The reversal of a life-current is not always effected suddenly, nor
amid the din of stirring events, nor yet in an environment that we
ourselves might choose as an appropriate setting. It comes in the
fullness of time, and amid such scenes as the human mind which
undergoes the transformation may see externalized within its own
consciousness by the working of the as yet dimly perceived laws of
thought.
Perhaps some one, skilled in the discernment of mental laws and their
subtle, irresistible working, might have predicted the fate which
overtook the man Josè, the fulsome details of which are herein being
recounted. Perhaps such a one might say in retrospect that the
culmination of years of wrong thinking, of false beliefs closely
cherished, of attachment to fear, to doubt, and to wrong concepts of
God, had been externalized at length in eddying the man upon this far
verge of civilization, still clinging feebly to the tattered fragments
of a blasted life. But it would have been a skilled prognostician,
indeed, who could have foreseen the renewal of this wasted life in
that of the young girl, to whom during the past four years Josè de
Rincón had been transferring his own unrealized hopes and his vast
learning, but without the dross of inherited or attached beliefs, and
without taint of his native vacillation and indecision of mind.
For what he had been striving to fit her, he knew not. But in a
vaguely outlined way he knew that he was being used as a tool to shape
in some degree the mental development of this strange girl. Nor,
indeed, as the years passed, did she continue to seem so strange to
him. On the contrary, he now thought it more marvelous by far that the
world, after nineteen centuries of Christianity, did not think and act
more as did this girl, whose religious instruction he knew to have
been garnered at the invisible hand of God. That she must some day
leave him, despite her present earnest protestations, he felt to be
inevitable. And the thought pierced his soul like a lance. But he
could not be certain that with maturity she would wish to remain
always in the primitive environment in which she had been nurtured.
Nor could he, even if she were willing, immolate her upon the barb of
his own selfishness.
As for himself, the years had but seemed to increase the conviction
that he could never leave the Church, despite his anomalous position
and despite his renewed life--unless, indeed, she herself cast him
forth. Each tenderly hopeful letter from his proud, doting mother only
added to this conviction by emphasizing the obstacles opposing such a
course. Her declining years were now spent among the mental pictures
which she hourly drew upon the canvas of her imagination, pictures in
which her beloved son, chastened and purified, had at length come into
the preferment which had always awaited loyal scions of the house of
Rincón. Hourly she saw the day draw nearer when he should be restored
to her yearning arms. Each dawn threw its first rays upon his
portrait, which hung where her waking eyes might open upon it. Each
night the shadow cast by the candle which always burned beneath it
seemed to her eager sight to crown that fair head with a bishop's
mitre--a cardinal's hat--aye, at times she even saw the triple crown
of the Vicar of Christ resting upon those raven locks. Josè knew this.
If her own pen did not always correctly delineate her towering hopes,
his astute uncle did not fail to fill in whatever hiatus remained. And
the pressure of filial devotion and pride of race at times completely
smothered within him the voice of Truth which Carmen continually
sounded, and made him resolve often that on the day when she should
leave him he would bury his head in the lap of Mother Church and
submit without further resistance to the sable veil of assumed
authority which he knew she would draw across his mind. Convincing as
were the proofs which had come to him of the existence of a great
demonstrable principle which the Christ had sought to make a dull
world recognize, nevertheless he had as yet failed to rise permanently
above the mesmerism of human belief, which whispered into his
straining ears that he must not strive to progress beyond his
understanding, lest, in the attempt to gain too rapidly, he lose all.
To sink into the arms of Mother Church and await the orderly
revelation of Truth were less dangerous now than a precipitate
severance of all ties and a launching forth into strange seas with an
untried compass.
The arguments to which he listened were insidious. True, they
reasoned, he had seemed to see the working of mental law in his own
restoration to health when he had first come to Simití. He had seemed
to see Rosendo likewise restored. But these instances, after all,
might have been casual. That Carmen had had aught to do with them, no
one could positively affirm. True, he had seen her protected in
certain unmistakable ways. But--others were likewise protected, even
where there had been no thought of an immanent, sheltering God. True,
the incident of the epidemic in Simití two years before had impressed
upon him the serious consequences of fear, and the blighting results
of false belief. He had profited by that lesson. But he could not hope
suddenly to empty his mentality of its content of human thought; nor
did wisdom advise the attempt. He had at first tried to rise too
rapidly. His frequent backsliding frightened and warned him.
Thus, while the days sped by, did the priest's thought ebb and flow.
