It is sometimes said of the man who toils at forge or loom in this great commonwealth that he is fast forgetting that Washington is something more significant to him than what is embraced in the definition of the gazetteers. Not so, however, of that class of the genus homo individualized in J. Wilton Ames. He leaned not upon such frail dependence as the Congressional Record for tempered reports of what goes on behind closed legislative doors; he went behind those doors himself. He needed not to yield his meekly couched desires to the law-builders whom his ballot helped select; he himself launched those legislators, and gave them their steering charts. But, since the interpretation of laws was to him vastly more important than their framing, he first applied himself to the selection of judges, and especially those of the federal courts. With these safely seated and instructed at home, he gave himself comfortably to the task of holding his legislators in Washington to the course he chose.

Carmen had not spent a day at the Capital before the significance of this fact to the common citizen swept over her like a tidal wave. If the people, those upon whom the stability of the nation rests, looked as carefully after appointments and elections as did Ames, would their present wrongs continue long to endure? She thought not. And after she had spent the day with the Washington correspondent of the Express, a Mr. Sands, who, with his young wife, had just removed to the Capital, she knew more with respect to the mesmerism of human inertia and its baneful effects upon mankind than she had known before.

And yet, after that first day of wandering through the hallowed precincts of a nation’s legislative halls, she sat down upon a bench in the shadow of the Capitol’s great dome and asked herself the questions: “What am I here for, anyway? What can I do? Why have I come?” She had acted upon––impulse? No; rather, upon instinct. And instinct with her, as we have said, was unrestrained dependence upon her own thought, the thought which entered her mentality only after she had first prepared the way by the removal of every obstruction, including self.

At the breakfast table the second morning after her arrival in the city, Mr. Sands handed her a copy of the Express. Among the editorials was her full report upon conditions as she had found them in Avon, published without her signature. Following 162 it was the editor’s comment, merciless in its exposition of fact, and ruthless in its exposure of the cruel greed externalized in the great cotton industry in that little town.

Carmen rose from the table indignant and protesting. Hitt had said he would be wise in whatever use he made of her findings. But, though quite devoid of malignity, this account and its added comment were nothing less than a personal attack upon the master spinner, Ames. And she had sent another report from Washington last night, one comprising all she had learned from Mr. Sands. What would Hitt do with that? She must get in touch with him at once. So she set out to find a telegraph office, that she might check the impulsive publisher who was openly hurling his challenge at the giant Philistine.

When the message had gone, the girl dismissed the subject from her thought, and gave herself up completely to the charm of the glorious morning and her beautiful environment. For some time she wandered aimlessly about the city; then bent her steps again toward the Capitol.

At the window of a florist she stopped and looked long and lovingly at the gorgeous display within. In the midst of the beautiful profusion a single flower held her attention. It was a great, brilliant red rose, a kind that she had never seen before. She went in and asked for it.

“We call it the ‘President’ rose, Miss,” said the salesman in response to her query. “It is quite new.”

“I want it,” she said simply.

And when she went out with the splendid flower burning on her bosom like living fire, she was glad that Hitt had not been there to see her pay two dollars for it.

The great Capitol seemed to fascinate her, as she stood before it a few moments later. The spell of tradition enwrapped her. The mighty sentiments and motives which had actuated the framers of the Constitution seemed to loom before her like monuments of eternal stone. Had statesmanship degenerated from that day of pure patriotism into mere corruption? Mr. Sands would have her so believe.

“The people!” he had exclaimed in scoffing tones. “Why, my dear girl, the people of your great State are represented in the national Senate by––whom? By nobody, I say. By the flies on the panes; by the mice in the corners; by the god, perhaps, to whom the chaplain offers his ineffectual prayers; but not by men. No; one of your Senators represents a great railroad; the other an express company! The people? Those Senators know no such ridiculous creature as ‘the people’!”

