Carmen Ariza Part 104

"G.o.d, no!" cried the woman. "They would murder me!"

"Then you will stay here until--"

"No, no! I have friends--others like myself--I will go to them. I--I couldn't stay here--with her," nodding toward the girl. "But--you will take care of her?"

"Surely," returned the Sister in a calm voice.

Jude looked at Carmen for a moment. She made as if she would speak.

Then she turned abruptly and went swiftly out into the chill night.

"Come," said the Sister to Carmen, extending a hand. "Poor little thing!" she murmured as they mounted the stairs. "Poor little thing!"

CHAPTER 2

Carmen was astir next morning long before the rising-bell sounded its shrill summons through the long corridors. When she opened her eyes she gazed at the ceiling above in perplexity. She still seemed to feel the tossing motion of the boat, and half believed the bell to be the call to the table, where she should again hear the cheery voice of Harris and meet the tolerant smile of Mrs. Reed. Then a rush of memories swept her, and her heart went down in the flood. She was alone in a great foreign city! She turned her face to the pillow, and for a moment a sob shook her. Then she reached under the pillow and drew out the little Bible, which she had taken from her bundle and placed there when the Sister left her the night before. The book fell open to Isaiah, and she read aloud:

"I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles."

She snapped the book shut and quickly rose. "That means me," she said firmly. "Padre Jose said I had a message for the world; and now I am to tell it to these people up here. G.o.d has called me in righteousness. That means, He has called me to do _right thinking_.

And I am to tell these people how to think right. They don't know as yet."

Suddenly her thought reverted to Cartagena, and to the st.u.r.dy little lad who had so proudly claimed the name of Rincon. For a moment she stood still. Then she burst into tears and threw herself back upon the bed.

But she did not lie there long. "I must think only G.o.d's thoughts,"

she said, struggling to her feet and checking her grief. "If it is right for the little boy to be his son, then I must want it to be so.

I _must_ want only the right--I have _got_ to want it! And if it is not right now, then G.o.d will make it so. It is all in His hands, and I must not think of it any more, unless I think right thoughts."

She dressed herself quickly, but did not put on the shoes. "I simply can not wear these things," she mourned, looking at them dubiously; "and I do not believe the woman will make me. I wonder why the other woman called her Sister. Why did she wear that ugly black bonnet? And why was I hurried away from that hotel? It was so much pleasanter there, so bright and warm; and here it is so cold." She s.h.i.+vered as she b.u.t.toned her thin dress. "But," she continued, "I have got to go out now and find Mr. Reed and Mr. Harris--I have just _got_ to find them--and to-day! But, oh, this city is so much larger than Simiti!"

She shook her head in perplexity as she put the Bible back again in the bundle, where lay the t.i.tle papers to La Libertad and her mother's little locket, which Rosendo had given her that last morning in Simiti. The latter she drew out and regarded wistfully for some moments. "I haven't any father or mother but G.o.d," she murmured. "But He is both father and mother to me now." With a little sigh she tied up the bundle again. Holding it in one hand and carrying the much despised shoes in the other, she left the cheerless room and started down the long, cold hall.

When she reached the stairway leading to the floor below she stopped abruptly. "Anita's babe!" she exclaimed half-aloud. "I have been thinking only of myself. It is _not_ blind! It sees! It sees as G.o.d sees! What is it that the Bible says?--'And I will bring them by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.' I must know that--always! And Padre Jose said he would remember it, too."

Again she choked back the tears which surged up at the remembrance of the priest, and, bracing herself, hastily descended the stairs, murmuring at every step, "G.o.d is everywhere--right here!"

At the far end of the lower hall she saw, through an open door, a number of elderly people sitting at long tables. Toward them she made her way. When she reached the door, she stopped and peered curiously within. A murmur of astonishment rose from the inmates when they caught sight of the quaint object in the doorway, standing uncertainly, with her shoes in one hand, the awkwardly tied bundle in the other, and garbed in the chaotic attire so hastily procured for her in Cartagena.

A Sister came quickly forward and, taking the girl's hand, led her into a smaller adjoining room, where sat the Sister Superior at breakfast. The latter greeted the child gently and bade her be seated at the table. Carmen dropped into a chair and sat staring in nave wonder.

"Well," began the Sister at length, "eat your breakfast quickly. This is Sunday, you know, and Ma.s.s will be said in the chapel in half an hour. You look frightened. I don't wonder. But you are with friends here, little girl. What is your name?"

Carmen quickly recovered her spirits, and her nimble tongue its wonted flexibility. Without further invitation or preface she entered at once upon a lively description of her wonderful journey through the jungle, the subsequent ocean voyage, and the mishap at the pier, and concluded with the cryptical remark: "And, you know, Senora, it is all just as Padre Jose said, only a series of states of consciousness, after all!"

The Sister stared blankly at the beaming child. What manner of being was this that had been so strangely wafted into these sacred precincts on the night breeze! The abandoned woman who had brought her there, the Sister remembered, had dropped an equally cryptical remark--"She's chock full of religion."

But grat.i.tude quickly mastered her wonder, and the woman, pondering the child's dramatic recital, murmured a sincere, "The Virgin be praised!"

"Oh," said Carmen, looking up quickly as she caught the words, "you people up here talk just like those in Simiti. But Padre Jose said you didn't know, either. You ought to, though, for you have had so many more ad--advantages than we have. Senora, there are many big, clumsy words in the English language, aren't there? But I love it just the same. So did Padre Jose. We used to speak it all the time during the last years we were together. He said it seemed easier to talk about G.o.d in that language than in any other. Do you find it so, Senora?"

