"But, Padre dear, why are you so surprised that Padre Diego did not
hurt me? I would have been much more surprised if he had. You are
always so astonished when evil doesn't happen--don't you ever look for
good? Why, I don't ever look for anything else! How could I when I
know that God is everywhere?"
Josè strained her closer to himself. "The sense of evil--it overwhelms
me at times, _carita_--"
"But, Padre dear, why don't you know right then that it is nothing? If
you did, it would fade away, and only good would overwhelm you." She
nestled closer to the man and clasped her arms more tightly about his
neck. "Why, Padre," she resumed, "I was not a bit surprised when
Captain Julio came and told us we were near Bodega Central, and that
he could see you and Juan and Lázaro sitting on the steps of the
inn."
"Yes, _chiquita_, we were resting for a moment. If a down-river boat
came by we were going to take it. If not, we expected to go in the
canoe."
"Padre dear, what did you intend to do in Banco?"
The man hesitated. "Don't speak of it, child--we--"
"Juan and Lázaro have knives. I saw them. Padre--have you one, too?"
"I?--_chiquita_--"
"Padre dear, God never fights with knives. Anita had a knife; but God
wouldn't let her use it. He always has better ways than that. I don't
know what happened to Padre Diego, except that he fell over his wicked
thoughts. You know, Padre dear, somewhere in the Bible you read to me
that 'With him is an arm of flesh; but with us is the Lord our God to
help us, and to fight our battles.' I thought of that when Padre Diego
had his arm around me and held me so tight that I could hardly
breathe. It was only an arm of flesh, after, all, and it couldn't hold
me."
"_Bien_, Padre," interrupted Juan, coming up from the boat, "if we are
to reach Simití to-night we must start at once."
"_Bueno_, then let us set out," returned Josè, rising. A muffled sob
reached his ears. He turned to the woman huddled in the shadow of the
door.
"Come, Ana," he said cheerily; "to-night you will again be home."
"No, Padre--I do not go with you. I--"
"Anita!" In an instant Carmen's arms were around her. "When padre
Rosendo sees us, you and me, why--"
"_Carísima_!" The woman's tears flowed fast while she hugged the girl
to her bosom. "No--no--he would drive me from his house! No--let me
stay here. I will get work in the _posada_, perhaps. Or Captain Julio
will take me to Honda on his next trip, and get me a place--"
"Then we must ask him to get a place for us both," interrupted Carmen,
sitting calmly down beside her. "And think, Anita, how sad padre
Rosendo will be when he sees the men come back without us!"
"Carmen! I shall throw myself into the river!" cried the sorrowing
woman, rising. "You don't know what it is--"
"Yes, I do, Anita," returned the girl quickly; "it is nothing--just
zero--and you can't drown it! If it would do any good we would both
jump into the river--that is, if God told us to--wouldn't we? But it
doesn't help any to die, you know, for then we would have it all to do
over again."
"Ana," said Josè, laying a hand on the woman's shoulder, "you do not
understand her--neither do I, wholly. But if she tells you to go with
us to Simití, why, I think I would go. I would leave it all with her.
You may trust her influence with Rosendo. Come."
He took her hand and led her, weeping, but no longer resisting, down
to the canoe. Carmen followed, dancing like an animated sunbeam. "What
fun, oh, what fun!" she chirped, clapping her hands. "And just as soon
as we get home we will go right up to the _cárcel_ and let padre
Rosendo out!"
"_Na, chiquita_," said Josè, shaking his head mournfully; "we have no
power to do that."
"Well, then, God has," returned the girl, nothing daunted.
Juan pushed the heavily laden canoe from its mooring, and set its
direction toward Simití. Silence drew over the little group, and the
hours dragged while the boat crept slowly along the margin of the
great river. The sun had passed its meridian when the little craft
turned into the _caño._ To Josè the change brought a most grateful
relief. For, though his long residence in Simití had somewhat inured
him to the intense heat of this low region, he had not yet learned to
endure it with the careless indifference of the natives. Besides, his
mind was filled with vivid memories of the horrors of his first river
trip. And he knew that every future experience on the water would be
tinged by them.
In the shaded _caño_ the sunlight, sifting through the interlocking
branches of ancient palms and _caobas_, mellowed and softened into a
veil of yellow radiance that flecked the little stream with splashes
of gold. Juan in the prow with the pole labored in silence. At times
he stopped just long enough to roll a huge cigar, and to feast his
bright eyes upon the fair girl whom he silently adored. Lázaro, as
_patron_, sat in the stern, saturnine and unimpassioned. The woman,
exhausted by the recent mental strain, dozed throughout the journey.
Carmen alone seemed alive to her environment. Every foot of advance
unfolded to her new delights. She sang; she chirped; she mimicked the
parrots; she chattered at the excited monkeys. It was with difficulty
that Josè could restrain her when her sharp eyes caught the glint of
brilliant Passion flowers and orchids of gorgeous hue clinging to the
dripping trees.
"Padre!" she exclaimed, "they are in us, you know. They are not out
there at all! We see our thoughts of them--and lots of people wouldn't
see anything beautiful about them at all, just because their thoughts
are not beautiful. Padre, we see--what you said to me once--we see our
interpretations of God's ideas, don't we? That is what I told Padre
Diego. But--well, he will just _have_ to see some day, won't he, Padre
dear? But now let us talk in English; you know, I haven't spoken it
for such a long time."
Josè gazed at her in rapt silence. What a rare interpretation of the
mind divine was this child! But he wondered why one so pure and
beautiful should attract a mind so carnal as that of Diego. And yet--
"Ah!" he mused, "it is again that law. Good always stirs up its
suppositional opposite. And the most abundant good and the greatest
purity stir up the most carnal elements of the human mind. All history
shows it. The greater the degree of good, the greater the seeming
degree of evil aroused. The perfect Christ stirred the hatred of a
world. Carmen arouses Diego simply because of her purity. Yet she
knows that he can not harm her."
His eyes met the girl's, and she answered his unspoken thought in the
tongue which she was fast adopting. "We _have_ to love him, you know,
Padre dear."
"Love whom? Diego?"
"Why, yes, of course. We can't help loving him. Oh, not the 'him' that
the human mind looks at, but the real 'him,' you know--the 'him' that
is God's image. And you know there just isn't any other 'him,' now is
there?"
"God above!" murmured Josè, "if I could but keep my thought as
straight as she does!"
"But, Padre dear, your thought _is_ straight. You know, God's thought
is the only thought there really is. Any other thought has the minus
sign, and so it is zero. If we will always think of the real Padre
Diego, and love that, why, the unreal one will fade away from our
thought."
"Do you suppose, _chiquita_, that if we love him we will make him
repent?"
The child pondered the question for a moment. Then:
"Padre, what did you tell me once about the word 'repent'?"
"It comes from the Greek word '_metanoia_.'"
"Yes," she reflected; "but what did you say that--"
"Oh, yes, I told you it meant a complete and radical change of
thought."
"Well!" she exclaimed, her eyes brightening.
Josè waited expectantly. It was heaven to have this girl before him
and to drink in the naïve expressions of her active mind.
"Padre dear, when John the baptiser said, 'Repent, for the kingdom of
heaven is at hand,' did he mean to tell the people that they must have
a complete change of thought?"
Josè laughed. And then he grew serious. "_Chiquita_," he answered, "I
have no doubt he meant just that. For you have taught me that there
can be no salvation without such a complete and radical change."
"No," she said with quick emphasis; "for God is mind, you know. And
His thought is the only real thought there is or can be. The thoughts
of mortals are the opposites of His thoughts, and so they are
illusions, and, like all lies, must pass away. If people want to be
immortal, they must think as God thinks, for He is immortal. They must
stop thinking that there is any power but God. They must stop letting
in thoughts of sickness, of sin, of wickedness, and all those things
that in English you call 'discord.' God says in the Bible, 'As the
heavens are higher than the earth, so are my thoughts higher than your
thoughts.' Well, God is immortal and perfect. And if we want to be
like Him we must think His thoughts. For our thoughts become--things.