She turned from the Capitol, and for an hour or more 163 strolled in the brilliant sunlight. “An economic disease,” she murmured at length. “That’s what it is. And, like all disease, it is mental. It is a disease of the human conscience. It comes from the fear of separation from good. It all reduces to the belief of separation from God––the belief that upon men’s own human efforts depend all the happiness and satisfaction they can have. Why, I have never known anything but happiness and abundance! And yet, I have never made a single effort to acquire them!” For the girl saw not the past vicissitudes of her life except as shadowy mists, which dimmed not the sun of her joy.

“Take care!” cried a loud voice close to her.

There was a tramping of horses’ feet. A great, dark body swept past. It struck her, and brushed her to one side. She strove to hold herself, but fell.

The man and his companion were off their horses instantly, and assisted the girl to her feet.

“Are you hurt?” asked the one who had been riding ahead. “I called to you, but you didn’t seem to hear.”

“Not a bit!” laughed the girl, recovering her breath, and stooping to brush the dust from her dress. “I was dreaming, as usual.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that! It was a close shave! I’m mighty sorry! Are you sure you’re all right? Perhaps you had better come in with us.”

The girl raised her head and looked into his face with a bright smile. The man’s anxious expression slowly changed into one of wonder, and then of something quite different. The girl’s long, thick hair had been loosened by the fall, and was hanging about her shoulders. Framed in the deep brown profusion was the fairest face he had ever looked upon; the most winning smile; the most loving, compassionate glance.

“You’ll have to come in now, and let the maid help you,” he said firmly. “And I’ll send you home in an auto. May I ask where you live?”

“New York,” replied Carmen, a little confused as she struggled vainly with her hair. “Oh, I’m not going to fuss with it any more!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Yes, I’ll go with you, and let the maid do it up. Isn’t it long!”

She glanced about her, and then up the avenue toward which the men had been riding. A flush suddenly spread over her face, and she turned and looked searchingly at the man.

“You––you––live––in––there?” she stammered, pointing toward the distant house. “And you are––”

“Yes,” he replied, coming to her assistance, but evidently greatly enjoying her embarrassment, “I am the President.”

Carmen gave a little gasp. “Oh!”

Then her hand stole mechanically to the rose flaming upon her bosom. “I––I guess I know why I bought this now,” she said softly. Quickly unpinning it, she extended it to the man. “I was bringing it to you, wasn’t I?” she laughed. “It’s a ‘President’ rose.”

The picture was one that would have rejoiced an artist: the simple girl, with her tumbled hair and wonderful face, standing there in the glorious sunlight, holding out a single rose to the chief executive of a great nation.

The President bowed low and took the proffered flower. “I thank you,” he said. “It is beautiful. But the one who gives it is far more so.”

Then he bade his companion take the two horses to the stable, and motioned to Carmen to accompany him.

“I was just returning from my morning ride,” he began again, “when you happened––”

“Things never happen,” interrupted the girl gently.

He looked at her with a little quizzical side glance. “Then you didn’t happen to be in the way?” he said, smiling.

“No,” she returned gravely. “I was obeying the law of cause and effect.”

“And the cause?” he pursued, much interested.

“A desire to see you, I guess. Or, perhaps, the necessity of seeing you. And because I wanted to see you in the interests of good, why, evil seemed to try to run over me.”

“But why should you wish to see me?” he continued, greatly wondering.

“Because you are the head of a wonderful nation. Your influence is very great. And you are a good man.”

He studied her for a moment. Then:

“You came down from New York to talk with me?” he asked.

“I think I came all the way from South America to see you,” she said.

“South America!”

“Yes, Colombia.”

“Colombia! There is a revolution in progress down there now. Did you come to see me about that? I can do nothing––”

The girl shook her head. “No,” she said, “it’s to prevent a revolution here in your own country that I think I have come to see you.”

They had by now reached the door of the Executive Mansion. Entering, the President summoned a maid, and turned the big-eyed girl over to her. “Bring her to my office,” he directed, “when she is ready.”

A little later the nameless girl from SimitÍ again stood before the President of the United States.

“I have an important conference at ten,” he said, glancing at a clock. “But we have a few minutes before that time. Will you––may I ask you to tell me something about yourself?” he ventured. “You are feeling all right? No bad effects from the accident?” he added, looking apprehensively at her while he set out a chair.