"What do you mean, child?" asked the puzzled Sister. "And who is this Jose that you talk so much about?"

"He--taught me--in Simiti. He is the priest there."

"Well," replied the Sister warmly, "he seems to have taught you queer things!"

"Oh, no!" returned Carmen quickly, "he just taught me the truth. He didn't tell me about the queer things in the world, for he said they were not real."

Again the Sister stared at the girl in dumb amazement. But the child's thought had strayed to other topics. "Isn't it cold up here!" she exclaimed, s.h.i.+vering and drawing her dress about her. "I guess I'll have to put on these shoes to keep my feet warm."

"Certainly, child, put them on!" exclaimed the Sister. "Didn't you wear shoes in your country?"

"No," replied Carmen, tugging and straining at the shoes; "I didn't wear much of anything, it was so warm. Oh, it is beautiful down there, Senora, so beautiful and warm in Simiti!" She sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. But she brushed them away and smiled bravely up at the Sister. "I've come here because it is right," she said with a firm nod of her head. "Padre Jose said I had a message for you. He said you didn't know much about G.o.d up here. Why, I don't know much of anything else!" She laughed a happy little laugh as she said this. Then she went on briskly:

"You know, Senora, Padre Jose isn't really a priest. But he said he had to stay in the Church in order to teach me. I never could understand why. I am sure he just thought wrong about it. But, anyway, he will not have to be a priest any more, now that I have gone, will he? You know, Don Jorge said priests were a bad lot; but that isn't so, for there are many good priests, aren't there? Yes, there are.

Only, they don't understand, either. Why, Senora," she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the Sister's previous injunction, "is this a church? You said there would be Ma.s.s in the chapel--"

"No," replied the Sister, still studying the girl attentively, while her manner became more severe; "this is a home for old people, a charitable inst.i.tution."

"Oh," replied Carmen, with a very vague idea of what that meant.

"Well," her face alight and her eyes dancing, "I don't belong here then, do I? I am never going to be old," she meditated. "Why, G.o.d never grows old! And we are His children, you know. The Bible says we are made in His image and likeness. Well, if that is so, how can we ever grow old? Just think of G.o.d hobbling around in heaven with a cane and saying: 'Well, I'm getting old now! I'll soon be dying!' Isn't that awful! We wouldn't grow old and die if it wasn't for our wrong way of thinking, would we? When we think His thoughts, why, we will be like Him. But not until then. Padre Jose says this, and he knows it is true--only, he seems to have a hard time proving it. But, Senora, we have all got to prove it, some time, every one of us. And then there will not be any places like this for old people--people who still believe that two and two are seven, you know. And that's my message."

The woman looked at her blankly; but the girl rambled on. "Padre Jose sometimes talked of the charitable inst.i.tutions out in the world, and he always said that charity was a crime against the people. And he was right, for that is just the way Jesus looked at it, isn't it? Jesus did not give money to beggars, but he did better, he healed them of the bad state of mind that was making them poor and sick. Why don't the priests do that? Can you heal the sick? Jesus, when he taught, first said a thing, and then he turned right around and proved it. Now do you do that? I try to. I've tried it all my life. And, why, Senora, I've had thousands of proofs!"

The Sister did not reply; and Carmen, stealing a covert glance at her, continued:

"You know, Senora, it is just as wicked to be sick and poor as it is to tell a lie, because being sick and poor is just the ex--the ex-ter-nal-i-zation of our thought; and such thought is not from G.o.d; and so to hold such thoughts and to believe them real is to believe in power apart from G.o.d. It is having other G.o.ds than the one G.o.d; and that is breaking the very first Commandment, isn't it? Yes, it is; and you can prove it, just as you can prove the principles in mathematics.

Senora, do you know anything about mathematics?"

The astonished woman made an involuntary sign of negation.

"Oh, Senora," cried the enthusiastic girl, "the things that Jesus taught can be proved just as easily as we prove the rules in mathematics! Why not? for they are truth, and all truth can be demonstrated, you know. You know, Senora, G.o.d is everywhere--not only in heaven, but right here where we are. Heaven, Padre Jose used to say so often, is only a perfect state of mind; and so it is, isn't it?

G.o.d, you know, is mind. And when we reflect Him perfectly, why, we will be in heaven. Isn't it simple? But," she went on after catching her breath, "we can't reflect Him as long as we believe evil to be real and powerful. Evil isn't anything. It is just zero, nothing--"

"I've heard that before," interrupted the woman, recovering somewhat from her surprise. "But I think that before you get out of New York you will reverse that idea. There's a pretty fair amount of evil here, and it is quite real, we find."

"But it isn't!" cried Carmen. "If it is real, then G.o.d made it. It seems real to you--but that is only because you give it reality in your consciousness. You believe it real, and so it becomes to you."

"Well," said the woman dryly, "on that basis I think the same may be said of good, too."

"No," answered Carmen eagerly, "good is--"

"There," interrupted the Sister coldly, holding up an admonitory hand, "we are not going to discuss the foolish theological notions which that fallen priest put into your poor little head. Finish your breakfast."

The child looked at the woman in mute protest. Jose a fallen priest!

Would these people up here so regard him? It was a new thought, and one that she would not accept.