Juan's startling announcement linked Josè again with a fading past.
Standing with his arm about Carmen, while the child looked up
wonderingly at her grimly silent protector, the priest seemed to have
fallen with dizzy precipitation from some spiritual height into a
familiar material world of men and events. Into his chastened
mentality there now rushed a rabble rout of suggestions, throwing into
wild confusion the orderly forces of mind which he was striving to
marshal to meet the situation. He recalled, for the first time in his
new environment, the significant conversation of Don Jorge and the
priest Diego, in Banco. He saw again the dark clouds that were
lowering above the unhappy country when he left Cartagena. Had they at
last broken? And would carnal lust and rapine again drench fair
Colombia with the blood of her misguided sons? Were the disturbance
only a local uprising, headed by a coterie of selfish politicians, it
would produce but a passing ripple. Colombia had witnessed many such,
and had, by a judicious redistribution of public offices, generally
met the crises with little difficulty. On the other hand, if the
disorder drew its stimulus from the deep-seated, swelling sentiment of
protest against the continued affiliation of Church and State, then
what might not ensue before reason would again lay her restraining
hand upon the rent nation! For--strange anomaly--no strife is so
venomous, no wars so bloody, no issues so steeped in deadliest hatred,
as those which break forth in the name of the humble Christ.
A buzzing concourse was gathering in the _plaza_ before the church.
Leaving Carmen in charge of Doña Maria, Josè mingled with the excited
people. Juan had brought no definite information, other than that
already imparted to Josè, but his elastic Latin imagination had
supplied all lacking essentials, and now, with much gesticulation and
rolling of eyes, with frequent alternations of shrill chatter and
dignified pomp of phrase, he was portraying in a _mélange_ of
picturesque and poetic Spanish the supposed happenings along the great
river.
Josè forced the lad gently aside and addressed the thoroughly excited
people himself, assuring them that no reliable news was as yet at
hand, and bidding them assemble in the church after the evening meal,
where he would advise with them regarding their future course. He then
sought the Alcalde, and drew him into his store, first closing the
door against the excited multitude.
"_Bien, Señor Padre_, what are you going to do?" The Alcalde was
atremble with insuppressible excitement.
"Don Mario, we must protect Simití," replied the priest, with a show
of calm which he did not possess.
"_Caramba_, but not a man will stay! They will run to the hills! The
_guerrillas_ will come, and Simití will be burned to the ground!"
"Will you stay--with me?"
"_Na_, and be hacked by the _machetes_ of the _guerrillas_, or lassoed
by government soldiers and dragged off to the war?" The official
mopped the damp from his purple brow.
"_Caramba!_" he went on. "But the Antioquanians will come down the
Simití trail from Remedios and butcher every one they meet! They
hate us Simitanians, since we whipped them in the revolution of
seventy-six! And--_Diablo_! if we stay here and beat them back,
then the federal troops will come with their ropes and chains and
force us away to fight on their side! _Nombre de Dios!_ I am for the
mountains--_pronto_!"
Josè's own fear mounted by leaps. And yet, in the welter of
conflicting thought two objects stood out above the rest--Carmen and
Rosendo. The latter was on the trail, somewhere. Would he fall afoul
of the bandits who find in these revolutions their opportunities for
plunder and bloodshed? As for Carmen--the priest's apprehensions were
piling mountain-high. He had quickly forgotten his recent theories
regarding the nature of God and man. He had been swept by the force of
ill tidings clean off the lofty spiritual plane up to which he had
struggled during the past weeks. Again he was befouled in the mire of
material fears and corroding speculations as to the probable
manifestations of evil, real and immanent. Don Mario was right. He
must take the child and fly at once. He would go to Doña Maria
immediately and bid her prepare for the journey.
"You had best go to Don Nicolás," replied Doña Maria, when the priest
had voiced his fears to her. "He lives in Boque, and has a _hacienda_
somewhere up that river. He will send you there in his canoe."
"And Boque is--?"