Don't you see?"
Josè's face clouded. "I see, _chiquita_--sometimes very clearly--and
then again I don't see," he said slowly.
"You _do_ see!" she insisted, getting up on her knees and facing him.
"And you see as God sees! And if you hold this thought always, why, it
will--it will be--"
"Externalized; is that what you are trying to say?" he suggested.
"Yes, just that. Jesus said, 'As a man thinketh in his heart, so is
he.'"
"But, Carmen--I-- What you say is doubtless true in essence--but I
think you have not grasped it all--there are so many gaps that your
simple little system of religion does not fill in--so many great
questions that you do not answer. I see, in part--and then, again, I
don't see at all. And when you were stolen away from Simití I saw
nothing but the evil--and it nearly killed me!"
The girl studied him for a few moments. The man had always been an
enigma to her. She could not understand a nature that soared into the
spiritual empyrean one moment, and in the next fell floundering into
the bottomless pit of materialism. The undulating curve which
marked the development of the Rincón mind was to her a thing
incomprehensible.
"Padre dear," she said at length, a little sadly. "When you look at
the first chapter in the Bible and read there how God made everything,
and man in His image, in the image of Mind, you see, and are very
happy. But when you go on to the second chapter and read how the Lord
God--not God, but the _Lord_ God--made a man of dirt, and how this
dirt man listened to his false thoughts and fell, why, then you are
unhappy. Don't you see any difference between them? Can't you see that
one is a story of the real creation; and the other is the human mind's
interpretation of the creation--an interpretation made according to
the way the human mind thinks the creating _ought_ to have been in
matter? You told me this yourself. And the second chapter shows how
far the human mind can go--it shows how limited it is. The human mind
couldn't get any farther than that--couldn't make a man out of
anything but dirt. It couldn't understand the spiritual creation. And
so it made a creation of its own. It couldn't understand God; and so
it made a Lord God, just like itself. Can't you see? Padre dear, can't
you? And if you see, can't you _stick_ to it and _live_ it, until all
the unreal passes away?"
Josè smiled into her earnest little face. "I will never cease to try,
_chiquita_," he said. "But we were talking about loving Diego, weren't
we? Yes, you are right, we must try to love him, for the good Jesus
said we must love our enemies."
"But, if we love everybody, then we haven't any enemies. You can't
love a real enemy--and so there aren't any real ones. We see in other
people only what is in our own thought. If we see evil as real, why,
then we will see bad men and women all around us, for we only look at
our thoughts. But, if we look only at God's thoughts--Padre dear, I
didn't see anything but God's thought when Padre Diego had me in his
arms. I knew it wasn't real, but was just the human way of looking at
things. And I knew that love was the great principle of everything,
and that it just couldn't fail, any more than the principle of algebra
could fail to solve my problems. Well," she concluded with a little
sigh, "it didn't."
"Dear little girl, you must be patient, very patient, with your
blundering old Padre Josè. He is groping for the light--"
In an instant, throwing the canoe into imminent danger of upsetting,
the impulsive girl had hurled herself into his lap and clasped her
arms about his neck. Juan and Lázaro by a quick and skillful effort
kept the craft upright.
"Oh, Padre dear!" she cried, "I didn't mean to say a word that would
make you unhappy--Padre dear, I love you so! Padre, look at your
little girl, and tell her that you love her!"
He clasped her fiercely. "No--no!" he murmured, "I--I must
not--and--yet--_chiquita_--I adore you!" He buried his face in her
shoulder.
Juan made a wry mouth as he looked at the girl in the priest's arms.
Then he suggested that a separation would more evenly balance the
boat. Carmen laughed up at him, but slipped down into the keel and sat
with her head propped against Josè's knees.
"Padre dear," she said, looking up at him with twinkling eyes, "I
heard Lázaro say a little while before we started that he had lived
many years in Simití, and that it had always been very quiet until you
came."
"_Ay de mí!_" sighed Josè. "I can readily believe that the whole world
was quiet until I entered it."
