There were other problems which lay still unsolved before him as he sat there that night. The sable veil of mystery which hung about Carmen’s birth had never been penetrated, even slightly. What woman’s face was that which looked out so sadly from the little locket? “Dolores”––sorrowful, indeed! What tragedy had those great, mournful eyes witnessed? No, Carmen did not greatly resemble her. He used to think so, but not of late. Did she, he wondered, resemble the man? And had the mother’s kisses and hot tears blurred the portrait beneath which he had so often read the single inscription, “Guillermo”? If so, could not the portrait be cleaned? But Josè himself had not dared attempt it. Perhaps some day that could be done by one skilled in such art.
And did Carmen inherit any of her unique traits from either of her parents? Her voice, her religious instinct, her keen mentality––whence came they? “From God,” the girl would always answer whenever he voiced the query in her presence. And he could not gainsay it.
Seven years had passed. And Josè found himself sitting beside the sleeping girl and dumbly yielding to the separation which now had come. Was his work finished? His course run? And, if he must live and solve his problem, could he stand after she had left? He bent closer to her, and listened to the gentle breathing. He seemed again to see her, as he was wont in the years past, flitting about her diminutive rose garden and calling to him to come and share her boundless joy. “Come!” he heard her call. “Come, Padre dear, and see my beautiful thoughts!” And then, so often, “Oh, Padre!” bounding into his arms, “here is a beautiful thought that came to me to-day, and I caught it and wouldn’t let it go!” Lonely, isolated child, having nothing in common with the children of 359 her native heath, yet dwelling ever in a world peopled with immaculate concepts!
Josè shook his head slowly. He thought of the day when he had approached Rosendo with his great question. “Rosendo,” he had said in deep earnestness, “where, oh, where did Carmen get these ideas? Did you teach them to her?”
“No, Padre,” Rosendo had replied gravely. “When she was a little thing, just learning to talk, she often asked about God. And one day I told her that God was everywhere––what else could I say? Bien, a strange light came into her eyes. And after that, Padre, she talked continually about Him, and to Him. And she seemed to know Him well––so well that she saw Him in every thing and every place. Padre, it is very strange––very strange!”
No, it was not strange, Josè had thought, but beautifully natural. And later, when he came to teach her, his constant endeavor had been to impart his secular knowledge to the girl without endangering her marvelous faith in her immanent God. In that he had succeeded, for in that there had been no obstructing thoughts of self to overcome.
And now––
“For a small moment have I forsaken thee; but with great mercies will I gather thee––”
The night shadows fled. Day dawned. Josè still sat at the girl’s bedside, dumb and motionless. Carmen awoke, and threw her arms about him. But Rosendo appeared and hurried her out to the light morning repast, for they must lose no time in starting. Every moment now was precious. By ten o’clock the savannas would be too hot to cross, and they lay some distance from Simití. Reed and Harris were bustling about, assembling the packers and cracking jokes as they strapped the chairs to the men’s backs. Doña Maria’s eyes were red with weeping, but she kept silence. Josè wandered about like a wraith. Don Jorge grimly packed his own kit and prepared to set out for the Magdalena, for he had suddenly announced his determination not to accompany Rosendo and his party, but to go back and consult with Don Carlos Norosí in regard to the future. An hour later he left Simití.
At last Rosendo’s voice rang out in a great shout: