"No," she murmured gently, "you can't. He's way down in Simití. And,

oh, he was so good to me! He made me leave that country on account of

the war."

The man started slightly. This innocent girl little knew that one of

the instigators of that bloody revolution sat there beside her. Then a

new thought flashed into his brain. "What is the full name of this

priest?" he suddenly asked.

"Josè--Josè de Rincón," she whispered reverently.

Josè de Rincón--of Simití--whom Wenceslas had made the scapegoat of

the revolution! Why, yes, that was the man! And who, according to a

recent report from Wenceslas, had been arrested and--

"A--a--where did you say this--this Josè was, little girl?" he asked

gently.

"In Simití," she replied. "He is working out his problem."

His eyes shifted quickly from hers. But he could not hold them away.

"His problem?"

"Yes. You know, he never was a priest at heart. But, though he saw the

truth, in part, he was not able to prove it enough to set himself

free; and so when I came away he stayed behind to work out his

problem. And he will work it all out," she mused abstractedly, looking

off into the distance; "he will work it all out and come--to me. I

am--I am working with him, now--and for him. And--" her voice dropped

to a whisper, "I love him, oh, so much!"

Ames's steely eyes narrowed. His mouth opened; then shut again with a

sharp snap. That beautiful creature now belonged to him, and to none

other! Were there other claimants, he would crush them without mercy!

As for this apostate priest, Josè--humph! if he still lived he should

rot the rest of his days in the reeking dungeons of San Fernando!

Carmen looked up. "When he comes to me," she said softly, "we are

going to give ourselves to the whole world."

Ames appeared not to hear.

"And--perhaps--perhaps, by that time, you will be--be--"

"Well?" snapped the man, irritated by the return of her thought to

himself.

"Different," finished the girl gently.

"Humph! Different, eh?"

"Yes. Perhaps by that time you will--you will love everybody," she

murmured. "Perhaps you won't go on piling up big mountains of money

that you can't use, and that you won't let anybody else use."

Ames frowned upon her. "Yes?" he said ironically.

"You will know then that Jesus founded his great empire on love. Your

empire, you know, is human business. But you will find that such

empires crumble and fall. And yours will, like all the rest."

"Say," he exclaimed, turning full upon her and seeming to bear her

down by his tremendous personality, "you young and inexperienced

reformers might learn a few things, too, if your prejudices could be

surmounted. Has it ever occurred to you that we men of business think

not so much about accumulating money as about achieving success? Do

you suppose you could understand that money-making is but a side issue

with us?"

"Achieving success!" she echoed, looking wonderingly at him.

"Well--are you--a success?"

He started to reply. Then he checked himself. A flush stole across his

face. Then his eyes narrowed.

"Yes," the girl went on, as if in quiet soliloquy, "I suppose you

are--a tremendous worldly success. And this Ball--it is a splendid

success, too. Thousands of dollars will be raised for the poor. And

then, next year, the same thing will have to be done again. Your

charities cost you hundreds of millions every year up here. And,

meantime, you rich men will go right on making more money at the

expense of your fellow-men--and you will give a little of it to the

poor when the next Charity Ball comes around. It's like a circle,

isn't it?" she said, smiling queerly up at him. "It has no end, you

know."

Ames had now decided to swallow his annoyance and meet the girl with

the lance of frivolity. "Yes, I guess that's so," he began. "But of

course you will admit that the world is slowly getting better, and

that world-progress must of necessity be gradual. We can't reform all

in a minute, can we?"

She shook her head. "I don't know how fast you might reform if you

really, sincerely tried. But I think it would be very fast. And if

you, a great, big, powerful man, with the most wonderful opportunities

in the world, should really try to be a success, why--well, I'm sure

you'd make very rapid progress, and help others like you by setting

such a great example. For you are a wonderful man--you really are."

Ames looked at her long and quizzically. What did the girl mean? Then

he took her hand, this time without resistance.

"Tell me, little girl--although I know there can be no doubt of

it--are you a success?"

She raised her luminous eyes to his. "Yes," she replied simply.

He let fall her hand in astonishment. "Well!" he ejaculated, "would

you mind telling me just why?"

She smiled up at him, and her sweet trustfulness drew his sagging

heartstrings suddenly taut.

"Because," she said simply, "I strive every moment to 'acquire that

mind which was in Christ Jesus.'"

Silence fell upon them. From amusement to wonder, to irritation, to

anger, then to astonishment, and a final approximation to something

akin to reverent awe had been the swift course of the man's emotions

as he sat in this secluded nook beside this strange girl. The

poisoned arrows of his worldly thought had broken one by one against

the shield of her protecting faith. His badinage had returned to

confound himself. The desire to possess had utterly fled before the

conviction that such thought was as wildly impossible as iniquitous.

Then he suddenly became conscious that the little body beside him had

drawn closer--that it was pressing against him--that a little hand had

stolen gently into his--and that a soft voice, soft as the summer

winds that sigh among the roses, was floating to his ears.

"To be really great is to be like that wonderful man, Jesus. It is to

know that through him the great Christ-principle worked and did those

things which the world will not accept, because it thinks them

miracles. It is to know that God is love, and to act that knowledge.

It is to know that love is the Christ-principle, and that it will

destroy every error, every discord, everything that is unlike itself.

It is to yield your present false sense of happiness and good to the

true sense of God as infinite good. It is to bring every thought into

captivity to this Christ-principle, love. It is to stop looking at

evil as a reality. It is to let go your hold on it, and let it fade

away before the wonderful truth that God is everywhere, and that there

isn't anything apart from Him. Won't you try it? You will have to,

some day. I have tried it. I know it's true. I've proved it."

* * * * *

How long they sat in the quiet that followed, neither knew. Then the

man suffered himself to be led silently back to the ball room again.

And when he had recovered and restored his worldly self, the bright

little image was no longer at his side.

"Stand here, Jude, an' when they begins to come out to their gasoline

carts grab anything ye can, an' git. I'll work over by the door."

The shivering woman crept closer to the curb, and the man slouched

back against the wall close to the exit from which the revelers would

soon emerge. A distant clock over a jeweler's window chimed the hour

of four. A moment later the door opened, and a lackey came out and

loudly called the number of the Hawley-Crowles car. That ecstatically

happy woman, with Carmen and the obsequious young Duke of Altern,

appeared behind him in the flood of light.

As the big car drew softly up, the wretched creature whom the man had

called Jude darted from behind it and plunged full at Carmen. But the

girl had seen her coming, and she met her with outstretched arm. The

glare from the open door fell full upon them.

"Jude!"

"God!" cried the woman. "It's the little kid!"

She turned to flee. Carmen held her. With a quick movement the girl

tore the string of pearls from her neck and thrust it into Jude's

hand. The latter turned swiftly and darted into the blackness of the

street. Then Carmen hurriedly entered the car, followed by her

stupefied companions. It had all been done in a moment of time.

"Good heavens!" cried Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, when she had recovered her

composure sufficiently to speak. "What does this mean? What did you

do?"

But Carmen replied not. And the Duke of Altern rubbed his weak eyes

and tried hard to think.

CHAPTER 16

Before Mrs. Hawley-Crowles sought her bed that morning the east was

red with the winter sun. "The loss of the pearls is bad enough," she

exclaimed in conclusion, glowering over the young girl who sat before

her, "for I paid a good three thousand for the string! But, in

addition, to scandalize me before the world--oh, how could you? And

this unspeakable Jude--and that awful house--heavens, girl! Who would

believe your story if it should get out?" The worried woman's face was

bathed in cold perspiration.

"But--she saved me from--from that place," protested the harassed

Carmen. "She was poor and cold--I could see that. Why should I have

things that I don't need when others are starving?"

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles shook her weary head in despair. Her sister, Mrs.

Reed, who had sat fixing the girl with her cold eyes throughout the

stormy interview following their return from the ball, now offered a

suggestion. "The thing to do is to telephone immediately to all the

newspapers, and say that her beads were stolen last night."

"But they weren't stolen," asserted the girl. "I gave them to her--"

"Go to your room!" commanded Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, at the limit of her

endurance. "And never, under any circumstances, speak of this affair

to any one--never!"

The social crown, which had rested none too securely upon the gilded

wig of the dynamic Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, had been given a jolt that set

it tottering.

* * * * *

It was very clear to Mrs. J. Wilton Ames after the Charity Ball that

she was engaged in a warfare to the death, and with the most

relentless of enemies. Nothing short of the miraculous could now

dethrone the detested Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her beautiful,

mysterious ward. She dolefully acknowledged to herself and to the

sulking Kathleen that she had been asleep, that she had let her foot

slip, and that her own husband's conduct in leading the grand march

with Carmen bade fair to give the _coup de grâce_ to a social prestige

which for many weeks had been decidedly on the wane.

"Mamma, we'll have to think up some new stunts," said the dejected

Kathleen over the teacups the noon following the ball. "Why, they've

even broken into the front page of the newspapers with a fake jewelry

theft! Look, they pretend that the little minx was robbed of her

string of pearls last night on leaving the hall. I call that pretty

cheap notoriety!"

Mrs. Ames's lip curled in disdain as she read the news item. "An Inca

princess, indeed! Nobody knows who she is, nor what! Why doesn't

somebody take the trouble to investigate her? They'd probably find her

an outcast."

"Couldn't papa look her up?" suggested Kathleen.

Mrs. Ames did not reply. She had no wish to discuss her husband, after

the affair of the previous evening. And, even in disregard of that,

she would not have gone to him with the matter. For she and her

consort, though living under the same roof, nevertheless saw each

other but seldom. At times they met in the household elevator; and for

the sake of appearances they managed to dine together with Kathleen in

a strained, unnatural way two or three times a week, at which times no

mention was ever made of the son who had been driven from the parental

roof. There were no exchanges of confidences or affection, and Mrs.

Ames knew but little of the working of his mentality. She was wholly

under the dominance of her masterful husband, merely an accessory to

his mode of existence. He used her, as he did countless others, to

buttress a certain side of his very complex life. As for assistance in

determining Carmen's status, there was none to be obtained from him,

strongly attracted by the young girl as he had already shown himself

to be. Indeed, she might be grateful if the attachment did not lead to

far unhappier consequences!

"Larry Beers said yesterday that he had something new," she replied

irrelevantly to Kathleen's question. "He has in tow a Persian dervish,

who sticks knives through his mouth, and drinks melted lead, and bites

red-hot pokers, and a lot of such things. Larry says he's the most

wonderful he's ever seen, and I'm going to have him and a real Hindu

_swami_ for next Wednesday evening."

New York's conspicuous set indeed would have languished often but for

the social buffoonery of the clever Larry Beers, who devised new

diversions and stimulating mental condiments for the jaded brains of

that gilded cult. His table ballets, his bizarre parlor circuses, his

cunningly devised fads in which he set forth his own inimitable

antics, won him the motley and the cap and bells of this tinseled

court, and forced him well out into the glare of publicity, which was

what he so much desired.

And by that much it made him as dangerous as any stupid anarchist who

toils by candle-light over his crude bombs. For by it he taught the

great mass of citizenship who still retained their simple ideals of

reason and respect that there existed a social caste, worshipers of

the golden calf, to whom the simple, humdrum virtues were quite

unendurable, and who, utterly devoid of conscience, would quaff

champagne and dance on the raw, quivering hearts of their fellow-men

with glee, if thereby their jaded appetites for novelty and

entertainment might be for the moment appeased.

And so Larry Beers brought his _swami_ and dervish to the Ames

mansion, and caused his hostess to be well advertised in the

newspapers the following day. And he caused the eyes of Carmen to

bulge, and her thought to swell with wonder, as she gazed. And he

caused the bepowdered nose of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles to stand a bit

closer to the perpendicular, while she sat devising schemes to cast a

shade over this clumsy entertainment.