"But, Padre, perhaps you had to come into it to shake it up."
He laughed. "_Chiquita_," he said, "if ever you go out into it, with
your radical views regarding God and man; and if the stupid old world
will give ear to you, there will be such a shaking up as it has never
experienced since--"
"Padre dear," she interrupted, "I am not going out into the world. I
shall stay in Simití--with you."
He looked down at her, tenderly, wistfully. And then, while her words
still echoed through his mind, a great sigh escaped him.
Dusk had closed in upon them when the canoe emerged into the quiet
lake. Huge vampire bats, like demons incarnate, flouted their faces as
they paddled swiftly toward the distant town. Soft evening calls
drifted across the placid waters from the slumbering jungle. Carmen's
rich voice mingled with them; and Juan and Lázaro, catching the
inspiration, broke into a weird, uncanny boating song, such as is
heard only among these simple folk. As they neared the town the song
of the _bogas_ changed into a series of loud, yodelling halloos; and
when the canoe grated upon the shaly beach, Doña Maria and a score of
others were there to welcome the returned travelers.
At the sight of Ana, a murmur ran through the crowd. Doña Maria turned
to the woman.
"It is Anita, madre dear," Carmen quickly announced, as she struggled
out of Doña Maria's arms and took the confused Ana by the hand.
The light of recognition came into Doña Maria's eyes. Quietly, and
without demonstration, she went to the shrinking woman and, taking the
tear-stained face in her hands, impressed a kiss upon each cheek.
"_Bien_," she said in a low, tender voice, "we have waited long for
you, daughter. And now let us go home."
* * * * *
The glow of dawn had scarce begun to creep timidly across the arch of
heaven when Fernando knocked at the portal of Rosendo's house and
demanded the custody of Carmen. Josè was already abroad.
"And now, Fernando," demanded the priest, "what new outrage is this?"
The constable flushed with embarrassment. "_Na_, Padre, a thousand
pardons--but it is the order of the Alcalde, and I only obey. But--you
may knock me down," he added eagerly, "and then I can return to him
and say that I could not take the girl, even by force!" The honest
fellow, ashamed of his mission, hung his head. Josè seized his hand.
"Fernando!" he cried, "what say the people of Simití?"
"They are with you, Padre. They would demand Rosendo's release, if
there were proof that the girl--"
"Good, then! we have the proof," broke in Josè. "Rosendo knows of our
return?"
"Yes, the guard informed him this morning. The Alcalde, you know,
permits no one to approach the prisoner."
"And does he know that Ana is here?"
"The guard did not tell him, for fear of exciting the old man.
_Hombre!_ I think there is no one in town who would venture to tell
Rosendo that."
"_Bien pues_, Fernando, I think the time has come! Go quietly back and
summon every one to a meeting in the town hall at once. Tell them--"
"_Bien_, Padre, I shall know what to tell them. But," anxiously, "Don
Mario has the power to--"
"And we have a greater power," quickly replied the priest, his thought
dwelling on Carmen.
An hour later the town hall was a babel of clacking tongues. Men,
women and children hurried, chattering, to and fro, exchanging diverse
views and speculating eagerly on the probable outcome of the meeting.
Josè stood before them, with Carmen's hand clasped tightly in his. Don
Mario, purple and trembling with rage, was perched upon a chair,
vainly trying to get the ear of the people.
In the midst of the hubbub a hush fell suddenly over the concourse.
All heads turned, and all eyes fastened upon Ana, as she entered the
room and moved timidly toward Josè. The people fell back to make a
passage for her. Her shoulders were bent, and her face was covered
with a black _mantilla_.
Don Mario, as his glance fell upon her, again attempted to address the
multitude. A dozen voices bade him cease. A strong arm from behind
pushed him from the chair. His craven heart began to quake, and he
cast anxious glances toward the single exit.
Gently removing the _mantilla_ from the face of the woman, Josè turned
her toward the people. "Friends!" he said in a loud, penetrating
voice, "behold the work of Diego!"
