo's
house. It was very like the clear, sweet voice which had floated into
his room the morning after he awoke from his delirium. He approached
the door reverently and looked in. Carmen was arranging the few poor
dishes upon the rough table, and as she worked, her soul flowed across
her lips in song.
The man listened astonished. The words and the simple melody which
carried them were evidently an improvisation. But the voice--did that
issue from a human throat? Yes, for in distant Spain and far-off Rome,
in great cathedrals and concert halls, he had sometimes listened
entranced to voices like this--stronger, and delicately trained, but
reared upon even less of primitive talent.
The girl caught sight of him; and the song died on the warm air.
The priest strode toward her and clasped her in his arms. "Carmen,
child! Who taught you to sing like that?"
The girl smiled up in his face. "God, Padre."
Of course! He should have known. And in future he need never ask.
"And I suppose He tells you when to sing, too, as He does
Cantar-las-horas?" said Josè, smiling in amusement.
"No, Padre," was the unaffected answer. "He just sings Himself in
me."
The man felt rebuked for his light remark; and a lump rose in his
throat. He looked again into her fair face with a deep yearning.
Oh, ye of little faith! Did you but know--could you but realize--that
the kingdom of heaven is within you, would not celestial melody flow
from your lips, too?
Throughout the afternoon, while he labored with his willing helpers in
the church building and his homely cottage, the child's song lingered
in his brain, like the memory of a sweet perfume. His eyes followed
her lithe, graceful form as she flitted about, and his mind was busy
devising pretexts for keeping her near him. At times she would steal
up close to him and put her little hand lovingly and confidingly into
his own. Then as he looked down into her upturned face, wreathed with
smiles of happiness, his breath would catch, and he would turn
hurriedly away, that she might not see the tears which suffused his
eyes.
When night crept down, unheralded, from the _Sierras_, the priest's
house stood ready for its occupant. Cantar-las-horas had dedicated it
by singing the _Angelus_ at the front door, for the hour of six had
overtaken him as he stood, with cocked head, peering curiously within.
The dwelling, though pitifully bare, was nevertheless as clean as
these humble folk with the primitive means at their command could
render it. Instead of the customary hard _macana_ palm strips for the
bed, Rosendo had thoughtfully substituted a large piece of tough white
canvas, fastened to a rectangular frame, which rested on posts well
above the damp floor. On this lay a white sheet and a light blanket of
red flannel. Rosendo had insisted that, for the present, Josè should
take his meals with him. The priest's domestic arrangements,
therefore, would be simple in the extreme; and Doña Maria quietly
announced that these were in her charge. The church edifice would not
be in order for some days yet, perhaps a week. But of this Josè was
secretly glad, for he regarded with dread the necessity of discharging
the priestly functions. And yet, upon that hinged his stay in Simití.
"Simití has two churches, you know, Padre," remarked Rosendo during
the evening meal. "There is another old one near the eastern edge of
town. If you wish, we can visit it while there is yet light."
Josè expressed his pleasure; and a few minutes later the two men, with
Carmen dancing along happily beside them, were climbing the shaly
eminence upon the summit of which stood the second church. On the way
they passed the town cemetery.
"The Spanish cemetery never grows," commented Josè, stopping at the
crumbling gateway and peering in. The place of sepulture was the
epitome of utter desolation. A tumbled brick wall surrounded it, and
there were a few broken brick vaults, in some of which whitening bones
were visible. In a far corner was a heap of human bones and bits of
decayed coffins.
"Their rent fell due, Padre," said Rosendo with a little laugh,
indicating the bones. "The Church rents this ground to the people--it
is consecrated, you know. And if the payments are not made, why, the
bones come up and are thrown over there."
"Humph!" grunted Josè. "Worse than heathenish!"
"But you see, Padre, the Church is only concerned with souls. And it
is better to pay the money to get souls out of purgatory than to rent
a bit of ground for the body, is it not?"
Josè wisely vouchsafed no answer.
"Come, Padre," continued Rosendo. "I would not want to have to spend
the night here. For, you know, if a man spends a night in a cemetery
an evil spirit settles upon him--is it not so?"
Josè still kept silence before the old man's inbred superstition. A
few minutes later they stood before the old church. It was in the
Spanish mission style, but smaller than the one in the central
_plaza_.
"This was built in the time of your great-grandfather, Padre, the
father of Don Ignacio," offered Rosendo. "The Rincón family had many
powerful enemies throughout the country, and those in Simití even
carried their ill feeling so far as to refuse to hear Mass in the
church which your family built. So they erected this one. No one ever
enters it now. Strange noises are sometimes heard inside, and the
people are afraid to go in. You see there are no houses built near it.
They say an angel of the devil lives here and thrashes around at times
in terrible anger. There is a story that many years ago, when I was
but a baby, the devil's angel came and entered this church one dark
night, when there was a terrible storm and the waves of the lake were
so strong that they tossed the crocodiles far up on the shore. And
when the bad angel saw the candles burning on the altar before the
sacred wafer he roared in anger and blew them out. But there was a
beautiful painting of the Virgin on the wall, and when the lights went
out she came down out of her picture and lighted the candles again.
But the devil's angel blew them out once more. And then, they say, the
Holy Virgin left the church in darkness and went out and locked the
wicked angel in, where he has been ever since. That was to show her
displeasure against the enemies of the great Rincóns for erecting this
church. The _Cura_ died suddenly that night; and the church has never
been used since The Virgin, you know, is the special guardian Saint of
the Rincón family."
"But you do not believe the story, Rosendo?" Josè asked.
"_Quien sabe?_" was the noncommittal reply.
"Do you really think the Virgin could or would do such a thing,
Rosendo?"
"Why not, Padre? She has the same power as God, has she not? The frame
which held her picture"--reverting again to the story--"was found out
in front of the church the next morning; but the picture itself was
gone."
Josè glanced down at Carmen, who had been listening with a tense, rapt
expression on her face. What impression did this strange story make
upon her? She looked up at the priest with a little laugh.
"Let us go in, Padre," she said.
"No!" commanded Rosendo, seizing her hand.
"Are you afraid, Rosendo?" queried the amused Josè.
"I--I would--rather not," the old man replied hesitatingly. "The
Virgin has sealed it." Physical danger was temperamental to this noble
son of the jungle; yet the religious superstition which Spain had
bequeathed to this oppressed land still shackled his limbs.
As they descended the hill Carmen seized an opportunity to speak to
Josè alone. "Some day, Padre," she whispered, "you and I will open the
door and let the bad angel out, won't we?"
Josè pressed her little hand. He knew that the door of his own mind
had swung wide at her bidding in these few days, and many a bad angel
had gone out forever.