"No, Padre dear," with an energetic shake of her head, "no. Not even
after all that has seemed to happen to us do I believe it true. No, I
do not believe it real. Evil is not power. It does not exist,
excepting in the human mind. And that, as you yourself know, can not
be real, for it is all that God is not."
They were seated beneath the slowly withering _algarroba_ tree out on
the burning shales. Josè still held the girl's hand tightly in his.
Again he was struggling with self, struggling to pass the borderline
from, self-consciousness to God-consciousness; striving, under the
spiritual influence of this girl, to break the mesmeric hold of his
own mortal beliefs, and swing freely out into his true orbit about the
central Sun, infinite Mind.
The young girl, burgeoning into a marvelous womanhood, sat before him
like an embodied spirit. Her beauty of soul shone out in gorgeous
luxuriance, and seemed to him to envelop her in a sheen of radiance.
The brilliant sunshine glanced sparkling from her glossy hair into a
nimbus of light about her head. Her rich complexion was but faintly
suggestive to him of a Latin origin. Her oval face and regular
features might have indicated any of the ruddier branches of the
so-called Aryan stock. But his thought was not dwelling on these
things now. It was brooding over the events of the past few weeks, and
their probable consequences. And this he had just voiced to her.
"Padre dear," she had said, when his tremulous voice ceased, "how
much longer will you believe that two and two are seven? And how much
longer will you try to make me believe it? Oh, Padre, at first you did
seem to see so clearly, and you talked so beautifully to me! And then,
when things seemed to go wrong, you went right back to your old
thoughts and opened the door and let them all in again. And so things
couldn't help getting worse for you. You told me yourself, long ago,
that you would have to empty your mind of its old beliefs. But I guess
you didn't get them all out. If you had cleaned house and got your
mind ready for the good thoughts, they would have come in. You know,
you have to get ready for the good, before it can come. You have to be
receptive. But you go right on getting ready for evil. If you loved
God--really _loved_ Him--why, you would not be worried and anxious
to-day, and you would not be believing still that two and two are
seven. You told me, oh, so long ago! that this human life was just a
_sense_ of life, a series of states of consciousness, and that
consciousness was only mental activity, the activity of thought. Well,
I remembered that, and put it into practice--but you didn't. A true
consciousness is the activity of true thought, you said. A false
consciousness is the activity of false thought. True thought comes
from God, who is mind. False thought is the opposite of true thought,
and doesn't come from any mind at all, but is just supposition. A
supposition is never really created, because it is never real--never
truth. True thought becomes externalized to us in good, in harmony, in
happiness. False thought becomes externalized to us in unhappiness,
sickness, loss, in wrong-doing, and in death. It is unreal, and yet
awfully real to those who believe it to be real. Why don't you act
your knowledge, as you at first said you were going to do? I have all
along tried to do this. Whenever thoughts come to me I always look
carefully at them to see whether they are based on any real principle,
on God. If so, I let them in. If not, I drive them away. Sometimes it
has been hard to tell just which were true and which false. And
sometimes I got caught, and had to pay the penalty. But every day I do
better; and the time will come at last when I shall be able to tell at
once which thoughts are true and which untrue. When that time comes,
nothing but good thoughts will enter, and nothing but good will be
externalized to me in consciousness. I shall be in heaven--all the
heaven there is. It is the heaven which Jesus talked so much about,
and which he said was within us all. It is so simple, Padre dear, so
simple!"
The man sat humbly before her like a rebuked child. He knew that she
spoke truth. Indeed, these were the very things that he had taught her
himself. Why, then, had he failed to demonstrate them? Only because
he had attempted to mix error with truth--had clung to the reality and
immanence of evil, even while striving to believe good omnipotent and
infinite. He had worked out these theories, and they had appeared
beautiful to him. But, while Carmen had eagerly grasped and
assimilated them, even to the consistent shaping of her daily life to
accord with them, he had gone on putting the stamp of genuineness and
reality upon every sort of thought and upon every human event as it
had been enacted in his conscious experience. His difficulty was that,
having proclaimed the allness of spirit, God, he had proceeded to bow
the knee to evil. Carmen had seemed to know that the mortal, material
concepts of humanity would dissolve in the light of truth. He, on the
other hand, had clung to them, even though they seared the mind that
held them, and became externalized in utter wretchedness.
