No woman of true sensibility rejects a lover without feeling herself a sympathy in the pang she inflicts. It often happens that in her artless attempts to mitigate the disappointment, her motives are mistaken, and she subjects herself again to a siege so much more pressing than the former, that she yields against her conviction, a captive to a stronger will, but not to love. It was not so with a woman of Beatriz’s mould. She knew that in no way could she be so true to others as in being true to herself. When Kiana turned from her, although she was sadder than before he spoke, she felt that her sincerity had been her safety.

As she prolonged her walk farther from her house to where the trees thickened into a forest, she thought she saw a pair of piercing eyes, not unfamiliar, watching her at times, through the thick vines and ferns that clustered about her path. She was, however, too abstracted by her own reflections to be curious about them, and so she slowly wandered on.

“Holy Mother, has it come to this,” said she to herself, stopping occasionally, and pressing her hands over her heart as if to still its throbs, “do I love this man? Whence this fever here, if it be not love? Why was it that when I found him lying, as I thought, dead on the sand, my pulses ceased to beat, and for the instant I was dead myself? Could he have seen my emotion when he came to? The Chaste Virgin forbid! Yet when our eyes met on that holy evening in which we gazed so long upon the sea, I read my soul in his. But can he know what I do not know myself? I would say I do not love him, yet something within chokes me when I would utter the words. What I, a Catholic maiden, love a priest? ’tis not so! it would be sacrilege. May the Mother of God forgive the thought,” and she paused with eyes uplifted and hands clasped in silent prayer.

For an instant she became quieter, but it was only the gathering of the coming storm. Every instinct of her warm nature cried, “you love him.” Each accepted doctrine of her faith as firmly forbade it. She felt she was on the brink of a gulf. Destruction of soul and body or their martyrdom, seemed the only choice.

“Yet,” thought she, “if it be a crime, why is it that his voice ever soothes me,—that his words ever make me stronger and truer to my better self,—that he upholds me in all that is good? When with him, nature has a more loving aspect; the very stones look kindly on me. It has ever been thus. Before I suspected myself,—yes, now I see it all,—years, years ago, my heart flowed out the same to Olmedo,—his presence was my want. Away from him I was contented, it is true, but I was sad. With him, my sadness became a quiet joy. I was doubly myself. Has the good God given me all this for a torment? To ruin my soul through the source of its virtue and its highest happiness?”

She shuddered. Her whole frame was convulsed with agony. She did not fear that Olmedo did not love her, because she thought that feelings so deep and long tried as hers had been in relation to him, could not exist without the answering sympathy of his.

It was not then the fear that she was not loved that troubled her. It was rather the fear that Olmedo might be tempted even as she was. He, a priest, vowed to chastity: his wife was the Holy Church; if it were sacrilege in her to love, it were blasphemy in him. Again all the terrors of a stricken conscience smote her, and she was overwhelmed at the thought that he might be equally guilty with herself.

Thus it often is. God gives man his instincts and desires. Having made him after his own image, that image must be vital with the eternal principles of God-nature. If the author of all has inseparably connected cause and effect in the physical world, He has carried the law no less positively into the moral world. There can be, therefore, no instinct without its proper function, and no aspiration that may not be realized progressively towards Him. Duty is the password to heaven, which, in the rightly balanced mind begins on earth. Finding all things good according to their kind, it is not afraid to honor God by the right use of his gifts. Man begins his hell here also, by the bars to his progress, which his misunderstood organization, selfish passions, and the foolish learning or spiritual tyranny of his merely human theology fabricate for him. He fears, and seeks to compromise or deceive. If the spirit of God be upon him, then he enjoys all things of God, each in its due degree, with a peace that passeth understanding.