"Three hours from Simití, across the shales. You must start with the
dawn, or the heat will overtake you before you arrive."
"Then make yourself ready, Doña Maria," said Josè in relief, "and we
will set out in the morning."
"Padre, I will stay here," the woman quietly replied.
"Stay here!" ejaculated the priest. "Impossible! But why?"
"There will be many women too old to leave the town, Padre. I will
stay to help them if trouble comes. And I would not go without
Rosendo."
Shame fell upon the priest like a blanket. He, the _Cura_, was
deserting his charge! And this quiet, dignified woman had shown
herself stronger than the man of God! He turned to the door. Carmen
was just entering. He took the child by the hand and led her to his
own cottage.
"Carmen," he said, as she stood expectantly before him, "we--there is
trouble in the country--that is, men are fighting and killing down on
the river--and they may come here. We must--I mean, I think it best
for us to go away from Simití for a while." The priest's eyes fell
before the perplexed gaze of the girl.
"Go away?" she repeated slowly. "But, Padre--why?"
"The soldiers might come--wicked men might come and harm you,
_chiquita_!"
The child seemed not to comprehend. "Is it that you think they will,
Padre?" she at length spoke.
"I fear so, little one," he made reply.
"But--why should they?"
"Because they want to steal and kill," he returned sadly.
"They can't, Padre--they can't!" the girl said quickly. "You told me
that people see only their thoughts, you know. They only think they
want to steal--and they don't think right--"
"But," he interrupted bitterly, "that doesn't keep them from coming
here just the same and--and--" He checked his words, as a faint memory
of his recent talks with the girl glowed momentarily in his seething
brain.
"But we can keep them from coming here, Padre--can't we?"
"How, child?"
"By thinking right ourselves, Padre--you said so, days ago--don't you
remember?" The girl came to the frightened man and put her little arm
about his neck. It was an action that had become habitual with her.
"Padre dear, you read me something from your Bible just yesterday. It
was about God, and He said, 'I am that which was, and is, and is to
come.' Don't you remember? But, Padre dear, if He is that which is to
come, how can anything bad come?"
O, ye of little faith! Could ye not watch one hour with me--the
Christ-principle? Must ye ever flee when the ghost of evil stalks
before you with his gross assumptions?
Yes, Josè remembered. But he had said those things to her and evolved
those beautiful theories in a time of peace. Now his feeble faith was
flying in panic before the demon of unbelief, which had been aroused
by sudden fear.
The villagers were gathering before his door like frightened sheep.
They sought counsel, protection, from him, the unfaithful shepherd.
Could he not, for their sakes, tear himself loose from bondage to his
own deeply rooted beliefs, and launch out into his true orbit about
God? Was life, happiness, all, at the disposal of physical sense? Did
he not love these people? And could not his love for them cast out his
fear? If the test had come, would he meet it, calmly, even alone with
his God, if need be?--or would he basely flee? He was not alone.
Carmen stood by him. She had no part in his cowardice. But Carmen--she
was only a child, immature, inexperienced in the ways of the world!
True. Yet the great God himself had caused His prophets to see that "a
little child shall lead them." And surely Carmen was now leading in
fearlessness and calm trust, in the face of impending evil.
Josè rose from his chair and threw back his shoulders. He stepped
quickly to the door. "My children," he said gently, holding out his
arms over them. "Be not afraid. I shall not leave Simití, but
remain here to help and protect all who will stay with me. If the
_guerrillas_ or soldiers come we will meet them here, where we shall
be protecting our loved ones and our homes. Come to the church
to-night, and there we will discuss plans. Go now, and remember
that your _Cura_ has said that there shall no harm befall you."
Did he believe his own words? He wondered.
The people dispersed; Carmen was called by Doña Maria; and Josè
dropped down upon his bed to strive again to clear his mind of the
foul brood which had swept so suddenly into it, and to prepare for the
evening meeting.
