Carmen Ariza Part 105

"Senora," she began again, after a brief interval, "Padre Jose is a good man, even the human Padre Jose. And he is trying to solve his problem and know G.o.d. And he is trying to know himself, not as other people think they know him, but as G.o.d knows him, and as I have always tried to know him. You have no right to judge him--and, anyway, you are not judging him, but only your wrong idea of him. And that," she said softly, "is nothing."

The Sister did not answer. She was beginning to feel the spell of those great brown eyes, that soft, rich voice, and the sparkling expression of innocence, purity, and calm a.s.surance that bubbled from those red lips. And she was losing herself in contemplation of the girl's luxuriant beauty, whose rich profusion her strange, foreign attire could not disguise.

"Senora," said Carmen suddenly, "the people on the boat laughed at my clothes. But I don't think them half as funny as that great black bonnet you are wearing. Why do you wear it? I never saw one until I was brought here."

It was said innocently, and with no thought of offense. But the woman instantly roused from her meditation and a.s.sumed an att.i.tude of severe dignity. "Finish your breakfast," she commanded sharply. "And remember after this that children's manners here are not those of your country."

The girl fell quiet under the rebuke, and the meal ended in silence.

As they were rising from the table a cheery voice came from the outer room, and presently a priest looked in.

"Good morning, Sister," he cried heartily. "Well, who's this?" as his eyes fell upon Carmen. He was a young man, apparently still in the twenties, of athletic build, inclined rather to stoutness, and with a round, s.h.i.+ning face that radiated health and good nature.

The Sister quietly returned his cordial greeting. "It is a little waif," she said in answer to his query, "who strayed in here last night."

"Aha," said the priest, "another derelict! And will you send her to the orphanage?"

"I'm afraid if I do the little heretic will corrupt all the other children," replied the Sister. "Father," she continued seriously, "I want you to examine this child, and then tell me what you think should be done with her."

"What is it--health?" asked the priest, studying the girl.

"No," replied the Sister; "but another priest has gone wrong, and this," pointing to Carmen, "is the result of his pernicious teachings."

The priest did not reply for some moments. Then he sighed wearily.

"Very well, Sister," he said in a low voice. "I will talk with her after the service." He seemed suddenly to have lost his cheerfulness, as he continued to converse with the woman on matters pertaining to the inst.i.tution.

Carmen, wondering and receptive, took the place a.s.signed to her in the chapel and sat quietly through the service. She had often seen Jose celebrate Ma.s.s in the rude little church in Simiti, but with no such elaboration as she witnessed here. Once or twice she joined in the responses, not with any thought of wors.h.i.+p, but rather to give vent, even if slight, to the impelling desire to hear her own musical voice.

She thought as she did so that the priest looked in her direction. She thought others looked at her attentively at the same time. But they had all stared at her, for that matter, and she had felt confused and embarra.s.sed under their searching scrutiny. Yet the old people attracted her peculiarly. Never had she seen so many at one time. And never, she thought, had she seen such physical decrepitude and helplessness. And then she fell to wondering what they were all there for, and what they got out of the service. Did the Ma.s.s mean anything to them? Did they believe that thereby their sins were atoned? Did they believe that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine into flesh and blood? She recalled much that Jose had told her about the people up in the States. They were not so different, mentally, from her own, after all.

The Host had been elevated. The people, still gossiping cheerfully, had prostrated themselves before it. The sermon had been short, for the old people waxed impatient at long discourses. Then the priest descended from the pulpit and came to Carmen. "Now, little girl," he said, seating himself beside her, "tell me all about yourself, who you are, where you come from, and what you have been taught. And do not be afraid. I am your friend." Carmen smiled up at him; then plunged into her narrative.

It was two hours later when the Sister Superior looked in and saw the priest and girl still sitting in earnest conversation. She stood listening. "But," she heard the priest say, "you tell me that this Father Jose taught you these things?"

"He taught me English, and French, and German. He taught me mathematics. And he taught me all I know of history, and of the world," the girl replied.

"Yes, yes," the priest went on hurriedly; "but these other things, these religious and philosophical notions, who taught you these?"

The Sister drew closer and strained her ears to hear.

The girl looked down as she answered softly, "G.o.d."

The priest's head sank upon his breast. He reached out and laid a hand on hers. "I believe you," he said, in a voice scarcely audible. "I believe you--for we do not teach such things."