"When you let God's thoughts in, Padre, and drive out their
opposites, then sickness and unhappiness will disappear, just as
the mist disappears over the lake when the sun rises and the light
goes through it. If you really expected to some day see the now
'unseen things' of God, you would get ready for them, and you would
'rejoice always,' even though you did seem to see the wickedness of
Padre Diego, the coming of the soldiers, the death of Lázaro and Don
Mario, and lots of unhappiness about yourself and me. Those men are
not dead--except to your thought. You ought to know that all these
things are the unreal thoughts externalized in your consciousness.
And, knowing them for what they really are, the opposites of God's
thoughts, you ought to know that they can have no more power over
you than anything else that you know to be supposition. We can
suppose that two and two are seven, but we can't make it true. The
supposition does not have any effect upon us. We know that it isn't
so. But as regards just thought--and you yourself said that everything
reduces to thought--why, people seem to think it is different. But
it isn't. Don't you understand what the good man Jesus meant when he
told the Pharisees to first cleanse the cup and platter within,
that the outside might also be clean? Why, that was a clear case of
externalization, if there ever was one! Cleanse your thought, and
everything outside of you will then become clean, for your clean
thought will become externalized. You once said that you believed
in the theory that 'like attracts like.' I do, too. I believe that
good thoughts attract good ones, and evil thoughts attract thoughts
like themselves. I have proved it. And you ought to know that your
life shows it, too. You hold fear-thoughts and worry-thoughts, and
then, just as soon as these become externalized to you as misfortune
and unhappiness, you say that evil is real and powerful, and that
God permits it to exist. Yes, God does permit all the existence
there is to a supposition--which is none. You pity yourself and all
the world for being unhappy, when all you need is to do as Jesus told
you, and know God to be infinite Mind, and evil to be only the
suppositional opposite, without reality, without life, without
power--unless you give it these things in your own consciousness. You
don't have to take thought for your life. You don't have to be
covetous, or envious, or fearful, or anxious. You couldn't do
anything if you were. These things don't help you. Jesus said that
of himself he could do nothing. But--as soon as he recognized God as
the infinite principle of all, and acted that knowledge--why, then
he raised the dead! And at last, when his understanding was greater,
he dissolved the mental concept which people called his human body.
Don't you see it, Padre--don't you? I _know_ you do!"
Yes, he saw it. He always did when she pleaded thus. And yet:
"But, Carmen, padre Rosendo would send you out of the country with
these Americans!"
"Yes, so you have said. And you have said that you have always feared
you would lose me. Is that fear being externalized now? I have not
feared that I would lose you. But, Padre dear--"
The ghastly look on the man's face threw wide the flood-gates of her
sympathy. "Padre--all things work together for good, you know. Good is
_always_ working. It never stops. Listen--" She clung more closely to
him.
"Padre, it may be best, after all. You do not want me to stay always
in Simití. And if I go, you will go with me, or soon follow. Oh, Padre
dear, you have told me that up in that great country above us the
people do not know God as you and I are learning to know Him. Padre--I
want to go and tell them about Him! I've wanted to for a long, long
time."
The girl's eyes shone with a holy light. Her wistful face glowed with
a love divine.
"Padre dear, you have so often said that I had a message for the
world. Do not the people up north need that message? Would you keep
me here then? The people of Simití are too dull to hear the message
now. But up there--Oh, Padre, it may be right that I should go!
And, if it is right, nothing can prevent it, for the right _will_ be
externalized! Right _will_ prevail!"
True, there was the girl's future. Such a spirit as hers could not
long be confined within the narrow verges of Simití. He must not
oppose his egoism to her interests. And, besides, he might follow
soon. Perhaps go with her! Who knew? it might be the opening of the
way to the consummation of that heart-longing for--
Ah, the desperate joy that surged through his yearning soul at the
thought! The girl was fifteen. A year, two, three, and he would still
be a young man! She loved him--never had man had such proofs as he of
an affection so divine! And he worshiped her! Why hesitate longer?
Surely the way was unfolding!
"Carmen," he said tenderly, drawing her closer to him, "you may be
right. Yes--we will both go with the Americans. Once out of this
environment and free from ecclesiastical chains, I shall do better."
The girl looked up at him with brimming eyes. "Padre dear," she
whispered, "I want to go--away from Simití. Juan--he asks me almost
every day to marry him. And he becomes angry when I refuse. Even in
the church, when Don Mario was trying to get us, Juan said he would
save me if I would promise to marry him. He said he would go to
Cartagena and kill the Bishop. He follows me like a shadow. He--Padre,
he is a good boy. I love him. But--I do not--want to marry him."
They sat silent for some moments. Josè knew how insistent Juan had
become. The lad adored the girl. He tormented the priest about her.
"Padre, you--you are not always going to be a priest--are you?
