Carmen Ariza Part 167

"The true method of prayer was employed by the early Christians, until the splendid vision of the Christ became obscured and finally lost to the Church by its bargaining with Constantine for a mess of pottage, namely, temporal power. Then began to rise that great worldly inst.i.tution, the so-called Holy Church. In the first half of the sixth century Justinian closed the schools of philosophy at Athens. For a while Judaizing Christianity continued its conflict with Gnosticism.

And then both merged themselves into the Catholic form of faith, which issued forth from Rome, with Christian tradition grafted upon paganism. Theology and ritualism divided the gospel of healing the sick and saving the sinner into two radically different systems, neither of which is Christian, and neither of which can either heal or save. Since then, lip-service and ceremonial have taken the place of healing the sick and raising the dead. The world again slipped back steadily from the spiritual to the material, and to-day ethics const.i.tutes our religion, and stupid drugs hold sway where once sat enthroned the healing Christ-principle."

"I would remind you, Mr. Waite, that I have Catholic leanings myself,"

said Doctor Siler. "I don't like to hear either my religion or my profession abused."

"My criticism, Doctor," replied Father Waite, "is but an exposure of the entrenched beliefs and modes of the human mind."

"But, sir, the Church is a great social force, and a present necessity."

"The worth of a belief as a social force, Doctor, must be ascertained from its fruits. The Roman Church has been an age-long instigator of wars, disorders, and atrocious persecutions throughout the world. Its a.s.sumption that its creed is the only religious truth is an insult to the world's expanding intelligence. Its arrogant claim to speak with the authority of G.o.d is one of the anomalies of this century of enlightenment. Its mesmeric influence upon the poor and ignorant is a continuous tragedy."

"The poor and ignorant! Are you unmindful of the Church's schools and hospitals?"

"No, Doctor. Nor am I ignorant of the fact that the success of Christianity is _not_ measured by hospitals. Rather, their continuance attests the lamentable failure of its orthodox misinterpretation. I have been a priest, Doctor. I do not want to see this splendid country forced into the iron shackles of priestcraft."

"It can not happen here!" cried Haynerd, pounding the table with his fist. "The time has pa.s.sed when a man can say, 'My church, be she right or wrong, but my church!' and insist that it shall be forced upon us, whether we like it or not!"

"Doctor," continued Father Waite, "the Romanist has always missed the mark. He prayed to a G.o.d of love to give him power to exterminate heretics--those who differed with him in belief. But he prayed with iniquity, hatred, murder in his heart; and G.o.d, who is too pure to know evil, heard him not. Prayer is the affirmation of omnipotent _good_. Is it good to murder one's fellow-men? The Psalmist wrote: 'If I regard iniquity in my heart the Lord will not hear me.' That is why the Church's prayers and curses have failed, and why she herself is a failing inst.i.tution to-day. I say this in pity, not in malice."

"I, sir, believe in a religion that can hate," returned the doctor.

"Christianity is as much a religion of hate as of love--hatred of all that is evil and opposed to the revealed Word of G.o.d."

"And thereby your religion will fail, and has failed, for G.o.d is love.

You, by your hatred of what you consider evil, make evil real. Indeed, the Church has always emphasized evil as a great and living reality.

How could it ever hope to overcome it then? Your Church, Doctor, has little of the meekness of the Christ, and so, little of his strength.

It has little of his spirituality. Its numbers and great material wealth do not const.i.tute power. Its a.s.sumptions remind me of the ancient Jews, who declared that G.o.d spent much of His time reading their Talmud. You will have to lay aside, Doctor, all of it, and turn to the simple, demonstrable teachings of Jesus. When you have learned to do the works he did, then will you have justified yourself and your faith."

While Father Waite was speaking, Carmen had quietly risen and taken her place at the piano. When he concluded, she began to play and sing softly. As the sweet melody flowed out through the room the little group became silent and thoughtful. Again it was that same weird lament which the girl had sung long before in the Elwin school to voice the emotions which surged up in her during her loneliness in the great city. In it her auditors heard again that night the echoing sighs of the pa.s.sive Indians, enslaved by the Christian Spaniards.

Hitt's head sank upon his breast as he listened. Haynerd tried to speak, but choked. The Beaubien buried her face in her hands and wept softly. The lines about Doctor Siler's mouth relaxed, and his lips trembled. He rose quietly and went around to where Father Waite sat.

"My friend--" He bent and took Father Waite's hand. "We are--friends?"

Father Waite sprang to his feet and threw an arm about the doctor. "We are more than that, Doctor," he whispered. "We are brothers. And in reality we are both, here and now, beloved children of G.o.d."

Doctor Siler bowed. Then he nodded to the others, and took his departure. As he pa.s.sed the piano Carmen rose and seized his hand.

"You know, Doctor, that we love you, don't you?"