Beatriz, therefore, was right in feeling that the Being who had made the human heart and given it the capacity of loving, intended that it should love; that he had not given affections and the affinities of soul to either sex, to be a torment from want of the very object which He had made that man might not be Alone. And alone must be man or woman into whose heart enter no sympathies, responding to their own. If Adam had his mate, so has each son of his, by the same great law of Nature. God chose for Adam, but he gave to his children a delicate heritage of instincts and emotions of commingled matter and spirit, which were to be their guides towards finding the other being who is to complete their unity. That Olmedo was to her that being and she to him, Beatriz now knew full well. Her past life, with all that she had gained in character through him, and all she had enjoyed in feeling, the repose of perfect trust in his truth, the delicacy of his deportment, which, whether as confessor or friend, had always sought her highest good, all came back to her as a new revelation. Not that a single word of love had ever passed between them, or a single action, which angels might not have witnessed, escaped him. Both had been in too full enjoyment of that calm but unconscious love that springs from a mutual, mental and spiritual adaptation, without the suggestion of a more intimate relation, until to her the pang of his supposed death, and to him the reawakening of his physical life, amid the allurements of a tropical climate, disclosed to both the full extent of their attachment.

From that moment Beatriz was wretched, because however calm her exterior, within love and conscience were in conflict. Her misery was the greater, that she must hide her secret within her own bosom. Hitherto, every doubt or struggle had been disclosed to her confessor, and in his advice or consolation she had found repose. Now, the duties of her religion required her to confess this great sin to her confessor, and seek absolution for her soul’s sake; but that confessor was the man she loved, and the confession itself, besides being forbidden by every principle of womanly feeling, might, if made to him, precipitate both into the gulf their faith told them to avoid.

“Sinning woman that I am, how can I pray to the Holy Virgin with such a stain on my soul! Aid me, thou Chaste Mother, purest and best of women. Must I ever carry this sorrow, known to him and seen to God, yet dare not confess it, for fear of a greater sin? Would that I had drowned at the wreck,” and the tears dropped fast upon her pale cheeks. For a moment her body swayed to and fro with anguish, till faint and worn she sank upon the ground.

Woman! thine hour of trial has come; as the good or evil principle succeeds within thee, so wilt thou be saved or lost!

Every soul is born into the kingdom of Heaven only through spirit throes, such as thou now feelest test thy power! Much has been given thee, and much is required in this hour. Conquer, and eye hath not seen nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive the joy reserved for thee!

“God knows I love Olmedo. Were I to force my tongue to perjure my soul to man, He sees my heart and its secret sin. Father in heaven, can it be sin to love this man! Thou art all-wise, all-good, all-merciful. Thou hast told us that imperfect mortals cannot look on Thee and live, but through him, thy likeness so shines, that I can dimly see Thee. Do I not then in loving him, love Thee?” And she mused for an instant with a dubious smile, as if hope had began to dawn on her mind.

It was but for a short moment. Again her features darkened, and the cold shudder came back upon her. Life seemed struggling to escape from so bitter a trial. But her vital organization was so exquisite, that as she could enjoy, so must she also suffer.

“Oh! my God! my God!” broke passionately from her lips, “what blasphemy is this! Save me, Holy Mother! intercede for me with thy Son! the Evil One seeks to snare my soul,” and she knelt in prayer.

There in the forest, no leaf stirring, all nature hushed, that lone woman, her soul racked with doubt, fearing equally to violate her own pure impulses and the faith which bade her crucify them, plead piteously to her Father in heaven for strength to calm her soul, and to know the right. Never before, in that land, had a truthful, earnest woman’s heart poured forth its passionate griefs in words of childlike simplicity, seeking sympathy and aid direct from its Maker. Well might we call that spot hallowed through all after time. Long and deeply she prayed, with her sad, sorrow-convulsed face upturned to heaven, into the vault of which her full mild eyes seemed to pierce with a bright light, as if like Stephen, she saw the crucified one amid his angels. Gradually her features softened, a tear stood in either eye, the spirit she sought entered her soul, and she rose from her forest altar, if not a happier, for the time a calmer woman.