And--I--I--oh, Padre dear, I love you so!" She turned impulsively and
threw both arms about his neck. "I want to see you work out your
problem. I will help you. You can go with me--and I can always live
with you--and some day--some day--" She buried her face in his
shoulder. The artless girl had never seemed to think it unmaidenly to
declare her love for him, to show him unmistakably that she hoped to
become his wife.
The man's heart gave a mighty leap. The beautiful child in his arms
was human! Young in years, and yet a woman by the conventions of these
tropic lands. He bent his head and kissed her. Why, she had long
insisted that she would wait for him! And why should he now oppose the
externalization of that sweet thought?
"Ah, _chiquita_," he murmured, "I will indeed go with you now! I will
send my resignation to the Bishop at once. No, I will wait and send it
from the States. I will renounce my oath, abjure my promise--"
The girl sat suddenly upright and looked earnestly into his eyes.
"What do you mean, Padre?" she queried dubiously. "What did you
promise?"
"Ah, I have never told you. But--I promised my mother, dearest one,
that I would always remain a priest--unless, indeed, the Church
herself should eject me from the priesthood. But, it was foolish--"
"And your mother--she expects you to keep your word?"
"Yes, _chiquita_."
The girl sat in pensive silence for a moment. "But, Padre," she
resumed, "honesty--it is the very first thing that God requires of us.
We have to be--we _must_ be honest, for He is Truth. He cannot see or
recognize error, you know. And so He cannot see you and help you if
you are dishonest."
"I know, child. And I tried to be honest, even when circumstances and
my own poor resistive force combined to direct me into the priesthood.
But--since that day I have lived a life of hypocrisy, not knowing how
to shape my course. Then, at length, I met you. It was--too late!"
"But, Padre, the Church has not put you out? You are still a priest?"
"Yes," sadly; "and no."
"But, if you went to the States--with me--would you be put out of the
Church?"
"Possibly, _chiquita_."
"And what would that mean, Padre?"
"The disgrace that always attaches to an apostate priest, child."
"And, Padre--your mother--what would she say?"
Josè hung his head. "It would kill her," he replied slowly.
Carmen reflected long, while Josè, with ebbing hope, waited. "Padre
dear," she finally said, "then you have not yet worked out your
problem--have you?"
No, he knew that. And he was now attempting to solve it by flight.
"I mean, Padre, you have not worked it out in God's way. For if you
had, no one would be hurt, and there could not be any disgrace, or
unhappiness--could there?"
"But, _chiquita_," he cried in despair, "nothing but excommunication
can release me! And I long ago ceased to look for that. You do not
understand--you are young! What can I do?" His tortured soul pleaded
in agony.
"Why, Padre dear, you can work it out, all out, in God's way."
"But--must I remain here--can I let you go alone with the Americans--?"
"Yes, you can, if it is right," she answered gently.
"Carmen!" he cried, straining her in his arms. "If you go with the
Americans, I shall, I must, go too!"
"Not unless it is right, Padre," she insisted. "If it is right,
nothing can keep you from going. But, unless it is God's way--well,
you can not solve your problem by running away from it."
"But--child--to remain here means--God above! you don't realize what
it may mean to us both!"
The girl relapsed into silence. Josè began to feel that they were
drifting hopelessly, abysmally apart. Desperation seized him.
"Carmen!" he cried miserably. "I have been cheated and thwarted all my
wretched life! I can endure it no longer! I can not, would not, hold
you here, if the way opens for you to go! But--I can not remain here
without you--and live!"
"That is not true, Padre," replied the girl, slowly shaking her head.
"No human being is necessary to any one's happiness. And progress
always comes first. You are trying to 'acquire that mind which was in
Christ.' If you are really progressing, why, you will surely be happy.
But you must work it all out God's way."
"His way!" he retorted bitterly. "And that--"
"You must be honest, Padre, honest with Him and with everybody. If you
can no longer be a priest--if you are not one, and never have been
one--you must be honest with the Church and with yourself. You must
see and reflect only Truth. Why do you not write to the Bishop and
tell him all about it? You say you have been protecting me. But leave
me to God. You must--Padre, you _must_--be honest! Write to your
mother--write to the Bishop. Tell them both how you feel. Then leave
it all with God. Do not run away. Throw yourself upon Him. But--oh,
Padre dear, you must trust Him, and you must--you _must_--know that He
is good, that He is infinite, and that there is no evil! Otherwise,
the good can not be externalized. If you did that, your problem would
be quickly solved."
