CHAPTER 20
Cartagena’s slumber of centuries had been broken by nearly four years of civil warfare. But on the day that the lookout in the abandoned convent of Santa Candelaria, on the summit of La Popa, flashed the message down into the old city that a steam yacht had appeared on the northern horizon, she was preparing to sink back again into quiet dreams. For peace was being concluded among the warring political factions. The country lay devastated and blood-soaked; but the cause of Christ had triumphed, and the Church still sat supreme in the councils of Bogotá. Cartagena wasen fête; the last of the political agitators would be executed on the morrow. And so the lookout’s message was received with indifference, even though he embellished it with the comment that the boat must be privately owned, as no ships of the regular lines were due to arrive that day.
Quietly the graceful craft swept down past Tierra Bomba and into the Boca Chica, between the ancient forts of San Fernando and San Josè, and came to anchor out in the beautiful harbor, a half mile from the ancient gate of the clock. A few curious idlers along the shore watched it and commented on its perfect lines. And the numerous officials of the port lazily craned their necks at it, and yawningly awaited the arrival of the skiff that was immediately lowered and headed for the pier.
The tall American who stepped from the little boat and came at once to them to show his papers, easily satisfied their curiosity, for many tourists of the millionaire class dropped anchor in Cartagena’s wonderful harbor, and came ashore to wander among the decaying mementos of her glorious past. And this boat was not a stranger to these waters. On the yacht itself, as they glanced again toward it, there was no sign of life. Even the diminishing volume of smoke that rose from its funnels evidenced the owner’s intention of spending some time in that romantic spot.
From the dock, Hitt passed through the old gateway in the massive wall, quickly crossed thePlaza de Coches, and lost himself in the gay throngs that were entering upon the day’s250festivities. Occasionally he dropped into wine shops and little stores, and lingered about to catch stray bits of gossip. Then he slowly made his way up past the Cathedral and into thePlaza de Simón Bolívar.
For a while, sitting on a bench in front of the equestrian statue of the famousLibertador, he watched the passing crowds. From time to time his glance strayed over toward the Cathedral. Once he rose, and started in that direction; then came back and resumed his seat. It was evident that he was driven hard, and yet knew not just what course to pursue.
Finally he jumped to his feet and went over to a little cigar store which had caught his eye. He bent over the soiled glass case and selected several cigars from the shabby stock. Putting one of them into his mouth, he lighted it, and then casually nodded to a powerfully built man standing near.
The latter turned to the proprietor and made some comment in Spanish. Hitt immediately replied to it in the same tongue. The man flushed with embarrassment; then doffed his hat and offered an apology. “I forget, señor,” he said, “that so many Americans speak our language.”
Hitt held out his hand and laughed heartily at the incident. Then his eye was attracted by a chain which the man wore.
“May I examine it?” he asked, bending toward it.
“Cierto,señor,” returned the man cordially. “It came from an Indian grave up in Guamocó. I am aguaquero––grave digger––by profession; Jorge Costal, by name.”
Hitt glanced up at the man. Somehow he seemed to be familiar with that name. Somewhere he seemed to have heard it. But on whose lips? Carmen’s? “Suppose,” he said, in his excellent Spanish, “that we cross thePlazato yonder wine shop. You may be able to tell me some of the history of this interesting old town. And––it would be a great favor, señor.”
The man bowed courteously and accepted the invitation. A few moments later they sat at a little table, with a bottle between them, commenting on the animated scene in the street without.
“Peace will be concluded to-day, they say,” reflected Hitt, by way of introduction.
“Yes,” returned the man grimly, “there is but little more blood to let. That flows to-morrow.”
“Political agitators?” Hitt suggested.
The man’s face darkened. “Only one,” he muttered. “The other is––”
He stopped and eyed Hitt furtively. But the American manifested only a casual interest.
“Their names?” he asked nonchalantly.
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“They were posted this morning,” said the man. “Amado Jesus Fanor and Josè de Rincón.”
Hitt started, but held himself. “Who––who are they?” he asked in a controlled voice.
“A liberal general and an ex-priest.”
“Ex-priest?” exclaimed Hitt.
The man looked at him wonderingly. “Yes, señor. Why?”
“Oh, nothing––nothing. It is the custom to––to shoot ex-priests down here, eh?”
“Caramba!No! But this man––señor, why do you ask?”
“Well––it struck me as curious––that’s all,” returned Hitt, at a loss for a suitable answer. “You didn’t happen to know these men, I presume?”
“Na,señor, you seek to involve me. Who are you, that you ask such questions of a stranger?” The man reflected the suspicious caution of these troublous times.
“Why,amigo, it is of no concern to me,” replied Hitt easily, flicking the ashes from his cigar. “I once knew a fellow by that name. Met him here years ago. Learned that he afterward went to Simití. But I––”
“Señor!” cried the man, starting up. “Are you theAmericano, the man who explored?”
“I am,” said Hitt, bending closer to him. “And we are well met, for you are Don Jorge, who knew Padre Josè de Rincón in Simití, no?”
The man cast a timid glance around the room. “Señor,” he whispered, “we must not say these things here! I leave you now––”
“Not yet!” Hitt laid a hand upon his. “Where is he?” he demanded in a low voice.
“In San Fernando, señor.”
“And how long?”