The girl drew the chair close to his desk and sat down. “I know nothing about accidents,” she said quietly. Then, turning quite from that topic, she drew the President quickly into her thought and carried him off with her as on a magic carpet.

The man listened in rapt attention. From time to time he turned and stared at his strange visitor. At other times he made notes of points which impressed him. Once he interrupted, when she made reference to her past life. “This priest, JosÈ de RincÓn, might he not have been imprisoned as a political offender?”

“I do not know,” the girl replied tenderly. “My foster-father, Rosendo, did not mention him in the two letters which I have received.”

The President nodded; and the girl went rapidly on. Soon she was deep in the problem presented by Avon.

But at the mention of that town, and of its dominating genius, the President seemed to become nervous. At length he raised a hand, as if to end the interview.

“I fear I can do nothing at present,” he said with an air of helplessness. “My influence is quite limited.”

“But,” she protested, “you have the public welfare at heart. And can you not see that public welfare is the welfare of each individual?”

“I know Mr. Ames well,” the President replied, somewhat irrelevantly. “He, like all men of great wealth, presents a serious problem, doubtless. But he himself, likewise, is confronted by problems of very trying natures. We must give him time to work them out.”

The girl sighed. “It’s like getting at the essence of Christianity,” she said. “The world has had nearly two thousand years in which to do that, but it hasn’t made much of a start as yet. How much time does Mr. Ames require? And how many more lives must he sacrifice?”

“But,” the President resumed reflectively, “after all, it is the people who are wholly responsible for the conditions which exist among them. They have the means of remedying every economic situation, the ballot. It is really all in their hands, is it not? They elect their public officers, their judges, and their lawmakers.”

Again the girl sighed. “You too,” she said, “take refuge in the cant of the age. Yes, the people do try to elect public servants; but by some strange anomaly the servant becomes master the moment he enters the door of office. His thought then centers upon himself. And then they, and you, sit helplessly back and cry, No use! And if the people rise, their servants meet them with a hail of lead. It’s really childishly ridiculous, isn’t it? when you stop to consider it seriously.”

She leaned her elbows upon the desk, and sat with chin in her hands, looking squarely into the eyes of the President.

“So you, the head of this great nation, confess to utter helplessness,” she slowly said. “But you don’t have to.”

A servant entered at that moment with a card. The President glanced at it, and bade him request the caller to wait a few moments. Then, after some reflection:

“The people will always––”

The door through which the servant had passed was abruptly thrown open, and a harsh voice preceded the entrance of a huge bulk.

“I am not accustomed to being told to wait, Mr. President,” said the ungracious voice. “My appointment was for ten o’clock, and I am here to keep it.”

Then the newcomer stopped abruptly, and stared in amazement at the young girl, sitting with her elbows propped upon the desk, and her face close to that of the President.

The latter rose, flushed and angry. But Ames did not notice him. His attention was centered upon the girl who sat looking calmly up at him. A dark, menacing scowl drew his bushy eyebrows together, and made the sinister look which mantled his face one of ominous import to the person upon whom it fell.

Carmen was the first to break the tense silence. With a bright smile illuming her face she rose and held out a hand to the giant before her. “Good morning, Mr. Ames,” she said. “We meet pretty often, don’t we?”

Ames ignored both the greeting and the extended hand. Turning upon the President, he said sharply: “So, the Express seeks aid in the White House, eh?”

“No, Mr. Ames,” said Carmen quickly, answering for the President. “It seeks to aid the White House.”

Ames turned to the girl. “Might I ask,” he said in a tone of mordant sarcasm, “how you learned that I was to be here this morning? I would like to employ your methods of espionage in my own business.”

“I would give anything if you would employ my methods in your business,” returned the girl gently.

The President looked in embarrassment from one to the other. “I think, Miss Carmen,” he said, “that we must consider our interview ended. This next hour belongs by appointment to Mr. Ames.”

A peculiar expression had come into Ames’s features. His thought had been working rapidly. Here was an opportunity for a telling stroke. He would play it. His manner suddenly became more gracious.