The chief result was that, a week later, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, still

running true to form, retorted with a superb imitation of the French

_Bal de l'Opéra_, once so notable under the Empire. The Beaubien had

furnished the inspiring idea--and the hard cash.

"I wonder why I do it?" that woman had meditated. "Why do I continue

to lend her money and take her notes? I wanted to ruin her, at first.

I don't--I don't seem to feel that way now. Is it because of Carmen?

Or is it because I hate that Ames woman so? I wonder if I do still

hate her? At any rate I'm glad to see Carmen oust the proud hussy from

her place. It's worth all I've spent, even if I burn the notes I hold

against Jim Crowles's widow."

And often after that, when at night the Beaubien had sought her bed,

she would lie for hours in the dim light meditating, wondering. "It's

Carmen!" she would always conclude. "It's Carmen. She's making me over

again. I'm not the same woman I was when she came into my life. Oh,

God bless her--if there is a God!"

The mock _Bal de l'Opéra_ was a magnificent _fête_. All the members of

the smart set were present, and many appeared in costumes representing

flowers, birds, and vegetables. Carmen went as a white rose; and her

great natural beauty, set off by an exquisite costume, made her the

fairest flower of the whole garden. The Duke of Altern, costumed as a

long carrot, fawned in her wake throughout the evening. The tubbily

girthy Gannette, dressed to represent a cabbage, opposed her every

step as he bobbed before her, showering his viscous compliments upon

the graceful creature. Kathleen Ames appeared as a bluebird; and she

would have picked the fair white rose to pieces if she could, so

wildly jealous did she become at the sight of Carmen's further

triumph.

About midnight, when the revelry was at its height, a door at the end

of the hall swung open, and a strong searchlight was turned full upon

it. The orchestra burst into the wailing dead march from _Saul_, and

out through the glare of light stalked the giant form of J. Wilton

Ames, gowned in dead black to represent a King Vulture, and with a

blood-red fez surmounting his cruel mask. As he stepped out upon the

platform which had been constructed to represent the famous bridge in

"_Sumurun_," and strode toward the main floor, a murmur involuntarily

rose from the assemblage. It was a murmur of awe, of horror, of fear.

The "_monstrum horrendum_" of Poe was descending upon them in the garb

which alone could fully typify the character of the man! When he

reached the end of the bridge the huge creature stopped and distended

his enormous sable wings.

"Good God!" cried Gannette, as he thought of his tremendous financial

obligations to Ames.

Carmen shuddered and turned away from the awful spectacle. "I want to

go," she said to the petrified Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, who had known

nothing of this feature of the program.

Straight to the trembling, white-clad girl the great, black vulture

stalked. The revelers fell away from him on either side as he

approached. Carmen turned again and watched him come. Her face was

ashen. "God is everywhere," she murmured.

Then her anxious look faded. A light came into her eyes, and a smile

wreathed her mouth. And when Ames reached her and extended his huge,

black wings again, she walked straight into them with a look of joy

upon her beautiful face. Then the wings closed and completely hid the

fair, white form from the gaping crowd.

For a few moments dead silence reigned throughout the hall. Then the

orchestra crashed, the vulture's wings slowly opened, and the girl,

who would have gone to the stake with the same incomprehensible smile,

stepped out. The black monster turned and strode silently, ominously,

back to the end of the hall, crossed the bridge, and disappeared

through the door which opened at his approach.

"I'm going home!" said the shaken Gannette to his perspiring wife.

"That looks bad to me! That girl's done for; and Ames has taken this

way to publicly announce the fact! My God!"

There was another astonished watcher in the audience that evening. It

was the eminent Monsignor Lafelle, recently back from Europe by way of

the West Indies. And after the episode just related, he approached

Carmen and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles.

"A very clever, if startling, performance," he commented; "and with

two superb actors, Mr. Ames and our little friend here," bowing over

Carmen's hand.

"I am _so_ glad you could accept our invitation, Monsignor. But,

dear me! I haven't got my breath yet," panted the steaming Mrs.

Hawley-Crowles. "Do take us, Monsignor, to the refectory. I feel

faint."

A few moments later, over their iced drinks, Lafelle was relating

vivid incidents of his recent travels, and odd bits of news from

Cartagena. "No, Miss Carmen," he said, in reply to her anxious

inquiries, "I did not meet the persons you have mentioned. And as for

getting up the Magdalena river, it would have been quite impossible.

Dismiss from your mind all thought of going down there now. Cartagena

is tense with apprehension. The inland country is seething. And the

little town of Simití which you mention, I doubt not it is quite shut

off from the world by the war."

Carmen turned aside that he might not see the tears which welled into

her eyes.

"Your entertainment, Madam," continued Lafelle, addressing the now

recovered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, "is superb, as have been all of your

social projects this winter, I learn. The thought which you expressed

to me some months ago regarding Catholic activity in social matters

certainly was well founded. I perceive that our Protestant rivals have

all but retired from the field."

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles swelled with pride. Carmen regarded the churchman

with wonder.

"And have you not found a sense of peace, of satisfaction and comfort,

since you united with the true Church?" Lafelle went on. "Are you not

at last at rest?"

"Quite so," sighed the lady, though the sigh was scarcely one of

unalloyed relief.

Lafelle turned to Carmen. "And our little friend here--can she still

remain an alien, now that she has some knowledge of her indebtedness

to the Church?"

Carmen looked blank. "My indebtedness to the Church!" she repeated.

"Why--"

It was now Lafelle's turn to sigh, as he directed himself again to

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. "She does not see, Madam, that it was by the

ladder of Holy Church that she mounted to her present enviable social

height."

"But--what--what do you mean?" stammered the bewildered girl.

"May I not come and explain it to her?" said Lafelle. Then he suddenly

thought of his last conversation with the Beaubien. But he shrugged

his shoulders, and a defiant look sat upon his features.

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles dared not refuse the request. She knew she was now

too deeply enmeshed for resistance, and that Lafelle's control over

her was complete--unless she dared to face social and financial ruin.

And under that thought she paled and grew faint, for it raised the

curtain upon chaos and black night.

"Would it be convenient for me to call to-morrow afternoon?" continued

the churchman.

"Certainly," murmured Mrs. Hawley-Crowles in a scarcely audible

voice.

"By the way," Lafelle said, suddenly turning the conversation, "how,

may I ask, is our friend, Madam Beaubien?"

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles again trembled slightly. "I--I have not seen her

much of late, Monsignor," she said feebly.

"A strong and very liberal-minded woman," returned Lafelle with

emphasis. "I trust, as your spiritual adviser, Madam, I may express

the hope that you are in no way influenced by her."

"Sir!" cried Carmen, who had bounded to her feet, her eyes ablaze,

"Madam Beaubien is a noble woman!"

"My dear child!" Lafelle grasped her hand and drew her back into her

chair. "You misunderstand me, quite. Madam Beaubien is a very dear

friend of ours, and we greatly admire her strength of character. She

certainly does not require your defense! Dear! dear! you quite

startled me."

A few moments later he rose and offered his arms to his companions to

lead them back to the hall. Delivering Carmen into the charge of the

eagerly waiting Duke of Altern, Lafelle remarked, as he took leave of

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, "I trust you will permit me to talk with your

beautiful ward to-morrow afternoon--alone." And when the lady

interpreted the significance of his look, her heart beat rapidly, as

she bowed her acknowledgment of abject submission.

"Bah Jove!" ejaculated the young Duke, clutching Carmen. "Ye know, I

was deucedly afraid you had gone home, or that Uncle Wilton had you.

Ye know, I think I'm jealous of him!"

Carmen laughed merrily at the fellow. His grotesque costume made him

appear still more ridiculous.

"It's nothing to laugh at, Miss Carmen! It's a bally bore to have a

regular mountain like him always getting in the way; and to-night I

just made up my mind I wouldn't stand it any longer, bah Jove! I say,

come on!"

He fixed his monocle savagely in his eye and strode rapidly toward

the refreshment hall. Carmen went in silence. She heard his murmur of

gratification when his gaze lighted upon the chairs and table which

he had evidently arranged previously in anticipation of this

_tête-à-tête_.

"Ye know," he finally began, after they were seated and he had sat

some minutes staring at the girl, "ye know, you're deucedly clevah,

Miss Carmen! I told mother so to-day, and this time she had to agree.

And that about your being an Inca princess--ye know, I could see that

from the very first day I met you. Mighty romantic, and all that,

don't ye know!"

"Indeed, yes!" replied the girl, her thought drifting back to distant

Simití.

"And all about that mine you own in South America--and Mrs.

Hawley-Crowles making you her heiress--and all that--bah Jove!

It's--it's romantic, I tell you!" His head continued to nod emphasis

to his thought long after he finished speaking.

"Ye know," he finally resumed, drawing a gold-crested case from a

pocket and lighting a monogrammed cigarette, "a fellow can always tell

another who is--well, who belongs to the aristocracy. Mrs. Ames, ye

know, said she had some suspicions about you. But I could see right

off that it was because she was jealous. Mother and I knew what you

were the minute we clapped eyes on you. That's because we belong to

the nobility, ye know."

He smoked in silence for some moments. Carmen was far, far away.

"Bah Jove, Miss Carmen, I'm going to say it!" he suddenly blurted.

"Mother wanted me to marry Lord Cragmont's filly; but, bah Jove, I

say, I'm going to marry you!"

Carmen now heard, and she quickly sat up, her eyes wide and staring.

"Marry me!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," he went on. "Oh, it's all right. You're a princess, ye know,

and so you're in our class. I'm not one of the kind that hands out a

title to the red-nosed daughter of any American pork packer just to

get her money. Not me! The girl I marry has got to be my equal."

"Oh!" murmured the astonished Carmen.

"It's all right for you to have money, of course. I won't marry a

pauper, even if she's a duchess. But you and I, Miss Carmen, are just

suited to each other--wealth and nobility on each side. I've got

thirty thousand good British acres in my own right, bah Jove!"

By now Carmen had fully recovered from her surprise. She reflected a

moment, then determined to meet the absurd youth with the spirit of

levity which his audacity merited. "But, Reginald," she said in mock

seriousness, "though your father was a duke, how about your mother?

Was she not just an ordinary American girl, a sister of plain Mrs. J.

Wilton Ames? Where's the aristocracy there? Now on my side--"

"Now, Miss Carmen," cried the boy petulantly, "can't you see that, by

marrying my father, my mother became ennobled? Bah Jove, you don't

understand! Were your parents both noble?"

"Indeed they were!" said Carmen. "They were both children of a king."

"You don't say!" he whispered, leaning far over the table toward her.

"Then we've simply _got_ to marry!"

"But," protested the girl, "in my country people love those whom they

marry. I haven't heard a word of that from you."

"Now, I say!" he exclaimed. "I was just getting round to that. It was

love that made me offer you my name and title!"

"Yes? Love of what?"

"Why--you--of course!"

She laughed musically. "My dear Reginald, you don't love me. It is

yourself that you love. You are madly in love, it is true; but it is

with the young Duke of Altern."

"See here, you can't talk to me that way, ye know!" he flared out.

"Bah Jove, I'm offering to make you a duchess--and I love you, too,

though you may not think it!"

"Of course you love me, Reginald," said Carmen in gentle reply, now

relinquishing her spirit of badinage; "and I love you. But I do not

wish to marry you."

The young man started under the shock and stared at her in utter lack

of comprehension. Was it possible that this unknown girl was refusing

him, a duke? She must be mad!

"A--a--I don't get you, Miss Carmen," he stammered.

