For some time past Josè had patched with growing anxiety the shrinking of his gold supply, and had striven to lessen the monthly contributions to Cartagena, meanwhile trying to know that the need now looming daily larger before him would be met. He had not voiced his apprehension to Carmen. But he and Rosendo had discussed the situation long and earnestly, and had at length resolved that the latter should again return to Guamocó to wash the Tiguí sands.
The old man sighed, but he uttered no protest. Yet each day Josè thought he grew quieter. And each day, too, he seemed to become more tender of his sad-faced daughter, Ana, and of the little grandson who had come into his humble home only a few weeks before. He delayed his preparations for specious reasons which Josè knew cost him much effort to invent. He clung to Carmen. He told his rosary often before the church altar, and with tears in his eyes. And at night he would come to Josè and beg him to read from the Bible and explain what he thought the Saviour had really meant to convey to the humble fishermen of Galilee.
Josè’s heart was wrung. But at last the day arrived when he had nothing to send to Cartagena beyond the mere pittance 276 which the poor members of his little parish contributed. But this he sent as usual. The next month he did the same. Then came a letter from Wenceslas, requesting an explanation. And then it was that Josè realized that in his excess of zeal he had fallen into his own trap. For, having established the custom of remitting a certain amount to the Bishop each month, he must not resent now the implication of dishonesty when the remittances fell off, or ceased altogether. He took the letter to Rosendo. “Bien, Padre,” said the latter slowly, “the time has come. I set out for Guamocó at dawn.”
In the days that followed, Josè could frame no satisfactory reply to Wenceslas, and so the latter wrote to the Alcalde. Don Mario eagerly seized the proffered opportunity to ingratiate himself into ecclesiastical favor. Rosendo was again in the hills, he wrote, and with supplies not purchased from him. Nor had he been given even a hint of Rosendo’s mission, whether it be to search again for La Libertad, or not. There could be no doubt, he explained in great detail, of Josè’s connivance with Rosendo, and of his unauthorized conduct in the matter of educating the girl, Carmen, who, he made no doubt, was the daughter of Padre Diego––now, alas! probably cold in death at the violent hands of the girl’s foster-father, and with the priest Josè’s full approbation. The letter cost the portly Don Mario many a day of arduous labor; but it brought its reward in another inquiry from Cartagena, and this time a request for specific details regarding Carmen.
Don Mario bestrode the clouds. He dropped his customary well-oiled manner, and carried his head with the air of a conqueror. His thick lips became regnant, imperious. He treated his compatriots with supercilious disdain. And to Josè he would scarce vouchsafe even a cold nod as they passed in the street. Again he penned a long missive to Cartagena, in which he dilated at wearisome length upon the extraordinary beauty of the girl, as well as her unusual mental qualities. He urged immediate action, and suggested that Carmen be sent to the convent in Mompox.
Wenceslas mused long over the Alcalde’s letters. Many times he smiled as he read. Then he sent for a young clerical agent of the See, who was starting on a mission to Bogotá, and requested that he stop off a day at Badillo and go to Simití to report on conditions in that parish. Incidentally, also, to gather what data he might as to the family of one Rosendo Ariza.
In due course of time the agent made his report. The parish of Simití stood in need of a new Cura, he said. And the girl––he found no words to describe or explain her. She must be seen. 277 The Church had need of prompt action, however, to secure her. To that end, he advised her immediate removal to Cartagena.
Again Wenceslas deliberated. Aside from the girl, to whom he found his thought reverting oftener than he could wish in that particular hour of stress, his interest in Simití did not extend beyond its possibilities as a further contributor to the funds he was so greatly needing for the furtherance of his complex political plans. As to the Alcalde––here was a possibility of another sort. That fellow might become useful. He should be cultivated. And at the same time warned against precipitate action, lest he scatter Rosendo’s family into flight, and the graceful bird now dwelling in the rude nest escape the sharp talons awaiting her.
He called for his secretary. “Send a message to Francisco, our Legate, who is now in Bogotá. Bid him on his return journey stop again at Simití. We require a full report on the character of the Alcalde of that town.”