Carmen Ariza Part 2

"How do you know that the Bible does not teach it, my son?"

"I--I--have read--the Bible," faltered the lad.

"You have read the Bible!" cried the astonished father. "And where have you done that, you wicked boy?"

"At the bookstore of Mariano," confessed the trembling child.

"_Madre de Dios!_" burst from the father, as he started to his feet.

"Mariano is a wicked infidel! The Bishop shall hear of this! Ah, well may the Holy Father in Rome grieve to see his innocent babes led astray by these servants of h.e.l.l! But, my son," returning to the boy and clasping him again in his arms, "it is not too late. The Virgin Mother has protected you. You meant no harm. Satan covets your pure little soul--But he shall not have it!" The father's tremulous voice mounted high, "No, by the Saints in heaven, he shall not have it!"

The boy's a.s.surance slowly returned under the influence of his father's tender solicitude, even though he remained dimly conscious of the rift widening little by little between his parents' settled convictions and his own groping thought. With the a.s.suaging of his grief came again those insistent questions which throughout his life had tormented his peace and driven him even to the doors of infidels in search of truth.

"Father," he began timidly, "why was I wicked to read the Bible?"

"Because, my son, in doing so you yielded to the temptations of Satan.

The Bible is a great and mysterious book, written by G.o.d himself. He meant it to be explained to us by the Holy Father, who is the head of the Church which the good Saint Peter founded. We are not great enough nor good enough to understand it. The Holy Father, who cares for G.o.d's Church on earth, he is good enough, and he alone can interpret it to us. Satan tries to do with all men just what he did with you, my child. He seeks to make them read the Bible so that he can confuse them and rob them of their faith. Then when he gets possession of their souls he drags them down with him to h.e.l.l, where they are lost forever."

"And does the Holy Father really believe that Mary is the mother of G.o.d?" persisted the boy, raising his tear-stained face.

"Yes--is she not? The blessed Saviour said that he and G.o.d were one.

And, as Mary is the mother of Christ, she is also the mother of G.o.d--is she not? Let us read what the good Saint John Chrysostom says." He rose and went into another room, returning in a few minutes with a little volume. Taking the boy again on his knee, he continued, "The blessed Saint tells us that the Virgin Mary was made the mother of G.o.d in order that she might obtain salvation for many who, on account of their wicked lives, could not be saved, because they had so offended divine justice, but yet, by the help of her sweet mercy and mighty intercession, might be cleansed and rendered fit for heaven. My little son, you have always been taught that Mary is heaven's Queen.

And so she is ours, and reigns in heaven for us. Jesus loves to have her close to him, and he can never refuse her requests. He always grants what she asks. And that is the reason why we pray to her. She never forgets us--never!"

A troubled look crossed the boy's face. Then he began anew. "Father dear, G.o.d made everything, did He not? The Bible says that, anyway."

"Yes, child."

"Did He make Satan?"

The father hesitated. The child hurried on under the lash of his holy inquisitiveness. "Father, how did evil come into the world? Is G.o.d both good and bad? And how can a good G.o.d punish us forever for sins committed here in only a few short years?"

"Ah, _queridito_!" cried the hara.s.sed father. "Such questions should not have entered your little head for years to come! Why can you not run and play as do other children? Why are you not happy as they are?

Why must you spend your days thinking of things that are far too deep for you? Can you not wait? Some day you shall know all. Some day, when you have entered the service of G.o.d, perhaps you may even learn these things from the Holy Father himself. Then you will understand how the good G.o.d lets evil tempt us in order that our faith in Him may be exercised and grow strong--"

"And He lets Satan harm us purposely?" The boy's innocent dark eyes looked up appealingly into his father's face.

"It is only for a short time, little son. And only those who are never fit for heaven go down with Satan. But you are not one of those," he hastily added, straining the boy to him. "And the Ma.s.ses which the good priests say for us will lift us out of purgatory and into heaven, where the streets are pure gold and the gates are pearl. And there we will all live together for--"

"Father," interrupted the boy, "I have thought of these things for a long, long time. I do not believe them. And I do not wish to become a priest."

The father fell silent. It was one of those tense moments which every man experiences when he sees a withering frost slowly gathering over the fondest hopes of a lifetime. The family of Rincon, aristocratic, intensely loyal to Church and State, had willingly laid itself upon the sacrificial altar in deference to its honored traditions. Custom had become law. Obedience of son to parent and parent to Sovereign, spiritual or temporal, had been the guiding star of the family's destinies. To think was lawful; but to hold opinions at variance with tradition was unspeakable heresy. Spontaneity of action was commendable; but conduct not prescribed by King or Pope was unpardonable crime. Loss of fortune, of worldly power and prestige, were as nothing; deviation from the narrow path trodden by the ill.u.s.trious scions of the great Juan was everything. That this lad, to whom had descended the undying memories of a long line of glorious defenders of kingly and papal power, should presume to shatter the sacred Rincon traditions, was unbelievable. It was none other than the work of Satan. The boy had fallen an innocent victim to the devil's wiles.

But the house of Rincon had withstood the a.s.saults of the son of perdition for more than three centuries. It would not yield now! The all-powerful Church of Rome stood behind it--and the gates of h.e.l.l could not prevail against her! The Church would save her own. Yes, the father silently argued, through his brother's influence the case should be laid before His Eminence, the Archbishop. And, if need be, the Holy Father himself should be called upon to cast the devil out of this tormented child. To argue with the boy now were futile, even dangerous. The lad had grown up with full knowledge of his parents'

fond hopes for his future. He had never openly opposed them, although at times the worried mother would voice her fears to the father when her little son brought his perplexing questions to her and failed to find satisfaction. But until this night the father had felt no alarm.