“A year, I think. He was first three years in the prison in Cartagena. But the Bish––”
“Eh? Don Wenceslas had him removed to San Fernando?”
The man nodded.
“And––”
“He will be shot to-morrow, señor.”
Hitt thought with desperate rapidity. Then he looked up. “Why do you say he is an ex-priest?” he asked.
“He has just been excommunicated,” replied the man. “Cursed, they say, by bell, book, and candle.”
“Good heavens! That he might be shot? Ah, I see it all! Ames’s message! Of course Don Wenceslas would not dare to execute a priest in good standing. And so he had him excommunicated, eh?”
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Don Jorge shrugged his shoulders. “Quien sabe?” he muttered.
Hitt sat for a while in a deep study. Time was precious. And yet it was flying like the winds. Then he roused up.
“You knew a little girl––in Simití––in whom this Rincón was interested?”
“Ah, yes, señor. But––why do you ask? She went to the great States from which you come. And I think little was heard from her after that.”
“Eh? Yes, true. She lived with––”
“Don Rosendo Ariza.”
“Yes. And he?”
“Dead––he and his good wife, Doña Maria.”
Hitt’s head sank. How could he break this to Carmen? Then he sprang to his feet. “Come,” he said, “we will stroll down by the walls. I would like a look at San Fernando.”
“Ha! Señor, you––you––”
Hitt threw him a look of caution, and shook his head. Then, motioning him to follow, he led him out and down through the winding, tortuous thoroughfares. On the summit of the walls were sentinels, posted at frequent intervals; and no civilian might walk upon the great enclosure until peace had been formally declared.
Hailing a passing carriage, Hitt urged the wondering Don Jorge into it, and bade the driver convey them to the old ruin of San Felipe, and leave them. There they climbed the broken incline into the battered fortress, and seated themselves in the shadow of a crumbling parapet. They were alone on the enormous, grass-grown pile. From their position they commanded a wonderful view across the town and harbor, and far out over the green waters of the Caribbean. TheCossacklay asleep in the quiet harbor. Don Jorge saw it, and wondered whence it came.
“Listen,amigo,” began Hitt, pointing to the yacht. “In that boat is a girl, whose dearest earthly treasure is the condemned prisoner out there in San Fernando. That girl is the little Carmen, foster-daughter of old Rosendo.”
“Hombre!” cried Don Jorge, staring at Hitt as if he suspected his sanity.
“It is true, friend, for I myself came with her in that boat.”
“Caramba!”
“And,” continued Hitt, glancing again about the ruined fortress and lowering his voice, “we have come for Josè de Rincón.”
“Santa Virgen!Are youloco?”
Hitt smiled. “And now,” he went on eagerly, “how are we to get him?”
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“But,amigo! San Fernando is closely guarded! And he––por supuesto, he will be in the dungeons!”
“No doubt,” returned Hitt dryly, “if your excellent friend Wenceslas has had anything to do with it. But dungeons have windows, eh?”
“Caramba, yes; and San Fernando’s are just above the water’s edge. And when the waves are high the sea pours into them!”
“And––could we learn which window is his, do you think?”
“Señor, I know,” replied the man.
“Ha! And––”
“I learned from one of the soldiers, Fernando, who once lived in Simití. I had thought, señor, that––that perhaps I––”
“That perhaps you might make the attempt yourself, eh?” put in Hitt eagerly.
Don Jorge nodded. Hitt sprang to his feet and looked out toward the silent fortress.
“Don Jorge, it is dark out over the harbor at night, eh? No searchlights?”
“None, señor.”
Hitt began to pace back and forth. Suddenly he stopped, and stood looking down through a hole in the broken pavement. Then he knelt and peered long and eagerly into it.
“Look here, friend,” he called. “How does one get into that place?”
Don Jorge came and looked into the aperture. “It is one of the rooms of the fortress,” he said. “But––caramba! I know not how it may be reached.”
“The passageways?”
“Caved––all of them.”
“But––you are a mighty husky fellow; and I am not weak. Suppose we try lifting one of these flags.”
“Na,señor, as well try the tunnels! But, why?”
Hitt did not answer. But, bidding Don Jorge follow, he sought the fallen entrance to the old fortress, and plunged into the dark passage that led off from it into the thick gloom. Groping his way down a long, damp corridor, he came to a point where three narrower, brick-lined tunnels branched off, one of them dipping into the earth at a sharp angle. He struck a match, and then started down this, followed by the wondering Don Jorge.
A thousand bats, hideous denizens of these black tunnels, flouted their faces and disputed their progress. Don Jorge slapped wildly at them, and cursed low. Hitt took up a long club and struck savagely about him. On they stumbled, until the match flickered out, and they were left in Stygian blackness,254with the imps of darkness whirring madly about them. Hitt struck another match, and plunged ahead.
At length they found the way blocked by a mass of rubbish which had fallen from the roof. Hitt studied it for a moment, then climbed upon it and, by the aid of the feeble light from his matches, peered into the foul blackness beyond.
“Come,” he said, preparing to proceed.
“Na, amigo!Not I!” exclaimed Don Jorge. His Latin soul had revolted.
“Then wait for me here,” said Hitt, pushing himself through the narrow aperture at the top of the rubbish, and fighting the horde of terrified bats.