"Come," she said, rising and holding out a hand. "Let's not talk about

this any more. We must go back to the hall. I do love you, Reginald,

but not in the way that perhaps you would like. I love the real _you_;

not the vain, foolish, self-adoring human concept, called the Duke of

Altern. And the love I feel for you will help you, oh, far more than

if I married you! Come."

"But--Miss Carmen!" He stood before her with mouth open.

"Yes, Reginald."

"I--I expected we'd be engaged--I told mother--"

"Very well, Reginald, we are engaged. Engaged in handling this little

problem that has presented itself to you. Do you see? And I will help

you to solve it in the right way. For you need help. Reginald dear, I

didn't mean to treat your proposal so lightly. I am sorry. There, give

me your hand. We're just awfully good friends, aren't we? And I do

love you, more than you think."

Leaving the bewildered youth in the hall, Carmen fell afoul of the

very conservative Mrs. Gannette, whose husband, suffering from a sense

of nausea since the appearance of Ames as a King Vulture, had some

moments before summoned his car and driven to his favorite club to

flood his apprehensions with Scotch high-balls.

"Ah, little sly-boots!" piped Mrs. Gannette, shaking a finger at

Carmen. "I saw you with Reginald just now. I'm awfully wise about such

things. Tell me, dear, when shall we be able to call you the Duchess

of Altern? You lucky girl!"

Carmen's spirits sank, as, without reply, she submitted to the banal

boredom of this blustering dame's society gabble. Mrs. Gannette hooked

her arm into the girl's and led her to a divan. "It's a great affair,

isn't it?" she panted, settling her round, unshapely form out over the

seat. "Dear me! I did intend to come in costume. Was coming as a

tomato. Ha! ha! Thought that was better adapted to my shape. But when

I got the cloth form around me, do you know, I couldn't get through

the door! And my unlovely pig of a husband said if I came looking like

that he'd get a divorce." The corpulent dame shook and wheezed with

the expression of her abundant merriment.

"Well," she continued, "it wasn't his threat that hindered me,

goodness knows! A divorce would be a relief, after living forty years

with him! Say, there goes young Doctor Worley. Speaking of divorce,

he's just got one. It all came round through a joke. Billy Patterson

dared him to exchange wives with him one evening when they were having

a little too much gaiety at the Worley home, and the doctor took the

dare. Ha! ha! The men swapped wives for two days. What do you think of

that! And this divorce was the result. But Billy took his wife back.

He thought it was just a good joke. Kate Worley gets an alimony of

fifty thousand per. But the doctor can stand it. Why, he has a

practice of not less than two hundred and fifty thousand a year!"

"I supposed," murmured Carmen, "that amount of money is a measure of

his ability, a proof of his great usefulness."

"Nothing of the kind," replied Mrs. Gannette. "He's simply in with the

wealthy, that's all. Dear! dear! Do look at that fright over there!

It's Lizzie Wall. Now isn't she simply hideous! Those diamonds are

nothing but paste! The hussy!"

Carmen glanced at the pale, slender woman across the hall, seated

alone, and wearing a look of utter weariness.

"I'd like to meet her," she said, suddenly drawn by the woman's mute

appeal for sympathy.

"Don't do it!" hastily interposed Mrs. Gannette. "She's going to be

dropped. Name's already on the black list. I don't know what Mrs.

Hawley-Crowles was thinking of to invite her to-night! Her estate is

being handled by Ames and Company, and J. Wilton says there won't be

much left when it's settled--

"My goodness!" she exclaimed, abruptly flitting to another topic.

"There goes Miss Tottle. Look at her skirt--flounced at the knees, and

full in the back so's to give a bustle effect. My! I wish I could wear

togs cut that way--

"They say, my dear," the garrulous old worldling prattled on, "that

next season's styles will be very ultra. Butterfly idea, I hear. Hats

small and round, like the heads of butterflies. Waists and jackets

very full and quite loose in the back and shoulders, so's to give the

appearance of wings. Belts, but no drawing in at the waist. Skirts

plaited, plaits opening wide at the knees and coming close together

again at the ankle, so's to look like the body of a butterfly. Then

butterfly bows sprinkled all over."

She paused for breath. Then she drew a long sigh. "Oh dear," she

lamented, "I'd give anything if I had a decent shape! I'd like to wear

those shimmering, flowing, transparent summer things over silk tights.

But, mercy me! I'd look like a potato busted wide open. Now you can

wear those X-ray dresses all right--

"Say, Kathleen Ames has a new French gown to wear to the Dog Show.

Skirt slit clear to the knee, with diamond garter around the leg just

below. How I'd look! I have a leg like a ham!"

Carmen heard little of this vapid talk, as she sat studying the pale

woman across the hall. She had resolved to meet her just as soon as

the loquacious Mrs. Gannette should seek another victim. But that

genial old gossip gave no present evidence of a desire to change.

"I'm _so_ glad you're going to marry young Altern," she said, again

swerving the course of her conversation. "He's got a fine old ruined

castle somewhere in England, and seems to have wads of money, though I

hear that everything is mortgaged to Ames. I wouldn't be surprised.

Still, his bare title is worth something to an American girl. Besides,

you've got money. And you'll do a lot for his family. You know--but

don't breathe a word of this!--his mother never was recognized

socially in England, and she finally had to give up the fight. For a

while Ames backed her, but it wouldn't do. His millions couldn't buy

her the court entrée, and she just had to quit. That's why she's over

here now. The old Duke--he was lots older than she--died a couple of

years ago. Ran through everything and drank himself to death. Before

and since that happy event the Duchess did everything under the

heavens to get a bid to court. She gave millions to charity and to

entertainments. She sacrificed everything. But, no sir! It wouldn't

do. She had no royal blood. But with you it will be different. You're

a princess, royal Inca, and such like. You qualify right from the

jump. So you see what you're expected to do for the Altern crowd--

"Dear! dear!" catching her breath and switching quickly to another

theme, "have you heard about the Hairton scandal? It's simply rich!

You see, young Sidney Ames--"

Carmen's patience had touched its limit. "Don't, please don't!" she

begged, holding out a hand. "I do not wish to hear it!"

Mrs. Gannette raised her lorgnette and looked at the girl. "Why, my

dear! what's the matter? The scandal's about Ames's son, you know. The

reason he doesn't go in society. Just come to light. You see--"

"My dear Mrs. Gannette," Carmen looked up at her with a beseeching

smile. "You wouldn't deliberately give me poison to drink, would

you?"

"Why, certainly not!" blustered that garrulous lady in astonishment.

"Then why do you poison my mind with such conversation?"

"What!"

"You sit there pouring into my mentality thought after thought that is

deadly poisonous, don't you know it?"

"Why--!"

"You don't mean to harm me, I know," pleaded the girl. "But if you

only understood mental laws you would know that every thought entering

one's mind tends to become manifested in some way. Thoughts of

disease, disaster, death, scandal--all tend to become externalized in

discordant ways, either on the body, or in the environment. You don't

want any such things manifested to me, do you? But you might just as

well hand me poison to drink as to sit there and pour such deadly

conversation into me."

Mrs. Gannette slowly drew herself up with the hauteur of a grandee.

Carmen seized her hand. "I do not want to listen to these unreal

things which concern only the human mind," she said earnestly. "Nor

should you, if you are truly aristocratic, for aristocracy is of the

thought. I am not going to marry Reginald. A human title means nothing

to me. But one's thought--that alone is one's claim to _real_

aristocracy. I know I have offended you, but only because I refuse to

let you poison me. Now I will go."

She left the divan and the petrified dame, and hurriedly mingled with

the crowd on the floor.

"The little cat!" exploded Mrs. Gannette, when she again found

herself. "She has mortally insulted me!"

Carmen went directly to the pale woman, still sitting alone, who had

been one of the objects of Mrs. Gannette's slighting remarks. The

woman glanced up as she saw the girl approaching, and a look of wonder

came into her eyes. Carmen held out a hand.

"I am Carmen Ariza," she said simply. "You are Miss Wall. I want you

to be my friend."

The woman roused up and tried to appear composed.

"Will you ride with me to-morrow?" continued Carmen. "Then we can talk

all we want to, with nobody to overhear. Aren't you happy?" she

abruptly added, unable longer to withstand the appeal which issued

mutely from the lusterless eyes before her.

The woman smiled wanly. "Not so very," she replied slowly.

"Well!" exclaimed Carmen; "what's wrong?"

"I am poverty-stricken," returned the woman sadly.

"But I will give you money," Carmen quickly replied.

"My dear child," said the woman, "I haven't anything but money. That

is why I am poverty-stricken."

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, sinking into a chair at her side. "Well,"

she added, brightening, "now you have me! And will you call me up,

first thing in the morning, and arrange to ride with me? I want you

to, so much!"

The woman's eyes grew moist. "Yes," she murmured, "I will--gladly."

In the small hours of the morning there were several heads tossing in

stubborn wakefulness on their pillows in various New York mansions.

But Carmen's was not one of them.

CHAPTER 17

On the morning following Mrs. Hawley-Crowles's very successful

imitation of the _Bal de l'Opéra_, Monsignor Lafelle paid an early

call to the Ames _sanctum_. And the latter gentleman deemed the visit

of sufficient importance to devote a full hour to his caller. When the

churchman rose to take his leave he reiterated:

"Our friend Wenceslas will undertake the matter for you, Mr. Ames, but

on the conditions which I have named. But Rome must be communicated

with, and the substance of her replies must be sent from Cartagena to

you, and your letters forwarded to her. That might take us into early

summer. But there is no likelihood that Mr. Ketchim's engineers will

make any further attempt before that time to enter Colombia. Mr. Reed

in still in California. Mr. Harris is in Denver, at his old home, you

tell me. So we need look for no immediate move from them."

"Quite satisfactory, Lafelle," returned Ames genially. "In future, if

I can be of service to you, I am yours to command. Mr. Willett will

hand you a check covering your traveling expenses on my behalf."

When the door closed after Lafelle, Ames leaned back in his chair and

gave himself up to a moment's reflection. "I wonder," he mused, "I

wonder if the fellow has something up his sleeve that he didn't show

me? He acted suspiciously. Perhaps he's getting a bit dangerous. He

may know too much already. I'm going to drop him after this trap is

sprung. He's got Jim Crowles's widow all tied up, too. I wonder if

he--by heaven! if he begins work on that girl I'll--"

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone bell. It was

Gannette. "What?" shouted Ames, "you say the girl insulted your

wife last evening? I don't believe she could--Yes, yes, I mean, I

don't think she meant to--certainly not, no aspersion whatever

intended--What? the girl will have to apologize?--Well! well--No,

not in a thousand years!--Yes, I'll back her! And if your society

isn't good enough for her--and I don't think it is--why, I'll form

a little coterie all by myself!"

He hung up the receiver with a slam. Then he angrily summoned Hodson.

"I want a dozen brokers watching Gannette now until I call them off,"

he commanded. "I want you to take personal charge of them. Dog his

every move. I'll give you some suggestions later."

Hodson bowed and went out. Ames continued his meditations. "Lucile

already has Gannette pretty well wound up in his Venezuelan

speculations--and they are going to smash--Lafelle has fixed that. And

I've bought her notes against Mrs. Hawley-Crowles for about a

million--which I have reinvested for her in Colombia. Humph! She'll

feed out of my hand now! La Libertad is mine when the trap falls. So

is C. and R. And that little upstart, Ketchim, goes to Sing Sing!"

He turned to the morning paper that lay upon his desk. "I don't like

the way the Colombian revolution drags," he mused. "But certainly it

can't last much longer. And then--then--"

His thoughts wandered off into devious channels. "So Josè de Rincón

is--well! well! Things have taken an odd turn. But--where on earth did

that girl come from? Lord! she was beautiful last night. All religion,

eh? Ha! ha! Well, she's young. There's a lot of experience coming to

her. And then she'll drop a few of her pious notions. Lucile says--but

Lucile is getting on my nerves!"