"Your love," he murmured, as he bent over her hand, "is from the Christ. Nay, it _is_ the Christ himself among us!"

He would have said more, but his voice broke. Then he went out.

When Hitt, Reverend Moore, and Doctor Morton had left, Haynerd, who had remained for a moment to speak to Father Waite, turned to the Beaubien.

"Madam," he said, "Mr. Hitt is a remarkable man. He is conducting a remarkable newspaper. But--" He stopped and looked at Carmen. "Well, if I mistake not, his quietness this evening indicated his belief that this might be our last meeting for some time."

"Why, Ned?"

Haynerd shook his head dubiously. Then, abruptly:

"Telephone me, Carmen, if anything of interest comes up to-morrow in Avon."

The Beaubien turned quickly to the girl. "You are going to Avon to-morrow? Don't! Please don't!" There was a look of fear in her eyes.

Carmen drew the woman to her, then stooped and kissed her cheek.

"Mother dearest, I go to Avon with my G.o.d."

The Beaubien bowed her head. She knew it was so.

And the girl went early the next morning.

CHAPTER 11

The town of Avon, two hours from New York, lay along Avon creek, from which its first manufacturing industries derived their motive power.

Years before, when it was little more than a barren stretch of sand, some enterprising soul had built a cotton mill there, with only a few primitive looms. As the years pa.s.sed, and kindly Congresses reared about the industry a high protective wall, the business prospered marvelously. But shortly after the death of the senior Ames the company became involved, through mismanagement, with the result that, to protect itself, the house of Ames and Company, the largest creditor, was obliged to take over its mills.

At first, J. Wilton Ames was disposed to sell the a.s.sets of the defunct company, despite the loss to his bank. But then, after a visit of inspection, and hours of meditation on certain ideas which had occurred to him, he decided to keep the property. The banging of the looms, the whirr of the pickers, the sharp little shrieks of the spinning machines, fascinated him, as he stood before them. They seemed to typify the ceaseless throbbing of his own great brain. They seemed, too, to afford another outlet for that mighty flood of materialistic thought and energy which flowed incessantly through it.

And so he set about reorganizing the business. He studied the process of cloth manufacture. He studied the growth and handling of cotton. He familiarized himself with every detail of the cotton market. He was already well versed in the intricacies of the tariff. And soon the idle machinery was roaring again. Soon the capacity of the mills was doubled. And soon, very soon, the great Ames mills at Avon had become a corporate part of our stupendous mechanical development of the century just closed.

When Carmen stepped from the train that morning she stood for a moment looking uncertainly about her. Everywhere on one side as far as she could see were low, ramshackle frame houses; a few brick store buildings stood far up the main street; and over at her right the enormous brick mills loomed high above the frozen stream. The dull roar of the machinery drifted through the cold air to her ears. Up the track, along which she had just come, some ragged, illy clad children were picking up bits of coal. The sight seemed to fix her decision.

She went directly to them, and asked their names.

"Anton Spivak," answered one of the children dully, when she laid a hand on his shoulder.

"And where do you live?"

"Over dere," pointing off to the jungle of decrepit sheds. "Me an'

him, we worked in de mills; but dere ain't no work fer us now. Dey's on half time."

"Take me to your home," she said firmly.

The boy looked his astonishment. "Dere ain't n.o.body to home," he replied. "De ol' man an' woman works in de mills daytimes."

"Come-a home wi' me," spoke up the boy's companion, a bright-faced little urchin of some ten years who had given his name as Tony Tolesi.

"We lives in de tenements."

Carmen looked at him for a moment. "Come," she said.

Up the main street of the town they went for a short distance, then turned and wended their course, through narrow streets and byways, down toward the mills. In a few minutes they were in the district where stood the great frame structures built by the Ames company to house its hands. Block after block of these they pa.s.sed, ma.s.sive, horrible, decrepit things, and at last stopped at a grease-stained, broken door, which the little fellow pushed open. The hall beyond was dark and cold. Carmen followed s.h.i.+vering, close after the boy, while he trotted along, proud of the responsibility of conducting a visitor to his home. At the far end of the hall the lad plunged into a narrow staircase, so narrow that a stout man could not have mounted it. Up four of these broken flights Carmen toiled after him, and then down a long, desolate corridor, which sent a chill into the very marrow of her bones.

"Dis is where we lives, Missy," announced the little fellow. "Miss-a Marcus, she live in dere," pointing to the door directly opposite.

"She ain't got only one arm."

He pushed open the door before which they had halted. A rush of foul air and odors of cooking swept out. They enveloped the girl and seemed to hurl her back. A black-haired woman, holding a crying baby in her arms, rose hastily from an unmade bed at one side of the room. Two little girls, six or eight years of age, and a boy still younger, ranged about their mother and stared in wide-eyed wonder.