The girl looked up with luminous eyes. "Then," she said quizzically, "you are not really a priest."

"Father Waite!" The Sister's voice rang sternly through the quiet chapel. The priest started to his feet in confusion. "The dinner-bell will ring in a few minutes," continued the Sister, regarding the man severely.

"Ah, true," he murmured, hastily glancing at the clock. "The time pa.s.sed so rapidly--a--a--this girl--"

"Leave the girl to me," replied the Sister coldly. "Unless," she added, "you consider her deranged. Coming from that hot country suddenly into this cold climate might--"

"No, no," interrupted the priest hastily; "she seems uncommonly strong mentally. She has some notions that are a--somewhat different from ours--that is--but I will come and have a further talk with her."

He raised his hand in silent benediction, while the Sister bowed her head stiffly. Then, as if loath to take his eyes from the girl, he turned and went slowly out.

"Come," said the woman sharply. Carmen followed her out into the hall and down a flight of steps to the kitchen below.

"Katherine," said the Sister Superior, addressing an elderly, white-haired Sister who seemed to be in charge of the culinary department, "put this girl to work. Let her eat with you and sleep in your room. And see if you can't work some of the foolish notions out of her head."

CHAPTER 3

"Get some o' th' foolish notions out of your head, is it? Och, puir bairn, wid yer swate face an' that hivenly hair, it's welcome ye air to yer notions! But, hist! Ye have talked too brash to the Sister Superior. Ye air that innocent, puir thing! But, mind your tongue, honey. Tell your funny notions to old Katie, an' they'll be safe as the soul of Saint Patrick; but keep mum before the others, honey."

"But, Senora, don't they want to know the truth up here?" There was a note of appeal in the quavering voice.

"Now listen, honey; don't call me sich heathen names. Call me Sister.

I'm no Senora, whativer that may be. And as for wantin' to know the truth, G.o.d bless ye, honey! th' good Fathers know it all now."

"They don't, Sen--Sister!"

"Well, thin, they don't--an' mebby I'm not so far from agreein' wid ye. But, och, it's dead beat I am, after the Sunday's work! But ye air a right smart little helper, honey--only, ye don't belong in th'

kitchen."

"Sen--I mean, Sister--"

"That's better, honey; ye'll get it in time."

"Sister, I've just _got_ to find Mr. Reed! Do you know him?"

"No, honey, it's few I know outside these walls. But ye can put up a bit of a prayer when ye turn in to-night. An' we'd best be makin' for th' bed, too, darlin', for we've a hard day's work to-morrow."

It was Carmen's second night in New York, and as the girl silently followed the puffing old woman up the several long, dark flights of stairs to the little, cheerless room under the eaves, it seemed to her that her brain must fly apart with the pressure of its mental acc.u.mulation. The great building in which she was now sheltered, the kitchen, with its marvels of equipment, gas stoves, electric lights, annunciators, and a thousand other equally wonderful appliances which the human mind has developed for its service and comfort, held her fascinated, despite her situation, while she swelled with questions she dared not ask. Notwithstanding the anxiety which she had not wholly suppressed, her curiosity, nave, eager, and insatiable, rose mountain high. Sister Katherine had been kind to her, had received her with open arms, and given her light tasks to perform. And many times during the long afternoon the old woman had relaxed entirely from her a.s.sumed brusqueness and stooped to lay a large, red hand gently upon the brown curls, or to imprint a resounding kiss upon the flushed cheek. Now, as night was settling down over the great, roaring city, the woman took the homeless waif into her big heart and wrapped her in a love that, roughly expressed, was yet none the less tender and sincere.

"Ye can ask the Virgin, honey, to send ye to yer frinds," said the woman, as they sat in the gloaming before the window and looked out over the kindling lights of the city.

"What good would that do, Sister?"

"Not much, I guess, honey," answered the woman frankly. "Troth, an'

I've asked her fer iverything in my time, from diamonds to a husband, an' she landed me in a convint! But I ain't complainin'."

"You didn't ask in the right way, Sister--"

"Faith, I asked in ivery way I knew how! An' whin I had th' carbuncle on me neck I yelled at her! Sure she may have answered me prayer, fer th' whoop I gave busted the carbuncle, an' I got well. Ye nivir kin tell, honey. An' so I ain't complainin'."

"But, Sis--I can't call you Sister!" pleaded the girl, going to the woman and twining her arms about her neck.