A few minutes later he returned, covered with slime, and scratched and bleeding. “All right,” he muttered. “Now let’s get out of this miserable hole!”
Out in the sunlight once more, Hitt sought to remove the stains from his clothes, meanwhile bidding Don Jorge attend well to his words.
“You swim, eh?”
“Yes.”
“Then do you come to the beach to-night to bathe, down across from the yacht. And, listen well: you would do much for the little Carmen, no? And for your friend Josè? Very good. You will swim out to the yacht at seven to-night, with your clothes in a bundle on your head, eh? And, Don Jorge––but we will discuss that later. Now you go back to the city alone. I have much to do. And, note this, you have not seen me.”
Meantime, to the group of politicians, soldiers, and clergy assembled in the long audience room of the departmental offices to debate the terms of the peace protocol, news of the arrival of theCossackwas brought by a slow-moving messenger from the dock. At the abrupt announcement the acting-Bishop was seen to start from his chair. Was the master himself on board?Quien sabe?And, if so––but, impossible! He would have advised his faithful co-laborer of his coming. And yet, what were those strange rumors which had trickled over the wires, and which, in his absorption in the local issues, and in the excitement attendant upon the restoration of peace and the settlement of the multifold claims of innumerable greedy politicians, he had all but forgotten? A thousand suggestions flashed through his mind, any one of which might account for the presence of theCossackin Cartagena’s harbor that day. But extreme caution must be observed until he might ascertain its errand. He therefore despatched a message to the yacht, expressing his great surprise and pleasure, and bidding its255master meet him at a convenient hour in his study in the Cathedral. This done, he bent anew to the work before him, yet with his thought harried by doubt, suspicion, and torturing curiosity.
Wenceslas soon received a reply to his message. The master was aboard, but unable to go ashore. The acting-Bishop would therefore come to him at once.
Wenceslas hesitated, and his brow furrowed. He knew he was called upon to render his reckoning to the great financier who had furnished the sinews of war. But he must have time to consider thoroughly his own advantage, for well he understood that he was summoned to match his own keen wits with those of a master mind.
And then there flashed through his thought the reports which had circled the world but three short weeks before. The man of wealth had found his daughter; and she was the girl for whom the two Americans had outwitted him four years ago! And the girl––Simití––and––ah, Rincón! Good! He laughed outright. He would meet the financier––but not until the morrow, at noon, for, he would allege, the unanticipated arrival of Ames had found this day completely occupied. So he again despatched his wondering messenger to theCossack. And that messenger was rowed out to the quiet yacht in the same boat with the tall American, whose clothes were torn and caked with mud, and in whose eyes there glowed a fierce determination.
That night the sky was overcast. The harbingers of the wet season had already arrived. At two in the morning the rain came, descending in a torrent. In the midst of it a light skiff, rocking dangerously on the swelling sea, rounded a corner of San Fernando and crept like a shadow along the dull gray wall. The sentry above had taken shelter from the driving rain. The ancient fort lay heavily shrouded in gloom.
At one of the narrow, grated windows which were set just above the water’s surface the skiff hung, and a long form arose from its depths and grasped the iron bars. A moment later the gleam of an electric lantern flashed into the blackness within. It fell upon a rough bench, standing in foul, slime-covered water. Upon the bench sat the huddled form of a man.
Then another dark shape rose in the skiff. Another pair of hands laid hold on the iron bars. And behind those great, calloused hands stretched thick arms, with the strength of an ox. An iron lever was inserted between the bars. The heavy breathing and the low sounds of the straining were drowned by the tropic storm. The prisoner leaped from the bench and stood ankle-deep in the water, straining his eyes upward.
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The light flashed again into his face. His heart pounded wildly. His throbbing ears caught the splash of a knotted rope falling into the water at his feet. Above the noise of the rain he thought he heard a groaning, creaking sound. Those rusted, storm-eaten bars in the blackness above must be slowly yielding to an awful pressure. He turned and dragged the slime-covered bench to the window, and stood upon it. Then he grasped the rope with a strength born anew of hope and excitement, and pulled himself upward. The hands from without seized him; and slowly, painfully, his emaciated body was crushed through the narrow space between the bent bars.
Cartagena awoke to experience another thrill. And then the ripple of excitement gave place to anger. The rabble had lost one of its victims, and that one the chief. Moreover, the presence of that graceful yacht, sleeping so quietly out there in the sunlit harbor, could not but be associated with that most daring deed of the preceding night, which had given liberty to the excommunicated priest and political malefactor, Josè de Rincón. Crowds of chattering, gesticulating citizens gathered along the harbor shores, and loudly voiced their disappointment and threats. But the boat lay like a thing asleep. Not even a wisp of smoke rose from its yellow funnels.
Then came the Alcalde, and the Departmental Governor, grave and sedate, with their aids and secretaries, their books and documents, their mandates and red-sealed processes, and were rowed out to confront the master whom they believed to have dared to thwart the hand of justice and remain to taunt them with his egregious presence. This should be made an international episode, whose ramifications would wind down through years to come, and embrace long, stupid congressional debates, apologies demanded, huge sums to salve a wounded nation, and the making and breaking of politicians too numerous to mention!