Indeed, he had looked upon the child's inquisitiveness as but a logical consequence of his precocity and unusual mental powers, in which he himself felt a father's swelling pride. To his thought it augured rapid promotion in the Church; it meant in time a Cardinal's hat. Ah, what glorious possibilities! How the prestige of the now sunken family would soar! Happily he had been aroused to an appreciation of the boy's really desperate state in time. The case should go before the Archbishop to-morrow, and the Church should hear his call to hasten to the rescue of this wandering lamb.

CHAPTER 4

Seville is called the heart of Spain. In a deeper sense it is her soul. Within it, extremes touch, but only to blend into a harmonious unit which manifests the Spanish temperament and character more truly there than in any other part of the world. In its Andalusian atmosphere the religious instinct of the Spaniard reaches its fullest embodiment. True, its bull-fights are gory spectacles; but they are also gorgeous and solemn ceremonies. Its _ferias_ are tremendously worldly; but they are none the less stupendous religious _fetes_. Its picturesque Easter processions, when colossal images of the Virgin are carried among bareheaded and kneeling crowds, smack of paganism; but we cannot question the genuineness of the religious fervor thus displayed. Its Cathedral touches the _arena_; and its Archbishop washes the feet of its old men. Its religion is still the living force which unites and levels, exalts and debases. And its religion is Rome.

On the fragrant spring morning following the discovery of the execrated Voltaire, the little Jose, tightly clutching his father's hand, threaded the narrow Sierpes and crossed the Prado de San Sebastian, once the _Quemador_, where the Holy Inquisition was wont to purge heresy from human souls with fire. The father shuddered, and his stern face grew dark, as he thought of the revolting scenes once enacted in that place in the name of Christ; and he inwardly voiced a prayer of grat.i.tude that the Holy Office had ceased to exist. Yet he knew that, had he lived in that day, he would have handed his beloved son over to that awful inst.i.tution without demurral, rather than see him develop those heretical views which were already rising from the soil of his fertile, inquisitive mind.

The tinkling of a bell sounded down the street. Father and son quickly doffed their hats and knelt on the pavement, while a priest, mounted on a mule, rode swiftly past on his way to the bedside of a dying communicant, the flickering lights and jingling bell announcing the fact that he bore with him the Sacred Host.

"Please G.o.d, you will do the same some day, my son," murmured the father. But the little Jose kept his eyes to the pavement, and would make no reply.

Meanwhile, at a splendidly carved table in the library of his palatial residence, surrounded by every luxury that wealth and ecclesiastical influence could command, the Archbishop, pious shepherd of a restless flock, sat with clouded brow and heavy heart. The festive ceremonials of Easter were at hand, and the Church was again preparing to display her chief splendors. But on the preceding Easter disturbances had interrupted the processions of the Virgin; and already rumors had reached the ears of the Archbishop of further trouble to be incited during the approaching Holy Week by the growing body of skeptics and anticlericals. To what extent these liberals had a.s.sumed the proportions of a propaganda, and how active they would now show themselves, were questions causing the holy man deep concern. Heavy sighs escaped him as he voiced his fears to his sympathetic secretary and a.s.sociate, Rafael de Rincon, the gaunt, ascetic uncle of the little Jose.

"Alas!" he murmured gloomily. "Since the day that our Isabella yielded to her heretic ministers and thrust aside the good Sister Patrocinio, Spain has been in a perilous state. After that unholy act the dethronement and exile of the Queen were inevitable."

"True, Your Eminence," replied the secretary. "But is there no cause for hope in the elevation of her son, Alfonso, to the throne?"

"He is but seventeen--and absent from Spain six years. He lacks the force of his talented mother. And there is no longer a Sister Patrocinio to command the royal ear."

"Unfortunate, I admit, Your Eminence. She bore the _stigmata_, the very marks of our Saviour's wounds, imprinted on her flesh, and worked his miracles. But, in Alfonso--"

"No, no," interrupted the Archbishop impatiently; "he has styled himself the first Republican in Europe. He will make Catholicism the state religion; but he will extend religious toleration to all. He is consumptive in mind as well as in body. And the army--alas! what may we look for from it when soldiers like this Polo Hernandez refuse to kneel during the Ma.s.s?"

"The man has been arrested, Your Eminence," the secretary offered in consolation.

"But the court-martial acquitted him!"

"True. Yet he has now been summoned before the supreme court in Madrid."

The Archbishop's face brightened somewhat. "And the result--what think you?"

The secretary shrugged his drooping shoulders. "They will condemn him."

Yes, doubtless he would be condemned, for mediaevalism dies hard in Spain. But the incident was portentous, and the Archbishop and his keen secretary heard in it an ominous echo.

A servant appeared at the heavy portieres, and at a sign from the secretary ushered Jose and his father into the august presence awaiting them.

An hour later the pair emerged from the palace and started homeward.

His Eminence, rousing himself from the profound revery in which he had been sunk for some moments, turned to his expectant secretary.

"A Luther in embryo!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"I feared as much, Your Eminence," returned the austere secretary.

"And yet, a remarkable intellect! Astonishing mental power! But all tainted with the d.a.m.nable so-called scientific spirit!"

"True, Your Eminence."

"But marked you not his deep reverence for G.o.d? And his st.u.r.dy honesty? And how, despite his embarra.s.sment, the religious zeal of his soul shown forth?"