She rose and took his hand. "Padre dear," she continued, "God is
life--there is no death. God is eternal--there is no age. God is all
good--there is no poverty, no lack, no loss. God is infinite, and He
is mind--there is no inability to see the right and to do it. God is
my mind, my spirit, my soul, my all. I have nothing to fear. Human
mental concepts are not real. You, yourself, say so. I am not afraid
of them. I look at God constantly, and strive always to see only Him.
But He is just as much to you as He is to me. You can not outline how
things will work out; but you can know that they can only work out in
the right way. You _must_ work as God directs. Only by so doing can
you solve your problem. I try always to work that way. And I have
always worked for you that way. I have always thought the time would
come when you and I would live and work together--always. But I have
not insisted on it. I have not said that it _had_ to be. If it works
out that way, I know I would be very happy. But, even if it does not,
I shall know that I can not be deprived of any good, for the good God
is everywhere, and He is love, and He has given me all happiness. And
now we must leave everything to Him, while we work, work, work to see
Him only everywhere."
She would talk no more. Suffering himself to be led by her, they
crossed the shales to the dust-laden road and made their way silently
through the burning heat into the village.
At the door of the parish house stood Rosendo. His face was grave, but
his manner calm. "Padre," he announced, "it is arranged."
Josè's knees shook under him as he followed the old man into the
house. Reed, Harris, and Don Jorge sat about the table, on which were
strewn papers covered with figures and sketches. The priest sat down
dumbly and drew Carmen to him. Harris fell to devouring the girl with
his bulging eyes. Reed at once plunged into the topic under
consideration.
"I have been saying," he began, addressing the priest, "that I can
accept the proposal made by Don Rosendo, but with some amendments. Mr.
Harris and I are under contract with the Molino Company to report upon
their properties along the Boque river. I am informed by Don Rosendo
that he is acquainted with these alleged mines, and knows them to be
worthless. Be that as it may, I am obliged to examine them. But I will
agree to take this girl to New York, under the protection of my wife,
upon the consideration that when I reach my home city I be allowed to
form a company to take over this mine, returning to the girl a
fifty-one per cent interest in the stock, one half of which she agrees
in writing to deliver to me immediately upon its issuance. Being under
contract, I can not accept it now. The balance of the stock must be
sold for development purposes. I further agree to place the girl in a
boarding school of the first quality in the States, and to bear all
expenses of her maintenance until such time as she is either
self-supporting, or one or several of you may come to her, or effect
her return to Colombia. Now, according to Ariza's sketches, we may
proceed up the Boque river to its headwaters--how far did you say,
friend?"
"Some hundred and fifty miles from Simití, señor," replied Rosendo.
"And then," resumed Reed, "we can cut across country from the sources
of the Boque, following what is known as Rosario creek, down to the
river Tiguí, striking the latter somewhere near the ancient point
known as La Colorado."
"But, señor," interposed Rosendo, "remember that the headwaters of the
Boque are practically unknown to-day. Many years ago, when I was a
small lad, some liberated slaves worked along Rosario creek, which was
then one day's journey on foot with packs from La Colorado. But that
old trail has long since disappeared. Probably no one has been over it
since."
"Very well," returned the practical Reed, "then we shall have to make
our own trail across the divide to the Tiguí. But once at La Colorado,
you tell me there is an ancient trail that leads down to Llano, on the
Nechí river?"
"Yes, to the mouth of the Amacerí. Llano was something of a town long
ago. But river steamers that go up the Nechí as far as Zaragoza once a
month, or less frequently, still touch there, I am told. And so you
can get down the Cauca to Maganguey, where you can change to a
Magdalena river boat for Calamar. Then by rail to Cartagena. The trail
to Llano can not be more than fifty miles in length, and fairly
open."
Harris, who had been studying the sketches, whistled softly. "Lord
Harry!" he muttered, "nearly two hundred miles, and all by foot, over
unspeakable jungle trails!"
Reed paid no attention to him. "Very well, then," he continued, "we
had best set out as soon as possible. To you, friend Rosendo, I leave
all arrangements regarding supplies and _cargadores_. I will furnish
funds for the entire expedition, expecting to be reimbursed by La
Libertad."
Carmen listened, with dilated eyes. As for Josè, his head swam.
Starting hurriedly after Rosendo, who rose immediately to inaugurate
preparations, he drew him into the latter's house. "_Hombre_!" he
cried, his whole frame tremulous with agitation, "do you know what you
are doing? Do you--"
"_Na_, Padre," replied Rosendo gently, as he held up a restraining
hand, "it is best. I want the _Americanos_ to take Carmen. She is not
safe another day here. The soldiers left but yesterday. They may
return any hour. At any moment an order might come for your arrest or
mine. We must get her away at once. We can do no more for her here.