But the giant who received them, bound to his chair, in the splendid library of the palatial yacht, and with no attendant, save a single valet, flared out in a towering rage at the gross insult offered him and his great country in these black charges. He had come on a peaceful errand; partly, too, for reasons of health. And he was at that moment awaiting a visit from His Grace. What manner of reception was this, that Cartagena extended to an influential representative of the powerful States of the North!
“But,” the discomfited Indignation Committee gasped, “what of the tall American who was seen to land the day before?”
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The master laughed in their faces. He? Why, but a poor, obsessed archaeologist, now prowling around the ruins of San Felipe, doubtless mumbling childishly as he prods the dust and mold of centuries! Go, visit him, if they would be convinced!
And when these had gone, chagrined and mortified––though filled with wonder, for they had roamed theCossack, and peered into its every nook and cranny, and stopped to look a second time at the fair-haired young boy who looked like a girl, and hovered close to the master––came His Grace, Wenceslas. He came alone, and with a sneer curling his imperious lips. And his calm, arrogant eyes held a meaning that boded no good to the man who sat in his wheel chair, alone, and could not rise to welcome him.
“A very pretty trick, my powerful friend,” said the angered churchman in his perfect English. “And one that will cause your Government at Washington some––”
“Enough!” interrupted Ames in a steady voice. “I sent for you yesterday, intending to ask you to release the man. I had terms then which would have advantaged you greatly. You were afraid to see me until you had evolved your plans of opposition. Only a fixed and devilish hatred, nourished by you against a harmless priest who possessed your secrets, doomed him to die to-day. But we will pass that for the present. I have here my demands for the aid I have furnished you. You may look them over.” He held out some typewritten sheets to Wenceslas.
The churchman glanced hastily over them; then handed them back with a smile.
“With certain modifications,” he said smoothly. “The terms on which peace is concluded will scarcely admit of––”
“Very well,” returned Ames quietly. “And now, La Libertad?”
Wenceslas laughed. “En manos muertas, my friend,” he replied. “It was your own idea.”
“And the emerald concession?”
“Impossible! A government monopoly, you know,” said His Grace easily. “You see, my friend, it is a costly matter to effect the escape of state prisoners. As things stand now, your little trick of last night quite protects me. For, first you instruct me, long ago, to place the weak little Josè in San Fernando; and I obey. Then you suffer a change of heart, and slip down here to release the man, who has become a state prisoner. That quite removes you from any claims upon us for a share of the spoils of war. I take it, you do not wish to risk exposure of your part in this four years’ carnage?”
Ames drew a sigh. Then he pulled himself together. “Wenceslas,”258he said, “I am not the man with whom you dealt in these matters. He is dead. I have but one thing more to say, and that is that I renounce all claims upon you and your Government, excepting one. La Libertad mine was owned by the Rincón family. It was rediscovered by old Rosendo, and the title transferred to his foster-daughter. Its possession must remain with her and her associates. There is no record, so you have informed me, to the effect that the Church possesses this mine.”
“But, my friend, there shall be such a record to-day,” laughed Wenceslas. “And, in your present situation, you will hardly care to contest it.”
Ames smiled. He now had the information which he had been seeking. The title to the famous mine lay still with the Simití company. He pressed the call-button attached to his chair. The door opened, and Don Jorge entered, leading the erstwhile little newsboy, Josè de Rincón, by the hand.
Wenceslas gasped, and staggered back. He knew not the man; but the boy was a familiar figure.
Don Jorge advanced straight to him. Their faces almost touched.
“Your Grace, were you married to the woman by whom you had this son?” Don Jorge’s steady words fell upon the churchman’s ears like a sentence of death.
“I ask,” continued the dark-faced man, “because I learned last night that the lad’s mother was my daughter, the little Maria.”
“Santa Virgen!”
“Yes, Your Grace, a sainted virgin, despoiled by a devil! And the man who gave me this information––would you like to know?Bien, it was Padre Josè de Rincón, in whose arms she died, you lecherous dog!”
Wenceslas paled, and his brow grew moist. He stared at the boy, and then at the strong man whom he had so foully wronged.
“If you have concluded your talk with Señor Ames,” continued Don Jorge, “we will go ashore––you and the lad and I.”
Wenceslas’s face brightened. Ashore! Yes, by all means!
The trio turned and quietly left the room. Gaining the deck, Wenceslas found a skiff awaiting them, and two strong sailors at the oars. Don Jorge urged him on, and together they descended the ladder and entered the boat. A few moments later they landed at the pier, and the skiff turned back to the yacht.
As to just what followed, accounts vary. There were some who remembered seeing His Grace pass through the narrow259streets with a dark-skinned, powerful man, whose hand grasped that of the young newsboy. There were others who said that they saw the boy leave them at the Cathedral, and the two men turn and enter. Still others said they saw the heavy-set man come out alone. But there was only one who discovered the body of Wenceslas, crumpled up in a hideous heap upon the floor of his study, with a poignard driven clean through his heart. That man was the old sexton, who fled screaming from the awful sight late that afternoon.
Again Cartagena shook with excitement, and seethed with mystery. Had the escaped prisoner, Rincón, returned to commit this awful deed? There were those who said he had. For the dark-skinned man who had entered the Cathedral with His Grace was seen again on the streets and in the wine shops that afternoon, and had been marked by some mounting the broken incline of San Felipe.
Again the Governor and Alcalde and their numerous suite paid a visit to the master on board theCossack. But they learned only that His Grace had gone ashore long before he met his fearful death. And so the Governor returned to the city, and was driven to San Felipe. But his only reward was the sight of the obsessed archaeologist, mud-stained and absorbed, prying about the old ruins, and uttering little cries of delight at new discoveries of crumbling passageways and caving rooms. And so there was nothing for the disturbed town to do but settle down and ponder the strange case.
A week later smoke was seen again pouring out of theCossack’sfunnels. That same day the Governor and Alcalde and their suites were bidden to a farewell banquet on board the luxurious yacht. Far into the night they sat over their rare wines and rich food, drinking deep healths to theentente cordialwhich existed between the little republic of the South and the great one of the North. And while they drank and sang and listened enraptured to the wonderful pipe-organ, a little boat put out from the dark, tangled shrubbery along the shore. And when it rubbed against the yacht, a muffled figure mounted the ladder which hung in the shadows, and hastened through the rear hatchway and down into the depths of the boat. Then, long after midnight, the last farewell being said by the dizzy officials, and the echoes ofAdios,adios,amigos! lingering among its tall spars, theCossackslipped noiselessly out of the Boca Chica, and set its course for New York.
A few hours later, while the boat sped swiftly through the phosphorescent waves, the escaped prisoner, Josè de Rincón, who had lain for a week hidden in the bowels of old fort San Felipe, stood alone in the wonderful smoking room of the260Cossack, and looked up at the sweet face pictured in the stained-glass window above. And then he turned quickly, for the door opened and a girl entered. A rush, a cry of joy, and his arms closed about the fair vision that had sat by his side constantly during the four long years of his imprisonment.
“Carmen!”
“My Josè!”
“I have solved my problem! I have proved God! I have found the Christ!”
“I knew you would, for he was with you always!”
“But––oh, you beautiful, beautiful girl!”
Then in a little while she gently released herself and went to the door through which she had entered. She paused for a moment to smile back at the enraptured man, then turned and flung the door wide.
A woman entered, leading a young boy. The man uttered a loud exclamation and started toward her.
“Ana!”
He stopped short and stared down at the boy. Then he looked wonderingly at Carmen.
“Yes,” she said, stooping and lifting the boy up before Josè, “it is Anita’s babe––and he sees!”
The man clasped the child in his arms and buried his face in its hair.
Verily, upon them that sat in darkness had the Light shined.
CHAPTER 21
Another summer had come and gone. Through the trees in Central Park the afternoon sunlight, sifted and softened by the tinted autumn leaves, spread over the brown turf like a gossamer web. And it fell like a gentle benediction upon the massive figure of a man, walking unsteadily beneath the trees, holding the hand of a young girl whose beauty made every passer turn and look again.
“Now, father,” laughed the girl, “once more! There! Why, you step off like a major!”
They were familiar figures, out there in the park, for almost daily during the past few weeks they might have been seen, as the girl laughingly said, “practicing their steps.” And daily the man’s control became firmer; daily that limp left arm and leg seemed increasingly to manifest life.
On a bench near by sat a dark-featured woman. About her played her boy, filling the air with his merry shouts and his imperfect English.
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“There, father, comes Josè after us,” announced the girl, looking off with love-lit eyes at an approaching automobile. “And Lewis is with him. Now, mind, you are going to get into the car without any help!”
The man laughed, and declared vehemently that if he could not get in alone he would walk home. A few minutes later they had gone.
The profound depth of those changes which had come into the rich man’s life, he himself might not fathom. But those who toiled daily with him over his great ledgers and files knew that the transformation went far. There were flashes at times of his former vigor and spirit of domination, but there were also periods of grief that were heart-rending to behold, as when, poring over his records for the name of one whom in years past he had ruthlessly wrecked, he would find that the victim had gone in poverty beyond his power to reimburse him. And again, when his thought dwelt on Avon, and the carnal madness which had filled those new graves there, he would sink moaning into his chair and bury his drawn face in his hands and sob.
And yet he strove madly, feverishly, to restore again to those from whom he had taken. The Simití company was revived, through his labors, and the great La Libertad restored to its reanimated stockholders. Work of development had begun on the property, and Harris was again in Colombia in charge of operations. The Express was booming, and the rich man had consecrated himself to the carrying out of its clean policies. The mills at Avon were running day and night; and in a new location, far from the old-time “lungers’ alley,” long rows of little cottages were going up for their employes. The lawyer Collins had been removed, and Lewis Waite was to take his place within a week. Father Danny, now recovered, rejoiced in resources such as he had never dared hope to command.
And so the rich man toiled––ah, God! if he had only known before that in the happiness of others lay his own. If only he could have known that but a moiety of his vast, unused income would have let floods of sunshine into the lives of those dwarfed, stunted children who toiled for him, and never played! Oh, if when he closed his mills in the dull months he had but sent them and their tired mothers to the country fields, how they would have risen up and called him blessed! If he could have but known that he was his brother’s keeper, and in a sense that the world as yet knows not! For he is indeed wise who loves his fellow-men; and he is a fool who hates them!
The great Fifth Avenue mansion was dark, except where262hung a cluster of glowing bulbs over the rich mahogany table in the library. There about that table sat the little group of searchers after God, with their number augmented now in ways of which they could not have dreamed. And Hitt, great-souled friend of the world, was speaking again as had been his wont in the days now gone.