Late that night, as he crossed the road from the church to his
little home, his pulse beat rapidly under the stimulus of real joy. He
had conquered his own and the fears of the Alcalde, and that
official had at length promised to stay and support him. The
people's fears of impressment into military service had been calmly
met and assuaged, though Josè had yielded to their wish to form a
company of militia; and had even agreed to drill them, as he had
seen the troops of Europe drilled and prepared for conflict. There
were neither guns nor ammunition in the town, but they could drill
with their _machetes_--for, he repeated to himself, this was but a
concession, an expedient, to keep the men occupied and their minds
stimulated by his own show of courage and preparedness. It was
decided to send Lázaro Ortiz at once into the Guamocó district, to
find and warn Rosendo; while Juan was to go to Bodega Central for
whatever news he might gather, and to return with immediate warning,
should danger threaten their town. Similar instruction was to be
sent to Escolastico, at Badillo. Within a few days a runner should be
despatched over the Guamocó trail, to spread the information as
judiciously as possible that the people of Simití were armed and
on the alert to meet any incursion from _guerrilla_ bands. The ripple
of excitement quickly died away. The priest would now strive
mightily to keep his own thought clear and his courage alive, to
sustain his people in whatever experience might befall them.
Quiet reigned in the little village the next morning, and its people
went about their familiar duties with but a passing thought of the
events of the preceding day. The Alcalde called at the parish house
early for further instructions in regard to the proposed company of
militia. The priest decided to drill his men twice a day, at the
rising and setting of the sun. Carmen's lessons were then resumed, and
soon Josè was again laboring conscientiously to imbibe the spirit of
calm trust which dwelt in this young girl.
The Master's keynote before every threatening evil was, "Be not
afraid." Carmen's life-motif was, "_God is everywhere._" Josè strove
to see that the Christ-principle was eternal, and as available to
mankind now as when the great Exemplar propounded it to the dull ears
of his followers. But men must learn how to use it. When they have
done this, Christianity will be as scientific and demonstrable to
mankind as is now the science of mathematics. A rule, though
understood, is utterly ineffective if not applied. Yet, how to apply
the Christ-principle? is the question convulsing a world to-day.
God, the infinite creative mind, is that principle. Jesus showed
clearly--so clearly that the wonder is men could have missed the mark
so completely--that the great principle becomes available only when
men empty their minds of pride, selfishness, ignorance, and human
will, and put in their place love, humility and truth. This step
taken, there will flow into the human consciousness the qualities of
God himself, giving powers that mortals believe utterly impossible to
them. But hatred must go; self-love, too; carnal ambition must go; and
fear--the cornerstone of every towering structure of mortal
misery--must be utterly cast out by an understanding of the allness of
the Mind that framed the spiritual universe.
Josè, looking at Carmen as she sat before him, tried to know that love
was the salvation, the righteousness, right-thinking, by which alone
the sons of men could be redeemed. The world would give such utterance
the lie, he knew. To love an enemy is weakness! The sons of earth must
be warriors, and valiantly fight! Alas! the tired old world has fought
for ages untold, and gained--nothing. Did Jesus fight? Not as the
world. He had a better way. He loved his enemies with a love that
understood the allness of God, and the consequent nothingness of the
human concept. Knowing the concept of man as mortal to be an illusion,
Jesus then knew that he had no enemies.
The work-day closed, and Carmen was about to leave. A shadow fell
across the open doorway. Josè looked up. A man, dressed in clerical
garb, stood looking in, his eyes fixed upon Carmen. Josè's heart
stopped, and he sat as one stunned. The man was Padre Diego Polo.
"Ah, brother in Christ!" the newcomer cried, advancing with
outstretched hands. "Well met, indeed! I ached to think I might not
find you here! But--_Caramba_! can this be my little Carmen, from
whom I tore myself in tears four years ago and more? _Diablo!_ but she
has grown to be a charming _señorita_ already." He bent over and
kissed the child loudly upon each cheek.
Josè with difficulty restrained himself from pouncing upon the man as
he watched him pass his fat hands over the girl's bare arms and feast
his lecherous eyes upon her round figure and plump limbs. The child
shrank under the withering touch. Freeing herself, she ran from the
room, followed by a taunting laugh from Diego.