* * * * *

Monsignor Lafelle found Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her ward awaiting him

when his car drove up at two that afternoon. Carmen had not left the

house during the morning, for Elizabeth Wall had telephoned early that

a slight indisposition would necessitate postponement of the

contemplated ride.

"Well," reflected Carmen, as she turned from the 'phone, "one who

knows that God is everywhere can never be disappointed, for all good

is ever present." And then she set about preparing for the expected

call of Monsignor Lafelle.

When that dignitary entered the parlor Mrs. Hawley-Crowles graciously

welcomed him, and then excused herself. "I will leave her with you,

Monsignor," she said, indicating Carmen, and secretly glad to escape a

presence which she greatly feared. Lafelle bowed, and then waved

Carmen to a seat.

"I have come to-day, Miss Carmen," he began easily, "on a mission of

vastest importance as concerning your welfare. I have been in

Cartagena. I have talked with the acting-Bishop there, who, it seems,

is not wholly unacquainted with you."

"Then," cried Carmen eagerly, "you know where Padre Josè is? And the

others--"

"No," replied Lafelle. "I regret to say I know nothing of their

present whereabouts. Leave them with God."

"I have long since done that," said Carmen softly.

"It is of yourself that I wish to speak," continued Lafelle. "I have

come to offer you the consolation, the joy, and the protection of the

Church. Your great benefactress, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, has found peace

with us. Will you longer delay taking a step toward which you are by

race, by national custom, and by your Saviour admonished? I have come

to invite you to publicly confess your allegiance to the Church of

Rome. You belong to us. A Catholic country gave you birth. Your

parents were Catholic. Your best friend, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, is one

of us. Come," he said, extending his hands. "We need you. And you, my

daughter, now need the Church," he added with suggestive emphasis.

Carmen was not surprised. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had hinted the probable

mission of the churchman, and the girl was prepared.

"I thank you, Monsignor," she replied simply. "But it is impossible."

"Impossible?" He arched his fine brows. "My child, it is quite

necessary!"

"Why, Monsignor?"

"For your eternal salvation," he replied.

"But I have my salvation, ever present. It is the Christ-principle."

"My dear child, do not lean upon your pretty theories in the hope that

they will open the door of heaven for you. There is no salvation

outside of the Church."

"Monsignor," said Carmen gently, "such talk is very foolish. Can you

prove to me that your Church ever sent any one to heaven? Have you any

but a very mediaeval and material concept of heaven? To me, heaven is

right here. It is the consciousness of good only, without a trace of

materiality or evil. And I enter into that consciousness by means of

the Christ-principle, which Jesus gave to the world. It is very

simple, is it not? And it makes all your pomp and ceremony, and your

penance and rites quite unnecessary."

Lafelle eyed her narrowly. He had certain suspicions, but he was not

ready to voice them. Carmen went on:

"Monsignor, I love my fellow-men, oh, _so_ much! I want to see every

one work out his salvation, as Jesus bade us all do, and without any

hindrance from others. And I ask but that same privilege from every

one, yourself included. Let me work out my salvation as my Father has

directed."

Lafelle smiled paternally. "I have no wish to hinder you, child. On

the contrary, I offer you the assistance and infallible guidance of

the Church. You are very young. We are very old. Beginning nineteen

centuries ago, when we were divinely appointed custodian of the

world's morals, our history has been a glorious one. We have in that

time changed a pagan world into one that fears God and follows His

Christ."

"But for nineteen hundred years, Monsignor, the various so-called

Christian sects of the world have been persecuting and slaying one

another over their foolish beliefs, basing their religious theories

upon their interpretations of the Bible. Surely that is not a glorious

history!"

"Ah! You unwittingly argue directly for our cause, my child. The

result which you have just cited proves conclusively that the

Scriptures can not be correctly interpreted by every one. That is

perfectly patent to you, I see. Thus you acknowledge the necessity of

an infallible guide. That is to be found only in the spiritual

Fathers, and in the Pope, the holy Head of the Church of Rome, the

present Vicegerent of Christ on earth."

"Then your interpretation of the Bible is the only correct one?"

"Absolutely!"

"And you Catholics are the only true followers of Christ? The only

_real_ Christians?"

"We are."

She rose. "Come, Monsignor, I will get my coat and hat. We will take

your car."

"Why--where are you going?" he asked in amazement, as he slowly got to

his feet.

She stopped and faced him squarely. "Jesus said: 'He that believeth on

me, the works that I do shall he do also.' I am going to take you over

to the home of old Maggie, our cook's mother. She is sick. You will

heal her, for you are a true follower of Christ."

"Well--but, hasn't she a doctor?"

"Yes, but he can't help her. Doctors are not infallible. But you

represent the Christ on earth. You should be able to do the works

which he did. You can change the wafer and wine into the flesh and

blood of Jesus. How much easier, then, and vastly more practical, to

cure a sick woman! Wait, I will be back in a minute."

"But, you impetuous child, I shall go on no such foolish errand as

that!"

She stopped again. "If the woman were dying or dead, and you were

summoned, you would go, would you not? For she is a Catholic."

"Why--yes, of course."

"And if she were dying you would put holy oil on her, and pray--but it

wouldn't make her well. And if she were dead, you would say Masses for

the repose of her soul. Monsignor, did it never occur to you that the

great works which you claim to do are all done behind the veil of

death? You can do but little for mankind here; but you pretend to do

much after they have passed beyond the grave. Is it quite fair to the

poor and ignorant, I ask, to work that way? Did it never strike you as

remarkable and very consistent that Jesus, whenever he launched a

great truth, immediately ratified it by some great sign, some sign

which the world now calls a miracle? The Gospels are full of such

instances, where he first taught, then came down and immediately

healed some one, thus at once putting his teaching to the proof. Do

you prove anything? Your Church has taught and thundered and denounced

for ages, but what has it proved? Jesus taught practical Christianity.

You teach the so-called practical Christianity which makes a reality

of evil and an eternal necessity of hospitals and orphan asylums. If

you did his works the people would be so uplifted that these things

would be wiped out. Your Church has had nineteen hundred years in

which to learn to do the works which he did. Now come over to Maggie's

with me and prove that you are a true follower and believer, and that

the Church has given you the right sort of practical instruction!"

Gradually the girl's voice waxed stronger while she delivered this

polemic. Slowly the churchman's face darkened, as he moved backward

and sank into his chair.

"Now, Monsignor, having scolded you well," the girl continued, smiling

as she sat down again, "I will apologize. But you needed the

scolding--you know you did! And nearly all who profess the name of

Christ need the same. Monsignor, I love you all, and every one,

whether Catholic or Protestant, or whatever his creed. But that does

not blind my eyes to your great need, and to your obstinate refusal to

make any effort to meet that need."

A cynical look came into the man's face. "May I ask, Miss Carmen, if

you consider yourself a true follower and believer?" he said coolly.

"Monsignor," she quickly replied, rising and facing him, "you hope by

that adroit question to confound me. You mean, do I heal the sick?

Listen: when I was a child my purity of thought was such that I knew

no evil. I could not see it anywhere. I could not see sickness or

death as anything more than unreal shadows. And that wonderful

clearness of vision and purity of thought made me a channel for the

operation of the Christ-principle, God himself. And thereby the sick

were healed in my little home town. Then, little by little, after my

beloved teacher, Josè, came to me, I lost ground in my struggle to

keep the vision clear. They did not mean to, but he and my dearest

padre Rosendo and others held their beliefs of evil as a reality so

constantly before me that the vision became obscured, and the

spirituality alloyed. The unreal forces of evil seemed to concentrate

upon me. I know why now, for the greatest good always stirs up the

greatest amount of evil--the highest truth always has the lowest lie

as its opposite and opponent. I see now, as never before, the

unreality of evil. I see now, as never before, the marvelous truth

which Jesus tried, oh, _so_ hard, to impress upon the dull minds of

his people, the truth which you refuse to see. And ceaselessly I am

now striving to acquire 'that mind,' that spiritual consciousness,

which was in him. My vision is becoming daily clearer. I have been

wonderfully shielded, led, and cared for. And I shall heal, some day,

as he did. I shall regain my former spirituality, for it has never

really been lost. But, Monsignor, do not ask me to come into your

Church and allow my brightening vision to become blurred by your very

inadequate concept of God--a God who is moved by the petitions of

Saints and Virgin and mortal men. No! no! Unless," she added,

brightening, "you will let me teach your Church what I know. Will you

agree to that?"

Lafelle did not answer. Then Carmen shook her head. "You see," she

said, "your Church requires absolute submission to its age-worn

authority. According to you, I have nothing to give. Very well, if

your Church can receive nothing from me, and yet can give me nothing

more than its impossible beliefs, undemonstrable this side of the

grave, at least--then we must consider that a gulf is fixed between

us.

"Oh, Monsignor," she pleaded, after a moment's silence, "you see, do

you not? When Jesus said that he gave his disciples power over all

evil, did he not mean likewise over all physical action, and over

every physical condition? But did he mean that they alone should have

such power? What a limiting of infinite Love! No, he meant that every

one who followed him and strove ceaselessly for spirituality of

thought should acquire that spirituality, and thereby cleanse himself

of false beliefs, and make room for the Christ-principle to operate,

even to the healing of the sick, to the raising of those mesmerized by

the belief of death as a power and reality, and to the dematerializing

of the whole material concept of the heavens and earth. Can't you, a

churchman, see it? And can't you see how shallow your views are? Don't

you know that even the physical body is but a part of the human,

material concept, and therefore a part of the 'one lie' about God, who

is Spirit?"

Lafelle had listened patiently. But now his time had come to speak in

rebuttal. And yet, he would make no attempt to assail her convictions.

He knew well that she would not yield--at least, to-day. He therefore

played another card.

"Miss Carmen," he said gently, "the Church is ever doing beneficent

deeds which do not come to light, and for which she receives no praise

from men. Your own and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles's elevation to social

leadership came through her. There is also a rumor that the Church

afforded you an asylum on your first night in this city, when, if

ever, you needed aid. The Church shielded and cared for you even in

Simití. Indeed, what has she not done for you? And do you now, alas!

turn and rend her?"

"Monsignor," replied Carmen, "I am not unmindful of the care always

bestowed upon me. And I am not ungrateful. But my gratitude is to my

God, who has worked through many channels to bless me. My account is

with Him. Leave it there, and fear not that I shall prove ungrateful

to Him, to whom my every thought is consecrated."

Lafelle bit his lip. Then he spoke low and earnestly, while he held

his gaze fixed upon the girl's bright eyes. "Miss Carmen, if you knew

that the Church now afforded you the only refuge from the dangers that

threaten, you would turn to her as a frightened child to its mother."

"I fear nothing, Monsignor," replied the girl, her face alight with a

smile of complete confidence. "I am not the kind who may be driven by

fear into acceptance of undemonstrable, unfounded theological beliefs.

Fear has always been a terrible weapon in the hands of those who have

sought to force their opinions upon their fellow-men. But it is

powerless to influence me. Fear, Monsignor, is sin. It causes men to

miss the mark. And it is time-honored. Indeed, according to the Bible

allegory, it began in the very garden of Eden, when poor, deceived

Adam confessed to God that he was afraid. If God was infinite then, as

you admit you believe Him to be now, who or what made Adam afraid?

Whence came the imaginary power of fear? For, 'God hath not given us

the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.'

God is love. And there is no fear in love."

"But, surely, Miss Carmen, you will not stubbornly close your eyes to

threatening evil?"

"Monsignor, I close my eyes to all that is unlike God. He is everything

to me. I know nothing but Him and His perfect manifestation."