“The solution of the problems of mankind? Ah, yes, there is a cure-all; there is a final answer to every ethical question, every social, industrial, economic problem, the problems of liquor, poverty, disease, war. And the remedy is so universal that it dissolves even the tangles of tariff and theology. What is it? Ah, my friends, the girl who came among us to ‘show the world what love will do’ has taught us by her own rich life––it is love. But not the sex-mesmerism, the covetousness, the self-love, which mask behind that heavenly name. For God is Love. And to know Him is to receive that marvelous Christ-principle which unlocks for mankind the door of harmony.
“No, the world’s troubles are not the fault of one man, nor of many, but of all who seek happiness in things material, and forget that the real man is the likeness of spirit, and that joy is spiritual. The trusts, and the men of wealth, are not all malefactors; the churches are not wholly filled with evil men. But all, yes all, have ‘missed the mark’ through the belief that matter and evil are real, and must grope amid sickness, poverty, crime, and death, until they are willing to turn from such false beliefs, and from self, and seek their own in the reflection of Him, who is Love, to their fellow-men. It is only as men join to search for and apply the Christ-principle that they truly unite to solve the world’s sore problems and reveal the waiting kingdom of harmony, which is always just at hand. And it can be done. It must be, sometime.
“In that day all shall know that cause and effect are mental. The man who hears the tempter, the carnal mind’s suggestion to enrich himself materially at the cost of his brother, will know that it is but the voice of mesmerism, that ‘man-killer from the beginning’, which bids him sever himself from his God, who alone is infinite abundance. The society woman who flits like a gorgeous butterfly about the courts of fashion, her precious days wasted in motoring, her nights at cards, and whose vitality goes into dress, and into the watery schemes for ‘who shall be greatest’ in the dismal realm of the human mind, must learn, willingly or through suffering, that her activities are but mesmeric shams that counterfeit the divine activity which manifests in joy and fullness for all.
“Christianity? What is it but the Christ-knowledge, the knowledge of good, and its correlated knowledge, that evil is263only the mesmeric lie which has engulfed the world? But, oh, the depths of that divine knowledge! The knowledge which heals the sick, gives sight to the blind, and opens the prisons to them that are captive! We who are gathered here to-night, feeling in our midst that great, unseen Presence which makes for righteousness, know now that ‘in my flesh shall I see God,’ for we have indeed already seen and known Him.”
With them sat the man who, swept by the storms of error and the carnal winds of destruction, had solved his problem, even as the girl by his side told him he should, and had been found, when his foul prison opened, sitting “clothed and in his right mind” at the feet of the Christ. Jesus “saw the heavens opened, and the Spirit––God––like a dove descending upon him––immediately the Spirit––carnal belief, error, the lie––driveth him into the wilderness.” And there he was made to prove God. So Josè de Rincón, when the light had come, years gone, in desolate Simití, had been bidden to know the one God, and none else. But he wavered when the floods of evil rolled over him; he had looked longingly back; he had clung too tightly to the human concept that walked with him like a shining light in those dark days. And so she had been taken from him, and he had been hurled into the wilderness––alone with Him whom he must learn to know if he would see Life.
Then self-consciousness went out, in those four years of his captivity, and he passed from thence into consciousness of God.
Then his great world-knowledge he saw to have been wholly untrue. His store of truth he saw to have been but relative at best. His knowledge had rested, he then knew, upon viewpoints which had been utterly false. And so, like Paul, he died that he might live. He crucified Self, that he might resurrect the image of God.
“The world,” resumed Hitt, “still worships false gods, though it reaches out for Truth. And yet, what are we all seeking? Only a state of consciousness, a consciousness of good, of joy and harmony. And we are seeking to rid ourselves of the consciousness of evil, with its sin, its disease and death. But, knowing now that consciousness is mental activity, the activity of thought, can we not see that harmony and immortality are within our grasp? for they are functions of right thought. Salvation is not from evil realities, but from the false sense of evil, even as Jesus taught and proved. The only salvation possible to mankind is in learning to think as Jesus did––not yielding our mentalities daily to a hodge-podge of mixed thoughts of good and evil, and then running to doctors and preachers when such yielding brings its inevitable result in sickness and death. Jesus insisted that the kingdom of heaven264was within men, a tremendous potentiality within each one of us. How may it be reached? By removing hampering false belief, by removing the limitations of superstition and human opinion which hold its portals closed. True progress is the release of mankind from materialism, with its enslaving drudgery, its woes, and its inevitable death. Mankind’s chief difficulty is ignorance of what God is. Jesus proved Him to be mind, spirit. He proved Him to be the creator of the spiritual universe, but not the originator of the lie of materiality. He showed matter to be but the manifestation of the false belief that creation is material. He showed it to be but a sense-impression, without life, without stability, without existence, except the pseudo-existence which it has in the false thought of which the human or carnal consciousness is formed. But the lack of understanding of the real nature of matter, and the persistent belief in the stability of its so-called laws, has resulted in centuries of attempts to discredit the Bible records of his spiritual demonstrations of God’s omnipotence and immanence, and so has prevented the human mind from accepting the proofs which it so eagerly sought. And now, after nineteen centuries of so-called Christian teaching, the human mind remains still deeply embedded in matter, and subject to the consentaneous human beliefs which it calls material laws. Jesus showed that it was the communal mortal mind, with its false beliefs in matter, sin, disease, and death, that constituted ‘the flesh’; he showed that mortals are begotten of such false beliefs; he showed that the material universe is but manifested human belief. And we know from our own reasoning that we see not things, but ourthoughtsof things; that we deal not with matter, but with material mental concepts only. We know that the preachers have woefully missed the mark, and that the medicines of the doctors have destroyed more lives than wars and famine, and yet will we not learn of the Master? To reach God through material thinking is utterly impossible, for He is spirit, and He can be cognized only by a spiritual consciousness. Yet such a consciousness is ours, if we will but have it.