As morn broke, and the gallant sun drove the cowardly shadows of night
across the hills, his own courage rose, and he saw in Carmen the pure
reflection of the Mind which was in Christ Jesus. As night fell, and
darkness slunk back again and held the field, so returned the legion
of fears and doubts that battled for his soul. Back and forth in the
arena of his consciousness strove the combatants, while he rushed
irresolutely to and fro, now bearing the banner of the powers of
light, now waving aloft, though with sinking heart, the black flag of
the carnal host. For a while after his arrival in Simití he had seemed
to rise rapidly into the consciousness of good as all-in-all. But the
strain which had been constantly upon him had prevented the full
recognition of all that Carmen saw, and each rise was followed by a
fall that left him for long periods immersed in despair.
Following the return of Carmen and the ripple of excitement which her
abduction had spread over the wonted calm of Simití, the old town
settled back again into its accustomed lethargy, and Josè and the girl
resumed their interrupted work. From Ana it was learned that Diego had
not voiced the command of Wenceslas in demanding the girl; and when
this became known the people rose in a body to her support. Don Mario,
though he threatened loudly, knew in his heart he was beaten. He knew,
likewise, that any further hostile move on his part would result in a
demand by the people for his removal from office. He therefore retired
sulking to the seclusion of his _patio_, where he sat down patiently
to await the turn of events.
Rosendo, his great heart softened toward his erring daughter, again
rejoiced in the reunion of his broken family circle. But his soul
burned within him as, day after day, he saw Ana move silently about
like a sorrow incarnate. At times, when perchance he would come upon
her huddled in a corner and weeping quietly, he would turn away,
cursing deeply and swearing fulsome vengeance upon the lecherous beast
who had wrought her ruin.
"Padre," he one day said to Josè, "I shall kill him--I know it. The
girl's suffering is breaking my heart. He is like an evil cloud
hanging always over my family. I hate him! I hate him, as the devil
hates the light! And I shall kill him. Be prepared." And Josè offered
no remonstrance, for the case lay not in his hands.
Carmen again entered upon her interrupted studies with ardent
enthusiasm. And her first demand was that she be allowed to plunge
into a searching study of the Bible. "Padre," she exclaimed, "it is a
wonderful book! Why--do the people in the world know what a book this
is? For if they did, they would never be sick or unhappy again!"
He knew not how to answer her. And there was no need that he should.
"Padre!" Her eyes were aflame with holy light. "See! Here it is--the
whole thing! 'Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man
his _thoughts_.' But--don't the people know what that means?"
"Well, _chiquita_, and what does it mean?" he asked indulgently.
"Why--the unrighteous man is the man who thinks wrong thoughts--thoughts
of power opposed to God--thoughts of sin, of sickness, of accidents,
and all sorts of evil things--beliefs that these things are real, and
that God made or caused them!"
"_Bien_, and you think the Bible speaks truth?"
"Padre! how can you ask that? Why, it says right here that it is given
by inspiration! That means that the men or women who wrote it thought
God's thoughts!"
"That He wrote it, you mean?"
"No, but that those who wrote it were--well, were cleaner window-panes
than other people--that they were so clean that the light shone
through them better than it did through others."
"And what do you think now about Jesus?" he inquired.
"Why, as you once said, that he was the very cleanest window-pane of
all!" she quickly replied.
From that hour the Bible was the girl's constant companion. Daily she
pored over it, delighted, enraptured. Josè marveled at her immediate
spiritual grasp. Instead of the world's manner of looking upon it as
only a collection of beautiful promises and admonitions, she saw
within it the statement of a principle that offered itself as a mighty
tool with which to work out humanity's every-day problems here and
now. From the first she began to make out little lists of collated
scriptural verses, so arranging them that she could read in them a
complete expression of an idea of God. These she would bring to Josè
and, perching herself upon his lap, would expound them, to her own
great delight and the wonder of the man who listened.
"See, Padre," she said, holding up one of these lists, "it says that
'in that day' whatever we ask of him will be given to us. Well, 'that
day' means when we have washed our window-panes clean, and the light
shines through so clear that we can ask in His name. It means when we
have stopped saying that two and two are seven."
"Which means," Josè interpolated, "asking in his character."
"Yes," she replied, "for then we will be just like him. And then
whatever we ask 'believing' will be given to us, for believing'
will then be 'understanding,' will it not? When we know--really
_know_--that we have things, why--why, we have them, that's all!"