"_Caramba!_" he exclaimed, sinking into the chair vacated by the girl.
"But I had the devil's own trouble getting here! And I find everything
quiet as a funeral in this sink of a town, just as if hell were not
spewing fire down on the river! _Dios!_ But give me a bit of rum,
_amigo_. My spirits droop like the torn wing of a heron."
Josè slowly found his voice. "I have no rum. I regret exceedingly,
friend. But doubtless the Alcalde can supply you. Have you seen him?"
"_Hombre!_ With what do you quench your thirst?" ejaculated the
disappointed priest. "Lake water?" Then he added with a fatuous grin:
"No, I have not yet honored the Alcalde with a call. Anxious care
drove me straight from the boat to you; for with you, a brother
priest, I knew I would find hospitality and protection."
Josè sat speechless. After a few moments, during which he fanned
himself vigorously with his black felt hat, Diego continued volubly:
"You are consumed to know what brings me here, eh? _Bien_, I will
anticipate your questions. The country is on fire around Banco.
And--you know they do not love priests down that way--well, I saw that
it had come around to my move. I therefore got out--quickly. H'm!
"But," he continued, "luckily I had screwed plenty of Masses out of
the Banco sheep this past year, and my treasure box was comfortably
full. _Bueno_, I hired a canoe and a couple of strapping _peones_, who
brought me by night, and by damnably slow degrees, up the river to
Bodega Central. As luck would have it, I chanced to be there the day
Juan arrived from Simití. So I straightway caused inquiry to be made
of him respecting the present whereabouts of our esteemed friend, Don
Rosendo. Learning that my worthy brother was prospecting for La
Libertad, it occurred to me that this decaying town might afford me
the asylum I needed until I could make the necessary preparations to
get up into the mountains. _Caramba!_ but I shall not stay where a
stray bullet or a badly directed _machete_ may terminate my noble
life-aspirations!"
Josè groaned inwardly. "But, how dared you come to Simití?" he
exclaimed. "You were once forced to leave this town--!"
"Assuredly, _amigo_," Diego replied with great coolness. "And I would
not risk my tender skin again had I not believed that you were here to
shield me. My only safety lies in making the mountains. Their most
accessible point is by way of Simití. From here I can go to the San
Lucas country; eventually get back to the Guamocó trail; and
ultimately land in Remedios, or some other town farther south, where
the anticlerical sentiment is not so cursedly strong. I have money and
two negro boys. The boat I shall have to leave here in your care.
_Bien_, learning that Rosendo, my principal annoyance and obstruction,
was absent, and that you, my friend, were here, I decided to brave the
wrath of the simple denizens of this hole, and spend a day or two as
guest of yourself and my good friend, the Alcalde, before journeying
farther. Thus you have it all, in _parvo_. But, _Dios y diablo_! that
trip up the river has nearly done for me! We traveled by night and hid
in the brush by day, where millions of gnats and mosquitoes literally
devoured me! _Caramba!_ and you so inhospitable as to have no rum!"
The garrulous priest paused for breath. Then he resumed:
"A voluptuous little wench, that Carmen! Keeping her for yourself, eh?
But you will have to give her up. Belongs to the Church, you know. But
don't let our worthy Don Wenceslas hear of her good looks, for he'd
pop her into a convent _presto_! And later he--_Bien_, you had better
get rid of her before she makes you trouble. I'll take her off your
hands myself, even though I shall be traveling for the next few
months. But, say," changing the subject abruptly, "Don Wenceslas
sprung his trap too soon, eh?"
"I don't follow you," said Josè, consuming with indignation over the
priest's coarse talk.
"_Diablo!_ he pulls a revolution before it is ripe. Is anything more
absurd! It begins as he intended, anticlerical; and so it will run for
a while. But after that--_Bien_, you will see it reverse itself and
turn solely political, with the present Government on top at the last,
and the end a matter of less than six weeks."