“Ah, friends, God said: Let US make man in OUR image and likeness––let Life, Love, Spirit make its spiritual reflection. But where is that man to-day? Buried deep beneath the dogma and the crystallized human beliefs of mortals––buried beneath ‘the lie’ which mankind accept about truth. Nothing butscientificreligion will meet humanity’s dire needs and reveal that man. And scientific religion admits of actual, practical proof. Christianity is as scientific as mathematics, and quite as capable of demonstration. Its proofs lie in doing the works of the265Master. He is a Christian who does these works; he who does not is none. Christianity is not a failure, but organized ecclesiasticism, which always collapses before a world crisis, has failed utterly. The hideous chicane of imperial government and imperial religion against mankind has resulted in a Christian veneer, which cracks at the first test and reveals the unchanged human brute beneath. The nations which writhe in deadly embrace to-day have never sought to prove God. They but emphasize the awful fact that the human mind has no grasp upon the Principle which is God, and at a time of crisis reverts almost instantly to the primitive, despite so-called culture and civilization. Yes, religion as a perpetuation of ancient human conceptions, of materialistic traditions and opinions of ‘the Fathers,’ is a flat failure. By it the people of great nations have been molded into servile submission to church and ruler––have been persuaded that wretchedness and poverty are eternal––that heaven is a realm beyond the grave, to which admission is a function of outward oblation––and that surcease from ills here, or in the life to come, is a gift of the Church. Can we wonder that commercialism is mistaken by nations for progress? That king and emperor still call upon God to bless their barbaric attempts at conquest? And that human existence remains, what it has always been, a ghastly mockery of Life?
“Healing the sick by applied Christianity is not the attempt to alter a mental concept; it is the bringing out of harmony where before was discord. Evil can not be ‘thought away.’ He who indulges evil only proves his belief in its reality and power. Christian healing is not ‘mental suggestion,’ wherein all thought is material. When evil thinking is overcome, then the discords which result from it will disappear from consciousness. That is the Christ-method. Behind all that the physical senses seem to see, know, and feel, is the spiritual fact, perfect and eternal. Jesus healed the sick by establishing this fact in the human consciousness. And we must learn to do likewise. The orthodox churches must learn it. They must cease from the dust-man, whose breath is in his nostrils; they must cease from preaching evil as an awful reality, permitted by God, or existing despite Him; they must know it as Jesus bade all men know it, as the lie about Truth. Then, by holding the divine ideal before the human mind, they will cause that mentality gradually to relinquish its false beliefs and copy the real. And thus, step by step, changing from better to better beliefs, at length the human mind will have completely substituted reality for unreality, and will be no more, even in thought. The ‘old man’ will have given place to the ‘new.’ This is the method of266Jesus. There is no other. Yes, for the present we reckon with material symbols; we have not yet fully learned their unreality. But at length, if we are faithful, we shall lay them aside, and know only Truth and its pure manifestations.
“Ah, my friends, how simple is Christianity! It is summed up in the Sermon on the Mount. Our salvation is in righteousness. He who thinks right shall know things as they are. He who thinks wrong shall seem to know them as they are not, and shall pass his days in sore travail, even in wars, famine, and utter misery. Then why not take up the demonstration of Christianity in the spirit of joy and freedom from prejudice with which we pursue our earthly studies, and as gladly, thankfully seek to prove it? For it, of all things, is worth while. It alone is the true business of men. For if what we have developed in our many talks regarding God, man, and the mental nature of the universe and all things is true, then are the things with which men now occupy themselves worth while? No, decidedly no! But are the things which we have developed true? Yes, for they can be and have been demonstrated. Then, indeed, are we without excuse. Carmen has shown us the way. No, she is not unnatural; she is only divinely natural. She has shown us what we all may become, if we but will. She has shown us what we shall be able to do when we are completely lost in accord with God, and recognize no other life, substance, nor law than His. But––
“‘I form the light, and create darkness; I make peace, and create evil,’ cried the prophet.Truth always has its suppositional opposite!Choose ye then whom ye will serve. All is subject to proof. Only that which is demonstrably true, not after the change which we call death, but here this side of the grave, can stand. The only test of a Christian is in the ‘signs following.’ Without them his faith is but sterile human belief, and his god but the distorted human concept whom kings beseech to bless their slaughter.
“‘Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils; for wherein is he to be accounted of?“‘His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in that very day his thoughts perish.“‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit.“‘Wherefore henceforth know we no man after the flesh; yea, though we have known Christ after the flesh, yet now henceforth know we him no more.’”
“‘Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils; for wherein is he to be accounted of?
“‘His breath goeth forth, he returneth to his earth; in that very day his thoughts perish.
“‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit.
“‘Wherefore henceforth know we no man after the flesh; yea, though we have known Christ after the flesh, yet now henceforth know we him no more.’”
The fire crackled briskly on the great hearth. Carmen rose and turned off the light above them. All drew their chairs about the cheery blaze.
Silence, sacred, holy, lay upon them. The rich man, now267possessing treasures beyond his wildest dreams, sat holding his daughter’s hand. Her other hand lay in Josè’s. Sidney had just entered; and Haynerd had sent word that he would join them soon.
Then the silence was broken by the rich man. His voice was unsteady and low.
“My friends, sorrow and joy fill my heart to-night. To the first I am resigned; it is my due; and yet, were it greater, I know not how I could live. But the joy––who can understand it until he has passed through death into life! This little girl’s mother knew not, nor did I, that she was royal born. Sometimes I wonder now if it is really so. And yet the evidence is such that I can scarcely doubt. We met in the sun-kissed hills of Granada; and we loved. Her old nurse was Argus-eyed; and our meetings were such as only lovers can effect. I was young, wild, and my blood coursed like a torrent through my veins! But I loved her, yes, base though I was, I loved her. And in these years since I left her in that little house in Bogotá, I have suffered the agonies of the lost when her memory and my own iniquity fell upon me and smote me sore––
“We were married in Spain, and the marriage was performed by Padre Rafaél de Rincón.”
“My uncle!” cried the startled Josè.
“And then we fled,” continued Ames. “I was rich; I was roaming the world, extending my vast business interests; and I took her to Colombia, where I labored with the politicians in Bogotá to grant me timber and cattle concessions. We had a cottage on the outskirts of the city, where we were happy. With us lived her faithful old nurse, whom she would not leave in Spain––
“Then, one day, came a cable message that my father had died. The news transformed me. I knew I must return at once to New York. But––I would not take a wife back with me! Why, I know not. I was mad! And I kissed her tear-stained face, and bade her wait, for I would return and make her happy. And then––
“Months later I wrote to her, and, receiving no reply, I caused inquiry to be made. But she had gone––whither, no one knew. The old nurse, too, had disappeared. I never learned that a woman had been left at Badillo to die. And she was not known in Bogotá. She was timid, and went out seldom. And then––then I thought that a marriage here would strengthen my position, for I was powerful and proud.
“Oh, the years that her sad face haunted me! I was mad, mad! I know not why, but when theCossackwas built I had her portrait in glass set in the smoking room. And night after268night I have sat before it and cursed myself, and implored her to forgive!”
“But––the locket?” said Father Waite.
“It came from Spain. I was Guillermo to her, and she Dolores to me. But I had never forgotten it. Had Carmen ever worn it in my presence I must have recognized it at once. Oh, God, that she had! What would it not have saved!”
“Father!” The girl’s arms were about his neck.
“But,” said Ames, choking down his sorrow, “that man is dead. He, like Goliath, fought Truth, and the Truth fell upon him, crushing him to powder. The man who remains with you now lives only in this little girl. And she has brought me my own son, Sidney, and another, Josè. All that I have is theirs, and they will give it to the world. I would that she could have brought me that noble black man, Rosendo, who laid down his beautiful life when he saw that his work was done. I learn from my inquiries that he and Doña Maria lived with Don Nicolás far up the Boque river during the troublous times when Simití was burned and devastated. And that, when the troops had gone, they returned to their desolated home, and died, within a month of each other. What do I not owe to them! And can my care of their daughter Ana and her little son ever cancel the debt? Alas, no!”
Sidney turned to the man. “Father, does Josè know that it was Kathleen whom he rescued from the Tiber in Rome, years ago, and who caused him to lose his notebook?”
Another exclamation burst from Josè. Ames shook his head. “No, Sidney, we had not told him. Ah, how small is the world! And how inextricably bound together we all are! And, Josè, I have not told you that the woman who lived and died alone in the limestone caves near Honda, and whose story you had from Don Jorge in Simití, was doubtless the faithful old nurse of Dolores. My investigations all but confirm it. Padre Rafaél de Rincón maintained her there.”
Haynerd entered the room at that moment, and with him came Miss Wall.
“Now,” said Hitt softly, “the circle is complete. Carmen, may I––”
The girl rose at once and went into the music room. Those who remained sat in awed, expectant silence. Another presence stole softly in, but they saw him not. Soon through the great rooms and marble halls drifted the low, weird melody which the girl had sung, long before, in the dreary Elwin school.
In the flickering light of the fire strange shapes took form; and the shadows that danced on the walls silhouetted scenes from the dimming past. From out their weird imagery rose a269single form. Into it passed the unseen presence. Slowly it rose before them from out the shadows. It was black of face, but its wondrous heart which had cradled the nameless babe of Badillo glistened like drifting snow.
The last sweet notes of the plaintive Indian lament fluttered from the girl’s lips, echoed among the marble pillars, and died away down the distant corridors. She returned and bent over her father with a tender caress.
Then the great black man in the shadows extended his arms for a moment above them, and faded from their sight. There was the sound of low weeping in the room. For
“these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”
“these are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”
GLOSSARY
DONE INTO A BOOK FOR THEMAESTRO COMPANY BY W. B.CONKEY COMPANY, CHICAGO