She did not wait for his reply, but went on enthusiastically:
"You know, Padre, in order to be like him we have got to 'seek first
the kingdom of God and His righteousness'--His right-thinking. Well,
Jesus said the kingdom of God was within us. Of course it is, for it
is all a question of right-thinking. When we think right, then our
right thoughts will be--what you said--"
"Externalized," he supplied.
"Yes. We will see them all around us, instead of seeing, as we do now,
a lot of jumbled-up thoughts of good and evil which we call people and
things. They will all be good then. And then will be the time when
'God shall wipe away all tears.' It is, as you say in English, 'up to
us' to bring this about. It is not for God to do it at all. Don't you
see that He has already done His part? He has made everything, and
'behold it was very good.' Well, He doesn't have to do it all over
again, does He? No. But we have got to wash our windows clean and let
in the light that comes from Him. That light comes from Him all the
time, just as the beams come from the sun, without ever stopping. We
never have to ask the sun to shine, do we? And neither do we have to
ask God to be good to us, nor tell Him what we think He ought to do
for us. We only have to _know_ that He is good, to us and to
everything, all the time."
"Yes, _chiquita_, we must be truly baptised."
"That is what it means to be baptised, Padre--just washing our
window-panes so clean that the light will come in."
"And that light, little one, is truth. It certainly is a new way of
looking at it, at least, _chiquita_."
"But, Padre, it is the _only_ way," she persisted.
"_Bien_, I would not say that you were mistaken, Carmen."
"No, Padre, for we can prove it. And, look here," she continued,
referring to her list. "If the kingdom of heaven is within us, then
everything that comes to us in life comes from within, and not from
without. And so, things never happen, do they? Don't you see?"
"I see," he replied seriously, "that from the mouths of babes and
sucklings comes infinite wisdom."
"Well, Padre dear, wisdom is God's light, and it comes through any one
who is clean. It doesn't make any difference how old or young that
person is. Years mean nothing but--but zero."
"How can you say that, _chiquita_?"
"Why, Padre, is God old?"
"No. He is always the same."
"And we are really like Him?"
"The real 'we'--yes."
"Well, the unreal 'we' is already zero. Didn't you yourself say that
the human, mortal man was a product of false thought, thought that was
the opposite of God's thought, and so no thought at all? Didn't you
say that such thought was illusion--the lie about God and what He has
made? Then isn't the human 'we' zero?"
"Well--but--_chiquita_, it is often hard for me to see anything but
this sort of 'we,'" returned the man dejectedly.
"Oh, Padre!" she entreated, "why will you not try to look at something
else than the human man? Look at God's man, the image of infinite
mind. You have _got_ to do it, you know, some time. Jesus said so. He
said that every man would have to overcome. That means turning away
from the thoughts that are externalized as sin and sickness and evil,
and looking only at God's thoughts--and, what is more, _sticking to
them_!"
"Yes," dubiously, "I suppose we must some time overcome every belief
in anything opposed to God."
"Well, but need that make you unhappy? It is just because you still
cling to the belief that there is other power than God that you get so
discouraged and mixed up. Can't you let go? Try it! Why, I would try
it even if a whole mountain fell on me!"
And Josè could but clasp the earnest girl in his arms and vow that he
would try again as never before.
* * * * *
Meantime, while Josè and his little student-teacher were delving into
the inexhaustible treasury of the Word; while the peaceful days came
into their lives and went out again almost unperceived, the priest
Diego left the bed upon which he had been stretched for many weeks,
and hobbled painfully about upon his scarcely mended ankle. While a
prisoner upon his couch his days had been filled with torture. Try as
he might, he could not beat down the vision which constantly rose
before him, that of the beautiful girl who had been all but his. He
cursed; he raved; he vowed the foulest vengeance. And then he cried
piteously, as he lay chained to his bed--cried for something that
seemed to take human shape in her. He protested that he loved her;
that he adored her; that without her he was but a blasted cedar. His
nurses fled his bedside. His physician stopped his ears. Only Don
Antonio was found low enough in thought to withstand the flow of foul
language which issued from the baffled Diego's thick lips while he
moved about in attendance upon the unhappy priest's needs.
Then came from the acting-Bishop, Wenceslas, a mandate commissioning
Diego upon a religio-political mission to the interior city of
Medellin. The now recovered priest smiled grimly when he read it. Then
he summoned Ricardo.
"Prepare yourself, _amigo_," he said, "for a work of the Lord. I go
into the interior. You accompany me as far as Badillo, where we
disembark for stinking Simití. And, _amigo_, do you secure a
trustworthy companion. The work may be heavy. Meantime, my blessing
and absolution."
Then he sat down and despatched a long letter to Don Mario.