The struggle has been long, and I weary of it." He sat down in
exhaustion and mopped his damp brow. "I weary of life, Padre. I would
be through with it. I am old. This world can hold little more for me.
If I can but know that she is safe--_Bien_, that is all. From what we
have learned, this country will soon be plunged again into war. I do
not wish to live through another revolution. I have seen many. I seem
to have fought all my life. And for what? What is La Libertad to me?
Nothing--less than nothing. I have not the funds to work it. I doubt
if I could even hold it, were it known here that I had the title to
such a famous mine. But the _Americano_ can hold it. And he is honest,
Padre. He will save Carmen's interest, and deal fairly with her.
_Bien_, let him place her in a school in the States. If you weather
the oncoming revolution, then you may be able to send for her. _Quien
sabe_?"
Josè controlled himself. "Rosendo," he said, "I will go with her."
The old man looked at him quizzically. "Do you mean, Padre, that you
will leave the Church?"
Josè kept silent for some time. Then he spoke bitterly.
"Can I remain longer in Simití, where the people have become
divided--where they look upon me askance, as the cause of the trouble
that has befallen them? Is not my usefulness here ended? War is at our
door. What, think you, will it mean to Simití? To us? And Wenceslas,
what has he further in store for you and me? What he has for Carmen,
we well know. And we seek by flight to save her. But the disappearance
of Diego has not been explained. The trick which Anita played upon
Morales to save Carmen must bring down increased wrath upon our heads,
especially yours and mine. No, Rosendo, you and I must go, and go at
once!"
"And Anita--?"
"We will pick her up in Cartagena. Don Jorge will accompany us.
I have certain information to give him that will enlist his
services--information which, I think, will serve to introduce him
to His Grace, and somewhat abruptly. But, come, Rosendo, do you and
Doña Maria prepare for flight!"
"Maria and I? The States! Na, Padre, it is impossible! I will go with
the _Americanos_ up the Boque and to La Libertad. Then I will return
to Simití--or to the _hacienda_ of Don Nicolás, if Maria wishes to
remain there while I am in the hills. But--do you go, Padre--go and
look after the girl. There is nothing further for you here. Yes,
Padre, go--go!"
"But--ah, Rosendo, you will reconsider? The Americans will take us all
for that mine!"
"I? No, Padre," said the old man firmly, but in a voice heavy with
sadness. "Maria and I remain in Simití. My work is done when I have
seen the girl safely out of this unhappy country. I could not live in
the States. And my days are few now, anyway. Let me end them here.
How, I care not."
Carmen came bounding in and flew into Rosendo's arms. "Padre Rosendo!"
she cried, aglow with animation, "we are all going to the States up
north! I am going to take them my message! And I am going to school
there! Oh, padre, isn't it beautiful!"
"Ah, _chiquita_," said Rosendo cheerily, straining her to him, "I
guess we have decided to send you on ahead--a little ahead of us. Your
old padre has some business he must attend to here before he leaves."
His eyes grew moist. Josè knew what his effort at cheerfulness was
costing him.
"But, padre Rosendo, you will come--later? You promise? You must!" She
looked into his eyes, pleading wistfully.
"Yes, little one, yes--of course. For where you are, there your old
padre will always be--always--always!"
"And Padre Josè?" panted the girl under Rosendo's tight grasp as she
turned her head toward the priest.
"He goes with us," assured Rosendo--"I think--at least as far as the
coast. He will see Anita--and--" His voice broke, and he turned
abruptly away.
"And she will go to the States with us! Oh, padre!" cried the girl,
bounding up and down with joy.
Josè turned and went quickly into his own house. With grim determination
he drew the battered haircloth trunk from beneath his bed and began
to throw his few effects into it.
But he had scarce begun when Juan, now bearing the proud title of
official courier between Simití and Bodega Central, entered with a
letter. Josè recognized the writing, and tore it open at once. It was
from his mother.
"My beloved son, at last, after these many years of most rigid
economy, even of privation, I have saved enough from my meager income,
together with what little you have been able to send me from time to
time, and a recent generous contribution from your dear uncle, to
enable me to visit you. I shall sail for Colombia just as soon as you
send me detailed instructions regarding the journey. And, oh, my son,
to see you offering the Mass in your own church, and to realize that
your long delayed preferment is even at hand, for so your good uncle
informs me daily, will again warm the blood in a heart long chilled by
poignant suffering. Till we meet, the Blessed Virgin shield you, my
beloved son."
The letter slipped from the priest's fingers and drifted to the floor.
With a moan he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.