He paused for the effect which he knew would be made upon this
impressionable people. Then, when the loud murmur had passed, he drew
Carmen out before him and, pointing to her, said dramatically, "And
shall we also throw this innocent child to the wolf?"
The assembly broke into a roar. Fists were shaken under the Alcalde's
nose, and imprecations were hurled at him from all sides. Don Mario
drew his soiled handkerchief and mopped his steaming brow. Then his
voice broke out in a shriek: "The soldiers--this day I shall summon
them--it is a riot!"
"_Caramba!_ He speaks truth!" cried a voice from the crowd. The babel
commenced anew.
"The soldiers! _Caramba!_ Let Diego have his child!"
_"Maldita!"_
"Who says it is not his?"
"I do!"
It was Ana. Clasping Josè's arm to steady herself, she had turned to
confront the excited assembly.
Silence descended upon them all. Josè held up his hand. A sob escaped
the woman. Then:
"The priest Diego had a child--a girl. Her name--it was--Carmen. The
child is--dead."
"_Caramba!_ girl, how know you that?" shrilled a woman's excited
voice.
"I know, because I--was--its--mother!"
Pandemonium burst upon the room at the woman's words. Don Mario
started for the door, but found his way blocked. "Diego had other
children!" he shouted; "and this girl is one of them!"
"It is false!" cried Ana in a loud voice. "I have lived with him eight
years! I know from his own lips that I speak the truth! See what he
has done to me! Would I lie?"
"To the _cárcel_! Release Rosendo!"
"We will write to the President at Bogotá! Don Mario must be
removed!"
"_Caramba!_ Such an Alcalde!"
"Let him send for the soldiers, if he wishes to die!"
"To the _cárcel_!"
As a unit the fickle people streamed from the room and started for the
jail. Don Mario was borne along on the heaving tide. Josè and Carmen
followed; but Ana fell back and returned to the house of Rosendo.
The guard at the jail, seeing the concourse approaching, threw down
his _machete_ and fled. Rosendo's eyes were big with speculation,
though his heart beat apprehensively. The people jammed into the small
hut until it swayed and threatened to collapse.
"The key to the lock--_Caramba_! the guard has it!"
"Catch him!"
"No! bring a _barra_!"
Juan quickly produced a long iron bar, and with a few lusty efforts
sprung the stocks. A dozen hands lifted the cramped Rosendo out and
stood him upon his feet. Carmen squirmed through the crowd and threw
herself into his arms.
Then, with shouts and gesticulations, a triumphal procession quickly
formed, and the bewildered and limping Rosendo was escorted down the
main street of the town and across the _plaza_ to his home. At the
door of the house Josè turned and, holding up a hand, bade the people
quietly disperse and leave the liberated man to enjoy undisturbed the
sacred reunion with his family. With a parting shout, the people
melted quickly away, and quiet soon reigned again over the ancient
town.
"_Bien_, Padre," said Rosendo, pausing before his door to clasp anew
the priest's hand, "you have not told me what has caused this. Was it
the little Carmen--"
He stopped short. Glancing in at the door, his eyes had fallen upon
Ana. To Josè, hours seemed suddenly compressed into that tense
moment.
Slowly Rosendo entered the house and advanced to the shrinking woman.
Terror spread over her face, and she clutched her throat as the big
man stalked toward her. Then, like a flash, Carmen darted in front of
her and faced Rosendo.
"It is Anita, padre dear," she said, looking up into his set face, and
clasping his hand in both of hers. "She has come home again. Aren't we
glad!"
Rosendo seemed not to see the child. His voice came cold and harsh.
"_Bien_, outcast, is your lover with you, that I may strangle him,
too?" He choked and swallowed hard.
"Padre!" cried Carmen, putting both her hands against him. "See! Those
bad thoughts nearly strangled you! Don't let them get in! Don't!"
"_Bien_, girl!" snarled the angry man, still addressing the cowering
woman. "Did you tire of him, that you now sneak home? Or--_Caramba_!"
as Ana rose and stood before him, "you come here that your illegal
brat may be born! Not under my roof! _Santa Maria!_ Never! Take it
back to him! Take it back, I say!" he shouted, raising his clenched
fist as if to strike her.
