Carmen Ariza Part 56

But Jose slept not that night. The warm, sluggish air lay about him, mephitic in its touch. The great vampire bats that soughed through it symbolized the "pestilence that walketh in darkness." Lonely calls drifted across the warm lake waters from the dripping jungle like the hollow echoes of lost souls. Rosendo tossed fitfully, and now and then uttered deep groans. The atmosphere was prescient with horror. He struggled to his feet and paced gloomily back and forth along the brow of the hill. The second church stood near, deserted, gloomy, no longer a temple of G.o.d, but a charnel house of fear and black superst.i.tion.

In the distance the ghostly white walls of the Rincon church glowed faintly in the feeble light that dripped from the yellow stars. There was now no thought of G.o.d--no thought of divine aid. Jose was riding again the mountainous billows of fear and unbelief; nor did he look for the Master to come to him through the thick night across the heaving waters.

The tardy dawn brought Dona Maria to the foot of the hill, where she deposited food, and held distant converse with the exiles. Don Mario had just departed, taking the direction across the lake toward San Lucas. He had compelled his wife to remain in Simiti to watch over the little store, while he fled with two boatmen and abundant supplies.

Others likewise were preparing to flee, some to the Boque river, some up the Guamoco trail. Dona Maria was keeping Carmen closely, nor would she permit her to as much as venture from the house.

"Why should not the senora take Carmen and go to Boque, Rosendo?"

asked Jose. "Then you and I could occupy our own houses until we knew what the future had in store for us."

Rosendo agreed at once. Carmen would be safe in the protecting care of Don Nicolas. Dona Maria yielded only after much persuasion. From the hilltop Jose could descry the Alcalde's boat slowly wending its way across the lake toward the Juncal. Rosendo, having finished his morning meal, prepared to meet the day.

"_Bien_, Padre," he said, "when the sun gets high we cannot stay here.

We must seek shade--but where?" He looked about dubiously.

"Why not in the old church, Rosendo?"

"_Caramba_, never!" cried Rosendo. "_Hombre!_ that old church is haunted!"

Jose could never understand the nature of this man, so brave in the face of physical danger, yet so permeated with superst.i.tious dread of those imaginary inhabitants of the invisible realm.

"Padre," suggested Rosendo at length. "We will go down there, nearer the lake, to the old shack where the blacksmith had his forge. He died two years ago, and the place has since been empty."

"Go then, Rosendo, and I will follow later," a.s.sented Jose, who now craved solitude for the struggle for self-mastery which he saw impending.

While Rosendo moved off toward the deserted shack, the priest continued his restless pacing along the crest of the hill. The morning was glorious--but for the blighting thoughts of men. The vivid green of the dewy hills shone like new-laid color. The lake lay like a diamond set in emeralds. The dead town glowed brilliantly white in the mounting sun. Jose knew that the heat would soon drive him from the hill. He glanced questioningly at the old church. He walked toward it; then mounted the broken steps. The hinges, rusted and broken, had let the heavy door, now bored through and through by _comejen_ ants, slip to one side. Through the opening thus afforded, Jose could peer into the cavernous blackness within. The sun shot its terrific heat at him, and the stone steps burned his sandaled feet. He pushed against the door. It yielded. Then through the opening he entered the dusty, ill-smelling old edifice.

When his eyes had become accustomed to the dimness within, he saw that the interior was like that of the other church, only in a more dilapidated state. There were but few benches; and the brick altar, poorer in construction, had crumbled away at one side. Dust, mold, and cobwebs covered everything; but the air was gratefully cool. Jose brushed the thick dust from one of the benches. Then he lay down upon it, and was soon sunk in heavy sleep.

The sun had just crossed the meridian. Jose awoke, conscious that he was not alone. The weird legend that hung about the old church filtered slowly through his dazed brain. Rosendo had said that an angel of some kind dwelt in the place. And surely a presence sat on the bench in the twilight before him! He roused up, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and peered at it. A soft laugh echoed through the stillness.

"I looked all around for the bad angel that padre Rosendo said lived here, and I didn't find anything but you."

"Carmen, child! What are you doing here? Don't come near me!" cried Jose, drawing away.

"Why, Padre--what is it? Why must I keep away from you? First, madre Maria tells me I must go to Boque with her. And now you will not let me come near you. And I love you so--" Tears choked her voice, and she sat looking in mute appeal at the priest.