Lafelle sat some moments in silence. The picture which he and the

young girl formed was one of rare beauty and interest: he, weighted

with years, white of hair, but rugged of form, with strikingly

handsome features and kindly eyes--she, a child, delicate, almost

wraith-like, glowing with a beauty that was not of earth, and, though

untutored in the wiles of men, still holding at bay the sagacious

representative of a crushing weight of authority which reached far

back through the centuries, even to the Greek and Latin Fathers who

put their still unbroken seal upon the strange elaborations which they

wove out of the simple words of the Nazarene.

When the churchman again looked up and felt himself engulfed in the

boundless love which emanated from that radiant, smiling girl, there

surged up within him a mighty impulse to go to her, to clasp her in

his arms, to fall at her feet and pray for even a mite of her own rare

spirituality. The purpose which he had that morning formulated died

within him; the final card which he would have thrown lay crushed in

his hand. He rose and came and stood before her.

"The people believe you a child of the ancient Incas," he said slowly,

taking her hand. "What if I should say that I know better?"

"I would say that you were right, Monsignor," she replied gently,

looking up into his face with a sweet smile.

"Then you admit the identity of your father?"

"Yes, Monsignor."

"Ah! And that is--?"

"God."

The man bent for a moment over the little white hand, and then

immediately left the house.

CHAPTER 18

Monsignor Lafelle in his interview with Carmen had thrown out a hint

of certain rumors regarding her; but the days passed, and the girl

awoke not to their significance. Then, one morning, her attention was

attracted by a newspaper report of the farewell address of a young

priest about to leave his flock. When she opened the paper and caught

sight of the news item she gave a little cry, and immediately forgot

all else in her absorption in the closing words:

"--and I have known no other ambition since the day that little

waif from a distant land strayed into my life, lighting the dead

lamp of my faith with the torch of her own flaming spirituality.

She said she had a message for the people up here. Would to God

she might know that her message had borne fruit!"

The newspaper slipped from the girl's hands to the floor. Her eyes,

big and shining, stared straight before her. "And I will lead the

blind by a way that they know not--" she murmured.

The telephone rang. It was Miss Wall, ready now for the postponed

ride. Carmen clapped her hands and sang for joy as she summoned the

car and made her preparations. "We'll go over to his church," she said

aloud. "We'll find him!" She hurried back to the newspaper to get the

address of the church from which he had spoken the preceding day.

"They will know where he is," she said happily. "Oh, isn't it just

wonderful!"

A few minutes later, with Miss Wall at her side, she was speeding to

the distant suburb where the little church was located.

"We are going to find a priest," she said simply. "Oh, you mustn't ask

me any questions! Mrs. Hawley-Crowles doesn't like to have me talk

about certain things, and so I can't tell you."

Miss Wall glanced at her in wonder. But the happy, smiling countenance

disarmed suspicion.

"Now tell me," Carmen went on, "tell me about yourself. I'm a

missionary, you know," she added, thinking of Father Waite.

"A missionary! Well, are you trying to convert the society world?"

"Yes, by Christianity--not by what the missionaries are now teaching

in the name of Christianity. I'll tell you all about it some day. Now

tell me, why are you unhappy? Why is your life pitched in such a minor

key? Perhaps, together, we can change it to a major."

Miss Wall could not help joining in the merry laugh. Then her face

grew serious. "I am unhappy," she said, "because I have arrived

nowhere."

Carmen looked at her inquiringly. "Well," she said, "that shows you

are on the wrong track, doesn't it?"

"I'm tired of life--tired of everything, everybody!" Miss Wall sank

back into the cushions with her lips pursed and her brow wrinkled.

"No, you are not tired of life," said Carmen quietly; "for you do not

know what life is."

"No, I suppose not," replied the weary woman. "Do you?" she asked

abruptly.

"Yes, it is God."

"Oh, don't mention that name, nor quote Scripture to me!" cried the

woman, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "I've had that stuff

preached at me until it turned my stomach! I hope you are not an

emotional, weepy religionist. Let's not talk about that subject. I'm

heartily sick of it!"

"All right," replied Carmen cheerily. "Padre Josè used to say--"

"Who's he?" demanded Miss Wall, somewhat curtly.

"Oh, he is a priest--"

"A priest! Dear me! do you constantly associate with priests, and talk

religion?"

The young girl laughed. "Well," she responded, "I've had a good deal

to do with both."

"And are you any better for it?"

"Oh, yes--lots!" she said quickly.

The woman regarded her with curiosity. "Tell me something about your

life," she said. "They say you are a princess."

"Surely I am a princess," returned Carmen, laughing merrily. "Listen;

I will tell you about big, glorious Simití, and the wonderful castle I

lived in there, and about my Prime Minister, Don Rosendo, and--well,

listen, and then judge for yourself if I am not of royal extraction!"

Laughing again up into the mystified face of Miss Wall, the

enthusiastic girl began to tell about her former life in far-off

Guamocó.

As she listened, the woman's eyes grew wide with interest. At times

she voiced her astonishment in sudden exclamations. And when the girl

concluded her brief recital, she bent upon the sparkling face a look

of mingled wonder and admiration. "Goodness! After going through all

that, how can you be so happy now? And with all your kin down there in

that awful war! Why--!"

"Don't you think I am a princess now?" Carmen asked, smiling up at

her.

"I think you are a marvel!" was the emphatic answer.

"And--you don't want to know what it was that kept me through it all,

and that is still guiding me?" The bright, animated face looked so

eagerly, so lovingly, into the world-scarred features of her

companion.

"Not if you are going to talk religion. Tell me, who is this priest

you are seeking to-day, and why have you come to see him?"

"Father Waite. He is the one who found me--when I got lost--and took

me to my friends."

The big car whirled around a corner and stopped before a dingy little

church edifice surmounted by a weather-beaten cross. On the steps of a

modest frame house adjoining stood a man. He turned as the car came

up.

"Father Waite!" Carmen threw wide the door of the car and sprang out.

"Father Waite!" clasping his hands. "Don't you know me? I'm Carmen!"

A light came into the startled man's eyes. He recognized her. Then he

stepped back, that he might better see her. More than a year had

passed since he had taken her, so oddly garbed, and clinging tightly

to his hand, into the Ketchim office. And in that time, he thought,

she had been transformed into a vision of heavenly beauty.

"Well!" cried the impatient girl. "Aren't you going to speak?" And

with that she threw her arms about him and kissed him loudly on both

cheeks.

The man and Miss Wall gave vent to exclamations of astonishment. He

colored violently; Miss Wall sat with mouth agape.

"Aren't you glad to see me?" pursued the girl, again grasping his

hands.

Then he found his tongue. "An angel from heaven could not be more

welcome," he said. But his voice was low, and the note of sadness was

prominent.

"Well, I am an angel from heaven," said the laughing, artless girl.

"And I'm an Inca princess. And I'm just plain Carmen Ariza. But,

whoever I am, I am, oh, so glad to see you again! I--" she looked

about carefully--"I read your sermon in the newspaper this morning.

Did you mean me?" she concluded abruptly.

He smiled wanly. "Yes, I meant you," he softly answered.

"Come with me now," said the eager girl. "I want to talk with you."

"Impossible," he replied, shaking his head.

"Then, will you come and see me?" She thought for a moment. "Why have

you never been to see me? Didn't you know I was still in the city?"

"Oh, yes," he replied. "I used to see your name in the papers, often.

And I have followed your career with great interest. But--you moved in

a circle--from which I--well, it was hardly possible for me to come to

see you, you know--"

"It was!" exclaimed the girl. "But, never mind, you are coming now.

Here," drawing a card from her bag, "this is the address of Madam

Beaubien. Will you come there to-morrow afternoon, at two, and talk

with me?"

He looked at the card which she thrust into his hand, and then at the

richly-gowned girl before him. He seemed to be in a dream. But he

nodded his head slowly.

"Tell me," she whispered, "how is Sister Katie?"

Ah, if the girl could have known how that great-hearted old soul had

mourned her "little bairn" these many months.

"I will go to see her," said Carmen. "But first you will come to me

to-morrow." She beamed upon him as she clasped his hands again. Then

she entered the car, and sat waving her hand back at him as long as he

could see her.

It would be difficult to say which of the two, Miss Wall or Father

Waite, was the more startled by this abrupt and lively _rencontre_.

But to Carmen, as she sat back in the car absorbed in thought, it had

been a perfectly natural meeting between two warm friends. Suddenly

the girl turned to the woman. "You haven't anything but money, and

fine clothes, and automobiles, and jewels, you think. And you want

something better. Do you know? I know what it is you want."

"What is it?" asked the wondering woman, marveling at this strange

girl who went about embracing people so promiscuously.

"Love."

The woman's lip trembled slightly when she heard this, but she did not

reply.

"And I'm going to love you," the girl continued. "Oh, so much! You're

tired of society gabble and gossip; you're tired of spending on

yourself the money you never earned; you're not a bit of use to

anybody, are you? But you want to be. You're a sort of tragedy, aren't

you? Oh, I know. There are just lots of them in high society, just as

weary as you. They haven't anything but money. And they lack the very

greatest thing in all of life, the very thing that no amount of money

will buy, just love! But, do you know? they don't realize that, in

order to get, they must give. In order to be loved, they must

themselves love. Now you start right in and love the whole world, love

everybody, big and little. And, as you love people, try to see only

their perfection. Never look at a bad trait, nor a blemish of any

sort. Try it. In a week's time you will be a new woman."

"Do you do that?" the woman asked in a low tone.

"I have _always_ done it," replied Carmen. "I don't know anything but

love. I never knew what it was to hate or revile. I never could see

what there was that deserved hatred or loathing. I don't see anything

but good--everywhere."

The woman slipped an arm about the girl. "I--I don't mind your talking

that way to me," she whispered. "But I just couldn't bear to listen to

any more religion."

"Why!" exclaimed Carmen. "That's all there is to religion! Love is the

tie that binds all together and all to God. Why, Miss Wall--"

"Call me Elizabeth, please," interrupted the woman.

"Well then, Elizabeth," she said softly, "all creeds have got to merge

into just one, some day, and, instead of saying 'I believe,' everybody

will say 'I understand and I love.' Why, the very person who loved

more than anybody else ever did was the one who saw God most clearly!

He knew that if we would see God--good everywhere--we would just

simply _have_ to love, for God _is_ love! Don't you see? It is so

simple!"

"Do you love me, Carmen, because you pity me?"

"No, indeed!" was the emphatic answer. "God's children are not to be

pitied--and I see in people only His children."

"Well, why, then, do you love me?"

The girl replied quickly: "God is love. I am His reflection. I reflect

Him to you. That's loving you.

"And now," she continued cheerily, "we are going to work together,

aren't we? You are first going to love everybody. And then you are

going to see just what is right for you to do--what work you are to

take up--what interests you are to have. But love comes first."

"Tell me, Carmen, why are you in society? What keeps you there, in an

atmosphere so unsuited to your spiritual life?"

"God."

"Oh, yes," impatiently. "But--"

"Well, Elizabeth dear, every step I take is ordained by Him, who is my

life. I am where He places me. I leave everything to Him, and then

keep myself out of the way. If He wishes to use me elsewhere, He will

remove me from society. But I wait for Him."

The woman looked at her and marveled. How could this girl, who, in her

few brief years, had passed through fire and flood, still love the

hand that guided her!

CHAPTER 19

To the great horde of starving European nobility the daughters of

American millionaires have dropped as heavenly manna. It was but dire

necessity that forced low the bars of social caste to the transoceanic

traffic between fortune and title.