Carmen turned swiftly and threw herself upon the woman. Looking over
her shoulder, she addressed the raging man:
"Padre Rosendo! this is not your house! It is God's! He only lets you
have it, because He is good to you! Shame on you, for daring to drive
Anita away--your own little girl!" Her voice rose shrill, and her
words cut deep into the old man's embittered heart.
"Shame on you, padre Rosendo!" quickly flowed the scorching words. "If
God were like you He would drive you from the house, too! Are you so
much better than the good Jesus that you can drive away a woman who
sins? Shame on you, padre! Are you better than the good father who was
so glad to see his prodigal son? If God were to punish you for your
sins, would He even let you live? Did He not set you free this very
morning? And do you now thank Him by driving your little girl from her
own home? Do you know that it was Anita who made you free, and who
brought me here? God used her to do that. And is this the way you
thank Him? Then you will lose us both, for we will not stay with
you!"
Josè stepped up and took Rosendo's arm. Carmen turned about and
continued her scoriation:
"Padre Rosendo, if the good, pure God was willing to use Anita to save
me from Padre Diego and bring me back to you, are you so wicked and so
ungrateful that you throw His love back in His face? Shame on you,
padre! Shame! Shame!"
"_Caramba!_" cried Rosendo, tears bursting from his eyes. "She has
fouled my name--it was a good name, though my parents were slaves--it
was a good name--and she blackened it--she--"
"Padre Rosendo, there are only two names that have never been
blackened! Your human name is nothing--it is zero--it counts for
foolishness with God! You yourself are making your name blacker now
than Anita ever did! She repents, and comes to her father; and he is
so much more wicked than she that he drives her out!--"
"Enough, Carmen, child!" interrupted Josè. "Come, Rosendo; go into the
parish house! Carmen, go with him!"
Carmen hesitated. Then a smile lighted up her face, and she reached up
and took Rosendo's hand. Together they passed silently out and into
the priest's house.
Ana sank to the floor, where she buried her face in her hands and wept
violently.
"Wait, Ana," said Josè, tenderly stroking the unhappy woman's hair.
"Wait. They will soon return. And you shall remain here, where you
belong."
A half hour passed. Then Josè, wondering, went quietly to the door of
his house and looked in. Rosendo sat at the table, with Carmen on his
knees.
"And, padre," the child was saying, "the good Jesus told the woman not
to sin any more; and she went away happy. Padre, God has told Anita
not to sin any more--and she has come to us to be happy. We are going
to make her so, aren't we? Padre Diego couldn't hurt me, you know, for
God wouldn't let him. And he hasn't hurt Anita--God wouldn't let him
keep her--wouldn't let her stay with him. Don't you see, padre? And we
have got to be like Him--we _are_ like Him, really. But now we have
got to show it, to prove it, you know."
Rosendo's head was bent over the girl. Neither of them saw Josè. The
child went on with increased animation:
"And, padre dear, God sends us Anita's little baby for us to love and
protect. Oh, padre, if the little one is a boy, can't we call it
Josè?"
"Yes, _chiquita_," Josè heard the old man murmur brokenly.
"And--padre, if it is a girl--what shall we call it?"
The man's arm tightened about her. "We--we will call it--Carmencita,"
he whispered.
The girl clapped her hands. "Can't you see, padre, that God sends us
Anita's baby so that Padre Diego shall not have it? And now let's go
and tell her so, right away!" she cried, jumping down.
Josè slipped quickly back and stood beside the woman when Carmen and
Rosendo entered the room. The old man went directly to his daughter,
and, taking her in his brawny arms, raised her from the floor and
strained her to his breast. Tears streamed down his swart cheeks, and
the words he would utter choked and hung in his throat.
"Padre," whispered the delighted child, "shall I tell her our names
for the baby?"
Josè turned and stole softly from the room. Divine Love was there, and
its dazzling effulgence blinded him. In the quiet of his own chamber
he sought to understand the marvelous goodness of God to them that
serve Him.