Jose's wit seemed hopelessly scattered. He pa.s.sed his hand dully across his brow as if to brush the mist from his befogged brain.

"Padre dear." The pathetic little voice wrung his heart. "Padre dear, when madre Maria told me I had to go to Boque, I went to your house to ask you, and--and you weren't there. And I couldn't find padre Rosendo either--and there wasn't anybody in the streets at all--and I came up here. Then I saw the blanket out on the hill, and I kept hunting for you--I wanted to see you _so_ much. And when I saw the door of the church broken, I thought you might be in here--and so I came in--and, oh, Padre dear, I was _so_ glad to find you--but I wouldn't wake you up--and while you were sleeping I just _knew_ that G.o.d was taking care of you all the time--"

Jose had sunk again upon the bench.

"Padre dear!" Carmen came flying to him across the darkness and threw her arms about his neck. "Padre dear! I just couldn't stand it to leave you!" The flood-gates opened wide, and the girl sobbed upon his shoulder.

"Carmen--child!" But his own tears were mingling freely with hers. The strain of the preceding night had left him weak. He strove feebly to loosen the tightly clasped arms of the weeping girl. Then he buried his drawn face in her thick curls and strained her to his heaving breast. What this might mean to Carmen he knew full well. But--why not have it so? If she preceded him into the dark vale, it would be for only a little while. He would not live without her.

The sobs died away, and the girl looked up at the suffering man.

"Padre dear, you will not send me away--will you?" she pleaded.

"No! no!" he cried fiercely, "not now!"

A happy little sigh escaped her lips. Then she drew herself closer to him and whispered softly, "Padre dear--I love you."

A groan burst from the man. "G.o.d above!" he cried, "have you the heart to let evil attack such a one as this!"

The girl looked up at him in wonder. "Why, Padre dear--what is it?

Tell me."

"Nothing, child--nothing! Did--er--did your madre Maria say why you must go to Boque?" he asked hesitatingly.

"She said Feliz Gomez died last night of the plague, and that the people were afraid they would all get sick and die too. And she said--Padre dear, she said you were afraid I would get sick, and so you told her to take me away. You didn't mean that, did you? She didn't understand you, did she? You are not afraid, are you? You can't be, you know, can you? You and I are not afraid of anything. We _know_--don't we, Padre dear?"

"What do we know, child?" he asked sadly.

"Why--why, we know that G.o.d is _everywhere_!" She looked at him wonderingly. What could she understand of a nature so wavering?--firm when the sun shone bright above--tottering when the blasts of adversity whirled about it? He had said such beautiful things to her, such wonderful things about G.o.d and His children only yesterday. And now--why this awful change? Why again this sudden lowering of standards?

He had sunk deep into his dark thoughts. "Death is inevitable!" he muttered grimly, forgetful of the child's presence.

"Oh, Padre dear!" she pleaded, pa.s.sing her little hand tenderly over his cheek. Then her face brightened. "I know what it is!" she exclaimed. "You are just trying to think that two and two are seven--and you can't prove it--and so you'd better stop trying!" She broke into a little forced laugh.

Jose sat wrapped in black silence.

"Padre dear." Her voice was full of plaintive tenderness. "You have talked so much about that good man Jesus. What would he say if he saw you trying to make two and two equal seven? And if he had been here last night--would he have let Feliz die?"

The priest made no answer. None was required when Carmen put her questions.

"Padre dear," she continued softly. "Why didn't _you_ cure Feliz?"

His soul withered under the shock.

"You have told me, often, that Jesus cured sick people. And you said he even made the dead ones live again--didn't you, Padre dear?"

"Yes," he murmured; "they say he did."

"And you read to me once from your Bible where he told the people that he gave them power over everything. And you said he was the great rule--you called him the Christ-principle--and you said he never went away from us. Well, Padre dear," she concluded with quick emphasis, "why don't you use him now?"

She waited a moment. Then, when no reply came--

"Feliz didn't die, Padre."

"_Hombre!_ It's all the same--he's gone!" he cried in a tone of sullen bitterness.

"You think he is gone, Padre dear. And Feliz thought he had to go. And so now you both see it that way--that's all. If you would see things the way that good man Jesus told you to--well, wouldn't they be different--wouldn't they, Padre dear?"

"No doubt they would, child, no doubt. But--"