That Mrs. Hawley-Crowles might ever aspire to the purchase of a

decrepit dukedom had never entered her thought. A tottering earldom

was likewise beyond her purchasing power. She had contented herself

that Carmen should some day barter her rare culture, her charm, and

her unrivaled beauty, for the more lowly title of an impecunious count

or baron. But to what heights of ecstasy did her little soul rise when

the young Duke of Altern made it known to her that he would honor her

beautiful ward with his own glorious name--in exchange for La Libertad

and other good and valuable considerations, receipt of which would be

duly acknowledged.

"I--aw--have spoken to her, ye know, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles," that worthy

young cad announced one afternoon, as he sat alone with the successful

society leader in the warm glow of her living room. "And--bah Jove!

she said we were engaged, ye know--really! Said we were awfully good

friends, ye know, and all that. 'Pon my word! she said she loved me."

For Reginald had done much thinking of late--and his creditors were

restless.

"Why, you don't mean it!" cried the overpowered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles,

beaming like a full-blown sunflower.

"But I do, really! Only--ye know, she'll have to be--coached a bit, ye

know--told who we are--our ancestral history, and all that. You know

what I mean, eh?"

"Of course--you dear boy! Why, she just couldn't help loving you!"

"No--aw--no, of course--that is--aw--she has excellent

prospects--financial, I mean, eh? Mines, and all that, ye know--eh?"

"Why, she owns the grandest gold mine in all South America! Think of

it!"

"Bah Jove! I--aw--I never was so attracted to a girl in all me

blooming life! You will--a--speak to her, eh? Help me out, ye know.

Just a few words, eh? You know what I mean?"

"Never fear, Reginald" she's yours. "There will be no opposition."

"Opposition! Certainly not--not when she knows about our family.

And--aw--mother will talk with you--that is, about the details. She'll

arrange them, ye know. I never was good at business."

And the haughty mother of the young Duke did call shortly thereafter

to consult in regard to her son's matrimonial desires. The nerve-racking

round of balls, receptions, and other society functions was quite

forgotten by the elated Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, whose ears tingled

deliciously under the pompous boastings of the Dowager Lady Altern. The

house of Altern? Why, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was convinced, after a

half hour's conversation with this proud mother, that the royal house

of Brunswick was but an impudent counterfeit! What was La Libertad

worth? She knew not. But her sister's brother, Mr. Reed, who had

hastily appraised it, had said that there was a mountain of gold there,

only awaiting Yankee enterprise. And Carmen? There was proof positive

that she was an Inca princess. Yes, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was so honored

by the deep interest which the young Duke manifested in the wonderful

girl! And she would undertake negotiations with her at once. But it

must be done wisely. Carmen was not like other girls. No, indeed!

And now Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had to plan very carefully. She was terribly

in debt; yet she had resources. The Beaubien was inexhaustible. Ames,

too, might be depended upon. And La Libertad--well, there was Mr.

Philip O. Ketchim to reckon with. So she forthwith summoned him to a

consultation.

But, ere her talk with that prince of finance, another bit of good

fortune fell into the lady's spacious lap. Reed had written that he

was doing poorly with his western mining ventures, and would have to

raise money at once. He therefore offered to sell his interest in the

Simití Company. Moreover, he wanted his wife to come to him and make

her home in California, where he doubtless would spend some years.

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles offered him twenty-five thousand dollars for his

Simití interest; of which offer Reed wired his immediate acceptance.

Then the lady packed her rueful sister Westward Ho! and laid her newly

acquired stock before the Beaubien for a large loan. That was but a

day before Ketchim called.

"Madam," said that suave gentleman, smiling piously, "you are a

genius. Our ability to announce the Duke of Altern as our largest

stockholder will result in a boom in the sales of Simití stock. The

Lord has greatly prospered our humble endeavors. Er--might I ask,

Madam, if you would condescend to meet my wife some afternoon? We are

rapidly acquiring some standing in a financial way, and Mrs. Ketchim

would like to know you and some of the more desirable members of your

set, if it might be arranged."

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles beamed her joy. She drew herself up with a regnant

air. The people were coming to her, their social queen, for

recognition!

"And there's my Uncle Ted, you know, Madam. He's president of the C.

and R."

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles nodded and looked wise. "Possibly we can arrange

it," she said. "But now about our other investments. What is Joplin

Zinc doing?"

"Progressing splendidly, Madam. We shall declare a dividend this

month."

The lady wondered, for Joplin Zinc was not yet in operation, according

to the latest report.

* * * * *

Meantime, while Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was still laying her plans to herd

the young girl into the mortgaged dukedom of Altern, Father Waite kept

his appointment, and called at the Beaubien mansion on the afternoon

Carmen had set. He was warmly received by the girl herself, who had

been watching for his coming.

"Now," she began like a bubbling fountain, when they were seated in

the music room, "where's Jude? I want to find her."

"Jude? Why, I haven't the slightest idea to whom you refer," returned

the puzzled man.

"The woman who took me to the Sister Superior," explained Carmen.

"Ah! We never saw her again."

"Well," said the girl confidently, "I saw her, but she got away from

me. But I shall find her--it is right that I should. Now tell me, what

are you going to do?"

"I have no idea. Earn my living some way," he replied meditatively.

"You have lots of friends who will help you?"

"None," he said sadly. "I am an apostate, you know."

"Well, that means that you're free. The chains have dropped, haven't

they?"

"But left me dazed and confused."

"You are not dazed, nor confused! Why, you're like a prisoner coming

out of his dungeon into the bright sunlight. You're only blinking,

that's all. And, as for confusion--well, if I would admit it to be

true I could point to a terrible state of it! Just think, a duke wants

to marry me; Mrs. Hawley-Crowles is determined that he shall; I am an

Inca princess, and yet I don't know who I am; my own people apparently

are swallowed up by the war in Colombia; and I am in an environment

here in New York in which I have to fight every moment to keep myself

from flying all to pieces! But I guess God intends to keep me here for

the present. Oh, yes, and Monsignor Lafelle insists that I am a

Catholic and that I must join his Church."

"Monsignor Lafelle! You--you know him?"

"Oh, yes, very well. And you?"

He evaded reply by another query. "Is Monsignor Lafelle working with

Madam Beaubien, your friend?"

"I think not," laughed Carmen. "But Mrs. Hawley-Crowles--"

"Was it through him that she became a communicant?"

"Yes. Why?"

"And is he also working with Mr. J. Wilton Ames? He converted Mrs.

Ames's sister, the Dowager Duchess, in England. The young Duke is also

going to join the faith, I learn. But--you?" He stopped suddenly and

looked searchingly at her.

At that moment a maid entered, bearing a card. Close on her heels

followed the subject of their conversation, Monsignor himself.

As he entered, Carmen rose hastily to greet him. Lafelle bent over her

hand. Then, as he straightened up, his glance fell upon Father Waite.

The latter bowed without speaking. For a moment the two men stood

eying each other sharply. Then Lafelle looked from Father Waite to

Carmen quizzically. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I was not aware

that you had a caller. Madam Beaubien, is she at home?"

"No," said Carmen simply. "She went out for a ride."

"Ah!" murmured Lafelle, looking significantly from the girl to Father

Waite, while a smile curled his lips. "I see. I will intrude no

further." He bowed again, and turned toward the exit.

"Wait!" rang forth Carmen's clear voice. She had caught the

churchman's insinuating glance and instantly read its meaning.

"Monsignor Lafelle, you will remain!"

The churchman's brows arched with surprise, but he came back and stood

by the chair which she indicated.

"And first," went on the girl, standing before him like an incarnate

Nemesis, her face flushed and her eyes snapping, "you will hear from

me a quotation from the Scripture, on which you assume to be

authority: 'As a man thinketh in his heart, so _is_ he!'"

For a moment Lafelle flushed. Then his face darkened. Finally a bland

smile spread over his features, and he sat down. The girl resumed her

seat.

"Now, Monsignor Lafelle," she continued severely, "you have urged me

to unite with your Church. When you asked me to subscribe to your

beliefs I looked first at them, and then at you, their product. You

have come here this afternoon to plead with me again. The thoughts

which you accepted when you saw Father Waite here alone with me, are

they a reflection of love, which thinketh no evil? Or do they reflect

the intolerance, the bigotry, the hatred of the carnal mind? You told

me that your Church would not let me teach it. Think you I will let it

or you teach me?"

Father Waite sat amazed at the girl's stinging rebuke. When she

concluded he rose to go.

"No!" said Carmen. "You, too, shall remain. You have left the Church

of which Monsignor Lafelle is a part. Either you have done that

Church, and him, a great injustice--or he does ignorant or wilful

wrong in insisting that I unite with it."

"My dear child," said Lafelle gently, now recovered and wholly on his

guard, "your impetuosity gets the better of your judgment. This is no

occasion for a theological discussion, nor are you sufficiently

informed to bear a part in such. As for myself, you unintentionally do

me great wrong. As I have repeatedly told you, I seek only your

eternal welfare. Else would I not labor with you as I do."

Carmen turned to Father Waite. "Is my eternal welfare dependent upon

acceptance of the Church's doctrines?"

"No," he said, in a scarcely audible voice.

A cynical look came into Lafelle's eyes. But he replied affably: "When

preachers fall out, the devil falls in. Your reply, Mr. Waite, comes

quite consistently from one who has impudently tossed aside

authority."

"My authority, Monsignor," returned the ex-priest in a low tone, "is

Jesus Christ, who said: 'Love thy neighbor as thyself.'"

"Ah!" murmured Lafelle; "then it was love that prompted you to abandon

your little flock?"

"I left my pulpit, Monsignor, because I had nothing to give my people.

I no longer believe the dogmas of the Church. And I refused longer to

take the poor people's money to support an institution so politically

religious as I believe your Church to be. I could no longer take their

money to purchase the release of their loved ones from an imagined

purgatory--a place for which there is not the slightest Scriptural

warrant--"

"You mistake, sir!" interrupted Lafelle in an angry tone.

"Very well, Monsignor," replied Father Waite; "grant, then, that there

is such Scriptural warrant; I would nevertheless know that the

existence of purgatory was wholly incompatible with the reign of an

infinite God of love. And, knowing that, I have ceased to extort gifts

of money from the ignorance of the living and the ghastly terrors of

the dying--"

"And so deceive yourself that you are doing a righteous act in

removing their greatest consolation," the churchman again interrupted,

a sneer curving his lip.

"Consolation! The consolation which the stupifying drug affords, yes!

Ah, Monsignor, as I looked down into the faces of my poor people, week

after week, I knew that no sacerdotal intervention was needed to remit

their sins, for their sins were but their unsolved problems of life.

Oh, the poor, grief-stricken mothers who bent their tear-stained eyes

upon me as I preached the 'authority' of the Fathers! Well I knew

that, when I told them from my pulpit that their deceased infants, if

baptized, went straight to heaven, they blindly, madly accepted my

words! And when I went further and told them that their dead babes had

joined the ranks of the blessed, and could thenceforth be prayed to,

could I wonder that they rejoiced and eagerly grasped the false

message of cheer? They believed because they wanted it to be so. And

yet those utterances of mine, based upon the accepted doctrine of

Holy Church, were but narcotics, lulling those poor, afflicted minds

into a false sense of rest and security, and checking all further

human progress."

Lafelle shrugged his shoulders. "It is to be regretted," he said

coldly, "that such narrowness of view should be permitted to impede

the salvation of souls."

"Salvation--of--souls!" exclaimed Father Waite. "Ah, how many souls

have I not saved!--and yet I know not whether they or I be really

saved! Saved? From what? From death? Certainly not! From misery,

disease, suffering in this life? No, alas, no! Saved, then, from what?

Ah, my friend, saved only from the torments of a hell and a purgatory

constructed in the fertile minds of busy theologians!"