"Do you think so?" asked Josè, eagerly grasping at a new hope.
"I know it!" ejaculated Diego. "_Hombre!_ But I have been too close to
matters religious and political in this country all my life not to
know that Don Wenceslas has this time committed the blunder of being
a bit too eager. Had he waited a few months longer, and then pulled
the string--_Dios y diablo_! there would have been such a fracas as to
turn the Cordilleras bottom up! Now all that is set back for
years--_Quien sabe_?"
"But," queried the puzzled Josè, "how could Wenceslas, a priest,
profit by an anticlerical war?"
"_Caramba, amigo!_ But the good Wenceslas is priest only in name! He
is a politician, bred to the game. He lays his plans with the
anticlericals, knowing full well that Church and State can not be
separated in this land of mutton-headed _peones_. _Bueno_, the clever
man precipitates a revolution that can have but one result, the closer
union of Rome and the Colombian Government. And for this he receives
the direction of the See of Cartagena and the disposition of the rich
revenues from the mines and _fincas_ of his diocese. Do you get me?"
"And, _amigo_, how long will this disturbance continue?" said Josè,
speaking earnestly.
"I have told you, a few weeks at the most," replied Diego with a show
of petulance. "But, just the same, as agent of your friend Wenceslas,
I have been a mite too active along the river, especially in the town
of Banco, to find safety anywhere within the pale of civilization
until this little fracas blows over. This one being an abortion, the
next revolution can come only after several years of most painstaking
preparation. But, mark me, _amigo_, that one will not miscarry, nor
will it be less than a scourge of the Lord!"
Despite the sordidness of the man, Josè was profoundly grateful to him
for this information. And there could be no doubt of its authenticity,
coming as it did from a tool of Wenceslas himself. Josè became
cheerful, even animated.
"Good, then! Now when do you expect to set out for San Lucas?" he
asked. "Rosendo may return any day."
"_Diablo!_ Then I must be off at once!"
"To-morrow?" suggested Josè eagerly.
"_Caramba, hermano!_ Why so desirous of my departure? To be sure,
to-morrow, if possible. But I must have a chat with our good friend,
the Alcalde. So do me the inexpressible favor to accompany me to his
door, and there leave me. My _peones_ are down at the boat, and I
would rather not face the people of Simití alone."
"Gladly," assented Josè.
The man rose to depart. At that moment Doña Maria appeared at the door
bearing a tray with Josè's supper. She stopped short as she recognized
Diego.
"Ah, _Señora Doña Maria_!" exclaimed Diego, bowing low. "I kiss your
hand."
The woman looked inquiringly from Diego to Josè. Without a word she
set the tray on the table and quickly departed.
"H'm, _amigo_, I think it well to visit the Alcalde at once," murmured
Diego. "I regret that I bring the amiable señora no greeting from her
charming daughter. _Ay de mí!_" he sighed, picking up his hat. "The
conventions of this world are so narrow!"
Don Mario exclaimed loudly when he beheld the familiar figure of Padre
Diego. Recovering from his astonishment he broke into a loud guffaw
and clapped the grinning priest heartily upon the back.
"_Caramba_, man! But I admire you at last! I can forgive all your
wickedness at sight of such nerve! Ramona!" calling to his daughter in
the _patio_. "That last _garrafón_ and some glasses! But enter, enter,
señores! Why stand you there? My poor hovel is yours!" stepping aside
and ceremoniously waving them in.
"Our friend finds that his supper awaits him," said Diego, laying a
hand patronizingly upon Josè's arm. "But I will eat with you, my good
Don Mario, and occupy a _petate_ on your floor to-night. _Conque_,
until later, Don Josè," waving a polite dismissal to the latter. "If
not to-night, then in the morning _temprano_."
The audacity of the man nettled Josè. He would have liked to be
present during the interview between the Alcalde and this cunning
religio-political agent, for he knew that the weak-kneed Don Mario
would be putty in his oily hands. However, Diego had shown him that he
was not wanted. And there was nothing to do but nurse his temper and
await events.