“Let her remain, Mr. President,” he said in a tone pregnant with meaning. “I am glad to have a representative of the New York press with us to hear you express your attitude toward the cotton schedule.”

The President caught the insinuation. His hand was to be forced! His indignation mounted, but he checked it.

“The schedule has been reported out of committee,” he replied briefly. “It is now before Congress.”

“I am aware of that,” said Ames. “And your influence with Congress in regard to it?”

“I am studying the matter, Mr. Ames,” returned the President slowly.

“Shall the Avon mills be closed pending a decision? Or, on the assumption that Congress will uphold the altered schedule, must the Spinners’ Association begin immediate retrenchment? As president of that Association, I ask for instructions.”

“My influence with Congress, as you well know, Mr. Ames, is quite limited,” replied the hectored executive.

“It is not a question of the amount of your influence with that body, Mr. President,” returned Ames coldly, “but of how you will employ that which you have.”

Silence lay upon them all for some moments. Then Ames resumed:

“I would remind you,” he remarked with cruel insinuation, “that––or,” glancing at the girl, “perhaps I should not make this public.” He paused and awaited the effect of his significant words upon the President. Then, as the latter remained silent, he went on evenly:

“Second-term prospects, you are aware, are often very greatly influenced by public facts regarding the first election. Of course we are saying nothing that the press might use, but––well, you must realize that there is some suspicion current as to the exact manner in which your election was––”

“I think you wish to insinuate that my election was due to the Catholic vote, which you controlled in New York, and to your very generous campaign contributions, do you not? I see no reason for withholding from the press your views on the subject.”

“But, my friend, this is an age of investigation, and of suspicion toward all public officials. And such rumors wouldn’t look well on the front pages of the press throughout the country. Of course, our young friend here isn’t going to mention them to her superiors; but, nevertheless, they ought to be suppressed at once. Their effect upon your second-term prospects would be simply annihilating. Now I am in a position to greatly assist in the matter of––well, in fact, I have already once offered my aid to the Express. And I stand ready now to join with it in giving the lie to those who are seeking to embarrass the present administration. Miss Carmen is with us––”

“Mr. Ames,” the girl quietly interrupted, “I wish you were with us.”

“But, my dear girl, have I––”

“For then there would be no more suffering in Avon,” she added.

“Ha! Then it was you who wrote that misleading stuff in the Express, eh? I might have known it! May I ask,” he added with a contemptuous sneer, “by whose authority you have visited the houses occupied by my tenants, without my permission or knowledge? I take it you were down there, although the cloudy weather must have quite dimmed your perception.”

“Yes,” she answered in a low voice, “I have been there. And it was very cloudy. Yes, I visited your charnel houses and your cemeteries. I saw your victims. I held their trembling hands, and stroked their hot brows. I fed them, and gave them the promise that I would plead their cause with you.”

“Humph! But you first come here to––”

“It was with no thought of seeing you that I came to Washington, Mr. Ames. If I cross your path often, it must be for a purpose not yet revealed to either of us. Perhaps it is to warn you, to awaken you, if not too late, to a sense of your desperate state.”

“My desperate state!”

“Yes. You are drunk, you know, drunk with greed. And such continuous drunkenness has made you sick unto death. It is the same dread disease of the soul that the wicked Cortez told the bewildered Mexicans he had, and that could be cured only with gold. You––you don’t see, Mr. Ames, that you are mesmerized by the evil which is always using you.”

She stood close to the huge man, and looked straight up into his face. He remained for a moment motionless, yielding again to that fascination which always held him when in her 169 presence, and of which he could give no account to himself. That slight, girlish figure––how easily he could crush her!

“But you couldn’t, you know,” she said cryptically, as she shook her head.

“Couldn’t what?” he demanded.

“Crush me.”

He recoiled a step, struck by the sudden revelation that the girl had read his thought.

“You see, Mr. Ames,” she continued, “what a craven error is before truth. It makes a coward of you, doesn’t it? Your boasted power is only a mesmerism, which you throw like a huge net over your victims. You and they can break it, if you will.”