Lafelle turned to Carmen. "Some other day, perhaps--when it may be

more convenient for us both--and you are alone--"

Carmen laughed. "Don't quit the field, Monsignor--unless you surrender

abjectly. You started this controversy, remember. And you were quite

indiscreet, if you will recall."

Monsignor bowed, smiling. "You write my faults in brass," he gently

lamented. "When you publish my virtues, if you find that I am

possessed of any, I fear you will write them in water."

Carmen laughed again. "Your virtues should advertise themselves,

Monsignor."

"Ah, then do you not see in me the virtue of desiring your welfare

above all else, my child?"

"And the welfare of this great country, which you have come here to

assist in making dominantly Catholic, is it not so, Monsignor?"

Lafelle started slightly. Then he smiled genially back at the girl.

"It is an ambition which I am not ashamed to own," he returned

gently.

"But, Monsignor," Carmen continued earnestly, "are you not aware of

the inevitable failure of your mission? Do you not know that mediaeval

theology comports not with modern progress?"

"True, my child," replied the churchman. "And more, that our

so-called modern progress--modernism, free-thinking, liberty of

conscience, and the consequent terrible extravagance of beliefs and

false creeds--constitutes the greatest menace now confronting this

fair land. Its end is inevitable anarchy and chaos. Perhaps you can

see that."

"Monsignor," said Carmen, "in the Middle Ages the Church was supreme.

Emperors and kings bowed in submission before her. The world was

dominantly Catholic. Would you be willing, for the sake of Church

supremacy to-day, to return to the state of society and civilization

then obtaining?"

"That would not follow."

"No? I point you to Mexico, Cuba, the Philippines, South America, all

Catholic now or formerly, and I ask if you attribute not their

oppression, their ignorance, their low morals and stunted manhood, to

the dominance of churchly doctrines, which oppose freedom of

conscience and press and speech, and make learning the privilege of

the clergy and the rich?"

"It is an old argument, child," deprecated Lafelle. "May I not point

to France, on the contrary?"

"She has all but driven the Church from her borders."

"But is still Catholic!" he retorted. "And England, though Anglican,

calls herself Catholic. She will return to the true fold. Germany is

forsaking Luther, as she sees the old light shining still undimmed."

Carmen looked at Father Waite. The latter read in her glance an

invitation further to voice his own convictions.

"Monsignor doubtless misreads the signs of the times," he said slowly.

"The hour has struck for the ancient and materialistic theories

enunciated with such assumption of authority by ignorant, often

blindly bigoted theologians, to be laid aside. The religion of our

fathers, which is our present-day evangelical theology, was derived

from the traditions of the early churchmen. They put their seal upon

it; and we blindly accept it as authority, despite the glaring,

irrefutable fact that it is utterly undemonstrable. Why do the people

continue to be deceived by it? Alas! only because of its mesmeric

promise of immortality beyond the grave."

Monsignor bowed stiffly in the direction of Father Waite. "Fortunately,

your willingness to plunge the Christian world into chaos will fail of

concrete results," he said coldly.

"I but voice the sentiments of millions, Monsignor. For them, too, the

time has come to put by forever the paraphernalia of images, candles,

and all the trinkets used in the pagan ceremonial which has so

quenched our spirituality, and to seek the undivided garment of the

Christ."

"Indeed!" murmured Lafelle.

"The world to-day, Monsignor, stands at the door of a new era, an era

which promises a grander concept of God and religion, the tie which

binds all to Him, than has ever before been known. We are thinking. We

are pondering. We are delving, studying, reflecting. And we are at

last beginning to work with true scientific precision and system. As

in chemistry, mathematics, and the physical sciences, so in matters

religious, we are beginning to _prove_ our working hypotheses. And so

a new spiritual enlightenment is come. People are awaking to a dim

perception of the meaning of spiritual life, as exemplified in Jesus

Christ. And they are vaguely beginning to see that it is possible to

every one. The abandonment of superstition, religious and other, has

resulted in such a sudden expansion of the human mind that the most

marvelous material progress the world has ever witnessed has come

swiftly upon us, and we live more intensely in a single hour to-day

than our fathers lived in weeks before us. Oh, yes, we are already

growing tired of materiality. The world is not yet satisfied. We are

not happy. But, Monsignor, let not the Church boast itself that the

acceptance of her mediaeval dogmas will meet the world's great need.

That need will be met, I think, only as we more and more clearly

perceive the tremendous import of the mission of Jesus, and learn how

to grasp and apply the marvelous Christ-principle which he used and

told us we should likewise employ to work out our salvation."

During Father Waite's earnest talk Lafelle sat with his eyes fixed

upon Carmen. When the ex-priest concluded, the churchman ignored him

and vouchsafed no reply.

"Well, Monsignor?" said the girl, after waiting some moments in

expectation.

Lafelle smiled paternally. Then, nodding his shapely head, he said in

a pleading tone:

"Have I no champion here? Would you, too, suddenly abolish the Church,

Catholic and Protestant alike? Why, my dear child, with your

ideals--which no one appreciates more highly than I--do you continue

to persecute me so cruelly? Can not you, too, sense the unsoundness of

the views just now so eloquently voiced?"

"That is cant, Monsignor! You speak wholly without authority or proof,

as is your wont."

The man winced slightly. "Well," he said, "there are several hundred

million Catholics and Protestants in the world to-day. Would you

presume to say that they are all mistaken, and that you are right?

Something of an assumption, is it not? Indeed, I think you set the

Church an example in that respect."

"Monsignor, there were once several hundred millions who believed that

the earth was flat, and that the sun revolved about it. Were they

mistaken?"

"Yes. But the--"

"And, Monsignor, there are billions to-day who believe that matter is

a solid, substantial reality, and that it possesses life and

sensation. There are billions who believe that the physical eyes see,

and the ears hear, and the hands feel. Yet these beliefs are all

capable of scientific refutation. Did you know that?"

"I am not unacquainted with philosophical speculation," he returned

suggestively.

"This is not mere speculation, Monsignor," put in Father Waite. "The

beliefs of the human mind are its fetish. Such beliefs become in time

national customs, and men defend them with frenzy, utterly wrong and

undemonstrable though they be. Then they remain as the incubus of true

progress. By them understanding becomes degraded, and the human mind

narrows and shrinks. And the mind that clings to them will then

mercilessly hunt out the dissenting minds of its heretical neighbors

and stone them to death for disagreeing. So now, you would stone me

for obeying Christ's command to take up my bed on the Sabbath day."

Lafelle heaved a great sigh. "Still you blazon my faults," he said in

a tone of mock sadness, and addressing Carmen. "But, like the Church

which you persecute, I shall endure. We have been martyred throughout

the ages. And we are very patient. Our wayward children forsake us,"

nodding toward Father Waite, "and yet we welcome their return when

they have tired of the husks. The press teems with slander against us;

we are reviled from east to west. But our reply is that such slander

and untruth can best be met by our leading individual lives of such an

exemplary nature as to cause all men to be attracted by our holy

light."

"I agree with you, Monsignor," quickly replied Carmen. "Scurrilous

attacks upon the Church but make it a martyr. Vilification returns

upon the one who hurls the abuse. One can not fling mud without

soiling one's hands. I oppose not men, but human systems of thought.

Whatever is good will stand, and needs no defense. Whatever is

erroneous must go. And there is no excuse, for salvation is at hand."

"Salvation? And your thought regarding that?" he said in a skirmishing

tone.

"_Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts_,"

she replied earnestly. "_To him that soweth righteousness_--right

thinking--_shall be a sure reward_. Ah, Monsignor, do you at heart

believe that the religion of the Christ depends upon doctrines, signs,

dogmas? No, it does not. But signs and proofs naturally and inevitably

follow the right understanding of Jesus' teachings, even according to

these words: _These signs shall follow them that believe_. Paul gave the

formula for salvation, when he said: _But we all with open face beholding

as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image

from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord_. Can you

understand that? Can you see that, taking Jesus as our model and

following his every command--seeing Him only, the Christ-principle, which

is God, good, without any admixture of evil--we change, even though

slowly, from glory to glory, step by step, until we rise out of all

sense of evil and death? And this is done by the Spirit which is God."

"Yes," said Father Waite, taking up the conversation when she paused.

"Even the poorest human being can understand that. Why, then, the

fungus growth of traditions, ceremonies, rites and forms which have

sprung up about the Master's simple words? Why the wretched

formalistic worship throughout the world? Why the Church's frigid,

lifeless traditions, so inconsistent with the enlarging sense of God

which marks this latest century? The Church has yet to prove its

utility, its right to exist and to pose as the religious teacher of

mankind. Else must it fall beneath the axe which is even now at the

root of the barren tree of theology. Her theology, like the Judaism of

the Master's day, has no prophets, no poets, no singers. And her

priests, as in his time, have sunk into a fanatical observance of

ritual and form."

"And yet," observed Carmen, "you still urge me to unite with it."

Lafelle was growing weary. Moreover, it irked him sore to be made a

target for the unassailable logic of the apostate Waite. Then, too,

the appearance of the ex-priest there that afternoon in company with

this girl who held such radical views regarding religious matters

portended in his thought the possibility of a united assault upon the

foundations of his cherished system. This girl was now a menace. She

nettled and exasperated him. Yet, he could not let her alone. Did he

have the power to silence her? He thought he had.

"Have you finished with me?" he asked, with a show of gaiety. "If so,

I will depart."

"Yes," replied Carmen, "you may go now."

Lafelle paled. He had not expected that reply. He was stung to the

quick. What! dismissed like a lackey? He, Monsignor, a dignitary of

Holy Church? He could not believe it! He turned upon the girl and her

companion, furious with anger.

"I have been very patient with you both," he said in a voice that he

could not control. "But there is a reasonable limit. Abuse the Church

as you will, the fact remains that the world fears her and trembles

before her awful voice! Why? Because the world recognizes her mighty

power, a power of unified millions of human beings and exhaustless

wealth. She is the leader, the guide, the teacher, the supreme object

of worship of a countless army who would lay down their lives to-day

for her. Her subjects gather from every quarter of the globe. They are

English, French, German, American--_but they are Catholics first_!

Emperor, King, Ruler, or Government--all are alike subject to her

supreme, divine authority! Nationalities, customs, family ties--all

melt away before her, to whom her followers bow in loyal consecration.

The power which her supreme leader and head wields is all but

omnipotent! He is by divine decree Lord of the world. Hundreds of

millions bend before his throne and offer him their hearts and swords!

I say, you have good reason to quake! Aye, America has reason to fear!

The onward march of Holy Church is not disturbed by the croaking

calumnies of such as you who would assault her! And to you I say,

beware!" His face was purple, as he stopped and mopped his damp brow.

"What we have to beware of, Monsignor," said Father Waite gravely, "is

the steady encroachments of Rome in this country, with her weapons of

fear, ignorance, and intolerance--"

"Intolerance! You speak of intolerance! Why, in this country, whose

Constitution provided toleration for every form of religion--"

Carmen had risen and gone to the man. "Monsignor," she said, "the

founders of the American nation did provide for religious tolerance--and

they were wise according to their light. But we of this day are

still wiser, for we have some knowledge of the wonderful working of

mental laws. I, too, believe in toleration of opinion. You are

welcome to yours, and I to mine. But--and here is the great point--the

opinion which Holy Church has held throughout the ages regarding those

who do not accept her dogmas is that they are damned, that they are

outcasts of heaven, that they merit the stake and rack. The Church's

hatred of heretics has been deadly. Her thought concerning them has

not been that of love, such as Jesus sent out to all who did not

agree with him, but deadly, suggestive hatred. Now our Constitution

does not provide for tolerance of hate and murder-thoughts, which enter

the minds of the unsuspecting and work destruction there in the form

of disease, disaster, and death. That is what we object to in you,

Monsignor. You murder your opponents with your poisonous thoughts.