But, whatever deplorable results the visit of Diego might entail, he
had at least brought present comfort to Josè in his report of the
militant uprising now in progress, and the latter would sleep this
night without the torment of dread apprehension.
The next morning Diego entered the parish house just as master and
pupil were beginning their day's work.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, "our parochial school is quite discriminating! No?
One pupil! _Bien_, are there not enough children in the town to
warrant a larger school, and with a Sister in charge? I will report
the matter to the good Bishop."
Josè's wrath leaped into flame. "There is a school here, as you know,
_amigo_, with a competent master," he replied with what calmness he
could muster.
It was perhaps a hasty and unfortunate remark, for Josè knew he had
been jealously selfish with Carmen.
"_Caramba_, yes!" retorted Diego. "A private school, to which the
stubborn beasts that live in this sink will not send their brats!
There must be a parochial school in Simití, supported by the people!
Oh, don't worry; there is gold enough here, buried in _patios_ and
under these innocent-looking mud walls, to support the Pope for a
decade--and that," he chuckled, "is no small sum!"
His eyes roved over Carmen and he began a mental appraisement of the
girl. "_Caramba!_" muttering half to himself, after he had feasted his
sight upon her for some moments, "but she is large for her age--and,
_Dios y diablo!_ a ravishing beauty!"
He stood for a while wrapped in thought. Then an idea seemed to filter
through his cunning brain. His coarse, unmoral face brightened, and
his thick lips parted in an evil smile.
"Come here, little one," he said patronizingly, extending his arms to
the child. "Come, give your good _Padre_ his morning kiss."
The girl shrank back in her chair and looked appealingly at Josè.
"No? Then I must come and steal it; and when you confess to good Padre
Josè you may tell him it was all my fault."
He started toward her. A look of horror came into the child's face and
she sprang from her seat. Josè swiftly rose. He seized Diego by the
shoulder and whirled him quickly about. His face was menacing and his
frame trembled.
"One moment, friend!" The voice was low, tense, and deliberate. "If
you lay a hand on that child I will strike you dead at my feet!"
Diego recoiled. _Cielo!_ was this the timid sheep that had stopped for
a moment in Banco on its way to the slaughter? But there was no
mistaking the spirit manifested now in that voice and attitude.
"Why, _amigo_!" he exclaimed, a foolish grin splitting his ugly
features. "Your little joke startled me!"
Josè motioned Carmen to leave.
"Be seated, Don Diego. It would be well to understand each other more
thoroughly."
Had Josè gone too far? He wondered. Heaven knew, he could not afford
to make enemies, especially at this juncture! But he had not misread
the thought coursing through the foul mind of Diego. And yet, violence
now might ruin both the child and himself. He must be wiser.
"I--I was perhaps a little hasty, _amigo_," he began in gentler tones.
"But, as you see, I have been quite wrought up of late--the news of
the revolution, and--in these past months there have been many things
to cause me worry. I--"
"Say no more, good friend," interrupted the oily Diego, his beady eyes
twinkling. "But you will not wonder it struck me odd that a father
should not be permitted to embrace his own daughter."
Dead silence, heavy and stifling, fell upon Josè. Slowly his throat
filled, and his ears began to throb. Diego sat before him, smiling and
twirling his fat thumbs. He looked like the images of Chinese gods
Josè had seen in foreign lands.
Then the tortured man forced a laugh. Of course, the strain of
yesterday had been too much for him! His overwrought mind had read
into words and events meanings which they had not been meant to
convey.
"True, _amigo_," he managed to say, striving to steady his voice. "But
we spiritual Fathers should not forget--"
Diego laughed egregiously. "_Caramba_, man! Let us get to the meat in
the nut. Why do you think I am in Simití, braving the wrath of Rosendo
and others? Why have I left my comfortable quarters in Banco, to
undertake a journey, long and hazardous, to this godless hole?"
He paused, apparently enjoying the suffering he saw depicted upon
Josè's countenance.