And toward such thoughts we have a right to be very intolerant, even to

the point of destroying them in human mentalities. Again I say, I war

not against people, but against the murderous carnal thought of the

human mind!"

Monsignor had fallen back before the girl's strong words. His face

had grown black, and his hands were working convulsively.

"Monsignor," continued Carmen in a low, steady voice, "you have

threatened me with something which you apparently hold over me. You

are very like the people of Galilee: if you can not refute by reason,

you would circumvent by law, by the Constitution, by Congress. That

failing, you would destroy. Instead of threatening us with the flames

of hell for not being good, why do you not show us by the great

example of Jesus' love how to be so? Are you manifesting love now--or

the carnal mind? I judge your Church by such as manifest it to me.

How, then, shall I judge it by you to-day?"

He rose slowly and took her by the hand. "I beg your pardon," he said

in a strange, unnatural voice. "I was hasty. As you see, I am zealous.

Naturally, I resent misjudgment. And I assure you that you quite

misunderstand me, and the Church which I represent. But--I may come

again?"

"Surely, Monsignor," returned the girl heartily. "A debate such as

this is stimulating, don't you think so?"

He bowed and turned to go. Just then the Beaubien appeared.

"Ah, Monsignor," she said lightly, as she stepped into the room. "You

are exclusive. Why have you avoided me since your return to America?"

"Madam," replied Lafelle, in some confusion, "no one regrets more than

I the press of business which necessitated it. But your little friend

has told me I may return."

"Always welcome, Monsignor," replied the Beaubien, scanning him

narrowly as she accompanied him to the door. "By the way, you forgot

our little compact, did you not?" she added coldly.

"Madam, I came out of a sense of duty."

"Of that I have no doubt, Monsignor. _Adieu_."

She returned again to the music room, where Carmen made her acquainted

with Father Waite, and related the conversation with Lafelle. While

the girl talked the Beaubien's expression grew serious. Then Carmen

launched into her association with the ex-priest, concluding with:

"And he must have something to do, right away, to earn his living!"

The Beaubien laughed. She always did when Carmen, no matter how

serious the conversation, infused her sparkling animation into it.

"That isn't nearly as important as to know what he thinks about

Monsignor's errand here this afternoon, dearie," she said.

Father Waite bowed. "Madam," he said with great seriousness, "I would

be very wide awake."

The Beaubien studied him for a moment. "Why?" she asked.

"I think--I think--" He hesitated, and looked at Carmen.

"Well?" impatiently.

"I think he--has been greatly angered by--this girl--and by my

presence here."

"Ah!" Her face set hard. Then abruptly: "What are you going to do

now?"

"I have funds enough to keep me some weeks, Madam, while making plans

for the future."

"Then remain where I can keep in touch with you."

For the Beaubien had just returned from a two hours' ride with J.

Wilton Ames, and she felt that she needed a friend.

CHAPTER 20

The Beaubien sat in the rounded window of the breakfast room. Carmen

nestled at her feet. The maid had just removed the remains of the

light luncheon.

"Dearest, please, _please_ don't look so serious!"

The Beaubien twined her fingers through the girl's flowing locks. "I

will try, girlie," she said, though her voice broke.

Carmen looked up into her face with a wistful yearning. "Will you not

tell me?" she pleaded. "Ever since Monsignor Lafelle and Father Waite

were here you have been so quiet; and that was nearly a week ago. I

know I can help, if you will only let me."

"How would you help, dearie?" asked the woman absently.

"By knowing that God is everywhere, and that evil is unreal and

powerless," came the quick, invariable reply.

"My sweet child! Can nothing shake your faith?"

"No. Why, if I were chained to a stake, with fire all around me, I'd

know it wasn't true!"

"I think you are chained--and the fire has been kindled," said the

woman in a voice that fell to a whisper.

"Then your thought is wrong--all wrong! And wrong thought just _can't_

be externalized to me, for I know that 'There shall no mischief happen

to the righteous,' that is, to the right-thinking. And I think

right."

"I'm sure you do, child." The Beaubien got up and walked slowly around

the room, as if to summon her strength. Then she returned to her

chair.

"I'm going to tell you," she said firmly. "You are right, and I have

been wrong. It concerns you. And you have help that I have not. I--I

have lost a great deal of money."

Carmen laughed in relief. "Well, dear me! that's nothing."

The Beaubien smiled sadly. "I agree with you. Mr. Ames may have my

money. I have discovered in the past few months that there are better

things in life. But--" her lips tightened, and her eyes half

closed--"he can _not_ have you!"

"Oh! He wants _me_?"

"Yes. Listen, child: I know not why it is, but you awaken something in

every life into which you come. The woman I was a year ago and the

woman I am to-day meet almost as strangers now. Why? The only answer I

can give is, you. I don't know what you did to people in South

America; I can only surmise. Yet of this I am certain, wherever you

went you made a path of light. But the effect you have on people

differs with differing natures. Just why this is, I do not know. It

must have something to do with those mental laws of which I am so

ignorant, and of which you know so much."

Carmen looked at her in wondering anticipation. The Beaubien smiled

down into the face upturned so lovingly, and went on:

"From what you have told me about your priest, Josè, I know that you

were the light of his life. He loved you to the complete obliteration

of every other interest. You have not said so; but I know it. How,

indeed, could it be otherwise? On the other hand, that heartless

Diego--his mad desire to get possession of you was only animal. Why

should you, a child of heaven, arouse such opposite sentiments?"

"Dearest," said the girl, laying her head on the woman's knees, "that

isn't what's worrying you."

"No--but I think of it so often. And, as for me, you have turned me

inside-out."

Carmen laughed again merrily. "Well, I think this side wears better,

don't you?"

"It is softer--it may not," returned the woman gently. "But I have no

desire to change back." She bent and kissed the brown hair. "Mr. Ames

and I have been--no, not friends. I had no higher ideals than he, and

I played his game with him. Then you came. And at a time when he had

involved me heavily financially. The Colombian revolution--his cotton

deal--he must have foreseen, he is so uncanny--he must have known that

to involve me meant control whenever he might need me! He needs me

now, for I stand between him and you."

"You don't!" Carmen was on her feet. "God stands between me and every

form of evil!" She sat down on the arm of the Beaubien's chair. "Is it

because you will not let him have me that he threatens to ruin you

financially?"

"Yes. He couldn't ruin me in reputation, for--" her voice again faded

to a whisper, "I haven't any."

"That is not true!" cried the girl, throwing her arms about the

woman's neck. "Your true self is just coming to light! Why, it is

beautiful! And I love it so!"

The Beaubien suddenly burst into a flood of tears. The strain of weeks

was at last manifesting. "Oh, I have been in the gutter!--he dragged

me through the mire!--and I let him! I did it for money, money! I gave

my soul for it! I schemed and plotted with him; I ruined and pillaged

with him; I murdered reputations and blasted lives with him, that I

might get money, dirty, blood-stained money! Oh, Carmen, I didn't know

what I was doing, until you came! And now I'd hang on the cross if I

could undo it! But it's too late! And he has you and me in his

clutches, and he is crushing us!" She bent her head and sobbed

violently.

Carmen bent over the weeping woman. "Be still, and _know_ that I am

God." The Beaubien raised her head and smiled feebly through her

tears.

"He governs all, dearest," whispered Carmen, as she drew the woman's

head to her breast. "And He is _everywhere_."

"Let us go away!" cried the Beaubien, starting up.

"Flee from our problems?" returned the girl. "But they would follow.

No, we will stay and meet them, right here!"

The Beaubien's hand shook as she clasped Carmen's. "I can't turn to

Kane, nor to Fitch, nor Weston. They are all afraid of him. I've

ruined Gannette myself--for him! I've ruined Mrs. Hawley-Crowles--"

"Mrs. Hawley-Crowles!" exclaimed Carmen, rising.

"Oh, don't, don't!" sobbed the suffering woman, clinging to the girl.

"But--how did you do that?"

"I lent her money--took her notes--which I sold again to Mr. Ames."

"Well, you can buy them back, can't you? And return the money to

her?"

"I can't! I've tried! He refuses to sell them!"

"Then give her your own money."

"Most that I have is mortgaged to him on the investments I made at his

direction," wailed the woman.

"Well?"

"I will try--I am trying, desperately! I will save her, if I can!

But--there is Monsignor Lafelle!"

"Is he working with Mr. Ames?"

"He works with and against him. And I'm sure he holds something over

you and me. But, I will send for him--I will renew my vows to his

Church--anything to--"

"Listen, dearest," interrupted Carmen. "I will go to Mr. Ames myself.

If I am the cause of it all, I can--"

"You will not!" cried the Beaubien fiercely. "I--I would kill him!"

"Why, mother dearest!"

The desperate woman put her head in the girl's lap and sobbed

bitterly.

"There is a way out, dearest," whispered Carmen. "I _know_ there is,

no matter what seems to be or to happen, for 'underneath are the

everlasting arms.' I am not afraid. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles told me this

morning that Mrs. Ames intends to give a big reception next week. Of

course we will go. And then I will see Mr. Ames and talk with him.

Don't fear, dearest. He will do it for me. And--it will be right, I

know."

And Carmen sat with the repentant woman all that day, struggling with

her to close the door upon her sordid past, and to open it wide to

"that which is to come."

* * * * *

The days following were busy ones for many with whom our story is

concerned. Every morning saw Carmen on her way to the Beaubien, to

comfort and advise. Every afternoon found her yielding gently to the

relentless demands of society, or to the tiresome calls of her

thoroughly ardent wooer, the young Duke of Altern. Carmen would have

helped him if she could. But she found so little upon which to build.

And she bore with him largely on account of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, for

whom she and the Beaubien were now daily laboring. The young man

tacitly assumed proprietorship over the girl, and all society was agog

with expectation of the public announcement of their engagement.

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles still came and went upon a tide of unruffled joy.

The cornucopia of Fortune lay full at her feet. Her broker, Ketchim,

basked in the sunlight of her golden smiles--and quietly sold his own

Simití stock on the strength of her patronage. Society fawned and

smirked at her approach, and envied her brilliant success, as it

copied the cut of her elaborate gowns--all but the deposed Mrs. Ames

and her unlovely daughter, who sulked and hated, until they received a

call from Monsignor Lafelle. This was shortly after that gentleman's

meeting with Carmen and Father Waite in the Beaubien mansion. And he

left the Ames home with an ominous look on his face. "The girl is a

menace," he muttered, "and she deserves her fate."

The Ames grand reception, promising to be the most brilliant event of

the year, barring the famous _Bal de l'Opéra_, was set for Thursday.

But neither Mrs. Hawley-Crowles nor Carmen had received invitations.

To the former it was evident that there was some mistake. "For it

can't be possible that the hussy doesn't intend to invite us!" she

argued. But Thursday morning came, and found Mrs. Hawley-Crowles

drenched with tears of anxiety and vexation. "I'd call her up and ask,

if I dared," she groaned. But her courage failed. And, to the

amazement of the exclusive set, the brilliant function was held

without the presence of its acknowledged leaders, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles

and her ward, the Inca princess.

* * * * *

On Wednesday night Harris arrived from Denver. His arrival was

instantly made known to J. Wilton Ames, who, on the morning following,

summoned both him and Philip O. Ketchim to his private office. There

were present, also, Monsignor Lafelle and Alonzo Hood. Harris and

Ketchim came together. The latter was observed to change color as he

timidly entered the room and faced the waiting audience.

"Be seated, gentlemen," said Ames genially, after cordially shaking

hands with them and introducing the churchman. Then, turning to

Harris, "You are on your way to Colombia, I learn. Going down to

inaugurate work on the Simití holdings, I suppose?"