"I will tell you," he resumed. "But you will keep my confidence, no?
We are brother priests, and must hold together. You protect me in
this, and I return the favor in a like indiscretion. _Bien_, I
explain: I am here partly because of the revolution, as I told you
yesterday, and partly, as I did not tell you, to see my little girl,
my daughter, Carmen--
"_Caramba_, man!" he cried, bounding to his feet, as he saw Josè
slowly rise before him. "Listen! It is God's truth! Sit down! Sit
down!"
Josè dropped back into his chair like a withered leaf in the lull of a
winter's wind.
"_Dios y diablo_, but it rends me to make this confession, _amigo_!
And yet, I look to you for support! The girl, Carmen--_I am her
father!_"
Diego paced dramatically up and down before the scarce hearing Josè
and unfolded his story in a quick, jerky voice, with many a gesture
and much rolling of his bright eyes.
"Her mother was a Spanish woman of high degree. We met in Bogotá. My
vows prevented me from marrying her, else I should have done so.
_Caramba_, but I loved her! _Bien_, I was called to Cartagena. She
feared, in her delicate state, that I was deserting her. She tried to
follow me, and at Badillo was put off the boat. There, poor child, she
passed away in grief, leaving her babe. May she rest forever on the
bosom of the blessed Virgin!" Diego bowed reverently and crossed
himself.
"Then I lost all trace of her. My diligent inquiries revealed nothing.
Two years later I was assigned to the parish of Simití. Here I saw the
little locket which I had given her, and knew that Carmen was my
child. Ah, _Dios!_ what a revelation to a breaking heart! But I could
not openly acknowledge her, for I was already in disgrace, as you
know. And, once down, it is easy to sink still further. I confess, I
was indiscreet here. I was forced to fly. Rosendo's daughter followed
me, despite my protests. I was assigned to Banco. _Bien_, time passed,
and you came. I had hoped you would take the little Carmen under your
protection. God, how I grieved for the child! At last I determined,
come what might, to see her. The revolution drove me to the mountains;
and love for my girl brought me by way of Simití. And now, _amigo_,
you have my confession--and you will not be hard on me? _Caramba_, I
need a friend!" He sat down, and mopped his wet brow. His talk had
shaken him visibly.
Again oppressive silence. Josè was staring with unseeing eyes out
through the open doorway. A stream of sunlight poured over the dusty
threshold, and myriad motes danced in the golden flood.
"_Bien, amigo_," Diego resumed, with more confidence. "I had not
thought to reveal this, my secret, to you--nor to any one, for that
matter--but just to get a peep at my little daughter, and assure my
anxious heart of her welfare. But since coming here and seeing how
mature she is my plans have taken more definite shape. I shall leave
at daybreak to-morrow, if Don Mario can have my supplies ready on this
short notice, and--will take Carmen with me."
Josè struggled wearily to his feet. The color had left his face, and
ages seemed to bestride his bent shoulders. His voice quavered as he
slowly spoke.
"Leave me now, Don Diego. It were better that we should not meet again
until you depart."
"But, _amigo_--ah, I feel for you, believe me! You are attached to the
child--who would not be? _Caramba_, what is this world but a cemetery
of bleaching hopes! But--how can I ask it? _Amigo_, send the child to
me at the house of the Alcalde. I would hold her in my arms and feel a
father's joy. And bid the good Doña Maria make her ready for
to-morrow's journey."
Josè turned to the man. An ominous calm now possessed him. "You
said--the San Lucas district?"
"_Quien sabe?_ good friend," Diego made hasty reply. "My plans seem
quite altered since coming here. _Bien_, we must see. But I will leave
you now. And you will send Carmen to me at once? And bid her bring
her mother's locket. _Conque, hasta luego, amigo._"
He went to the door, and seeing his two negro _peones_ loitering near,
walked confidently and briskly to the house of Don Mario.
Josè, bewildered and benumbed, staggered into his sleeping room and
sank upon the bed.
* * * * *
"Padre--Padre dear."
Carmen stood beside the stricken priest, and her little hand crept
into his.
"I watched until I saw him go, and then I came in. He has bad
thoughts, hasn't he? But--Padre dear, what is it? Did he make you
think bad thoughts, too? He can't, you know, if you don't want to."
She bent over him and laid her cheek against his. Josè stared unseeing
up at the thatch roof.
"Padre dear, everything has a rule, a principle, you told me. Don't
you remember? But his thoughts haven't any principle, have they? Any
more than the mistakes I make in algebra. Aren't we glad we know
that!"
The child kissed the suffering man and wound her arms about his neck.
"Padre dear, he couldn't say anything that could make you unhappy--he
just couldn't! God is _everywhere_, and you are His child--and I am,
too--and--and there just isn't anything here but God, and we are in
Him. Why, Padre, we are in Him, just like the little fish in the lake!
Isn't it nice to know that--to really _know_ it?"
Aye, if he had really known it he would not now be stretched upon a
bed of torment. Yet, Carmen knew it. And his suffering was for her.
Was he not really yielding to the mesmerism of human events? Why, oh,
why could he not remain superior to them? Why continually rise and
fall, tossed through his brief years like a dry weed in the blast?
It was because he _would_ know evil, and yield to its mesmerism. His
enemies were not without, but within. How could he hope to be free
until he had passed from self-consciousness to the sole consciousness
of infinite good?
"Padre dear, his bad thoughts have only the minus sign, haven't
they?"
Yes, and Josè's now carried the same symbol of nothingness. Carmen was
linked to the omnipresent mind that is God; and no power, be it Diego
or his superior, Wenceslas, could effect a separation.
But if Carmen was Diego's child, she must go with him. Josè could no
longer endure this torturing thought. He rose from the bed and sought
Doña Maria.
"Señora," he pleaded, "tell me again what you know of Carmen's
parents."
The good woman was surprised at the question, but could add nothing to
what Rosendo had already told him. He asked to see again the locket.
Alas! study it as he might, the portrait of the man was wholly
indistinguishable. The sweet, sad face of the young mother looked out
from its frame like a suffering. Magdalen. In it he thought he saw a
resemblance to Carmen. As for Diego, the child certainly did not
resemble him in the least. But years of dissipation and evil doubtless
had wrought their changes in his features.
He looked around for Carmen. She had disappeared. He rose and searched
through the house for her. Doña Maria, busy in the kitchen, had not
seen her leave. His search futile, he returned with heavy heart to his
own house and sat down to think. Mechanically he opened his Bible.
_When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee._ Not "if,"
but "when." The sharp experiences of human existence are not to be
avoided. But in their very midst the Christ-principle is available to
the faithful searcher and worker.
Doña Maria came with the midday meal. Carmen had not returned. Josè,
alarmed beyond measure, prepared to set out in search of her. But at
that moment one of Diego's _peones_ appeared at the door with his
master's request that the child be sent at once to him. At least,
then, she was not in his hands; and Josè breathed more freely. It
seemed to him that, should he see her in Diego's arms, he must
certainly strangle him. He shuddered at the thought. Only a few
minutes before he had threatened to kill him!
He left his food untasted. Unspeakably wearied with his incessant
mental battle, he threw himself again upon his bed, and at length sank
into a deep sleep.
The shadows were gathering when he awoke with a start. He heard a call
from the street. Leaping from the bed, he hastened to the door, just
as Rosendo, swaying beneath his pack, and accompanied by Lázaro Ortiz,
rounded the corner and made toward him.
_"Hola, amigo Cura!"_ Rosendo shouted, his face radiant. "Come and bid
me welcome, and receive good news!"
At the same moment Carmen came flying toward them from the direction
of the shales. Josè instantly divined the motive which had sent her
out there. He turned his face to hide the tears which sprang to his
eyes.
"Thank God!" he murmured in a choking voice. Then he hastened to his
faithful ally and clasped him in his arms.