“Miss Carmen!” exclaimed the President. “We really must consider our interview ended. Let us make an appointment for another day.”

“I guess the appointment was made for to-day,” the girl said softly. “And by a higher power than any of us. Mr. Ames is the type of man who is slowly turning our Republican form of government into a despotism of wealth. He boasts that his power is already greater than a czar’s. You bow before it; and so the awful monster of privilege goes on unhampered, coiling its slimy tentacles about our national resources, our public utilities, and natural wealth. I––I can’t see how you, the head of this great nation, can stand trembling by and see him do it. It is to me incomprehensible.”

The President flushed. He made as if to reply, but restrained himself. Carmen gave no indication of leaving. A stern look then came into the President’s face. He stood for a few minutes in thought. Then he turned again to his desk and sat down.

“Please be seated,” he said, “both of you. I don’t know what quarrel there is between you two, and I am not interested in it. But you, Miss Carmen, represent the press; Mr. Ames, business. The things which have been voiced here this morning must remain with us alone. Now let us see if we can not meet on common ground. Is the attitude of your newspaper, Miss Carmen, one of hostility toward great wealth?”

“The Express raises its voice only against the folly and wickedness of the human mind, not against personality,” replied the girl.

“But you are attacking Mr. Ames.”

“No. We attack only the human thought which manifests in him. We oppose the carnal thought which expresses itself in the folly, the madness of strife for excessive wealth. It is that strife that makes our hospitals and asylums a disgraceful 170 necessity. It makes the immigrant hordes of Europe flock here because they are attracted by the horrible social system which fosters the growth of great fortunes and makes their acquisition possible. Our alms-houses and prisons increase in number every year. It is because rich men misuse their wealth, trample justice under foot, and prostitute a whole nation’s conscience.”

“But the rich need not do that. They do not all––”

“It is a law of human thought,” said Carmen in reply, “that mankind in time become like that which has absorbed their attention. Rich men obey this law with utmost precision. They acquire the nature and character of their god, gold. They rapidly grow to be like that which they blindly worship. They harden like their money. They grow metallic, yellow, calloused, unchanging, and soulless, like the coins they heap up. There is the great danger to our country, Mr. President. And it is against the human thought that produces such beings––thought stamped with the dollar mark––that the Express opposes itself.”

She hesitated, and looked in the direction of Ames. Then she added:

“Their features in time reveal to the world their metallic thought. Their veins shrivel with the fiery lust of gold. Their arteries harden. And then, at last, they crumble and sink into the dust of which their god is made. And still their memories continue to poison the very sources of our national existence. You see,” she concluded, “there is no fool so mired in his folly as the man who gives his soul for great wealth.”

“A very enjoyable little sermon, preached for my benefit, Miss Carmen,” interposed Ames, bowing to her. “And now if you have finished excoriating my poor character,” he continued dryly, “will you kindly state by whose authority you publish to the world my affairs?”

“God’s authority, Mr. Ames,” returned the girl gently.

“Bah! The maudlin sentimentalism of such as you make us all suffer!” he exclaimed with a gesture of disgust. “Hadn’t we better sing a hymn now? You’re obsessed with your foolish religious notions! You’re running amuck! You’ll be wiser in a few years, I hope.”

The girl reflected. “And may I ask, Mr. Ames, by what right you own mines, and forests, and lands? Divine right, I suppose.”

“By the divine right of law, most assuredly,” he retorted.

“And you make the law. Yes, divine right! I have learned,” she continued, turning to the President, “that a bare handful of men own or control all the public utilities of this great 171 country. It doesn’t seem possible! But,” abruptly, “you believe in God, don’t you?”

He nodded his head, although with some embarrassment. His religion labored heavily under political bias.

She looked down at the floor, and sat silent for a while. “Divine right,” she began to murmur, “the fetish of the creatures made rich by our man-made social system! ‘The heavens are thine, the earth also is thine: as for the world and the fullness thereof, thou hast founded them.’ But, oh, what must be the concept of God held by the rich, a God who bestows these gifts upon a few, and with them the privilege and divine consent to oppress and crush their fellow-men! What a low order of intelligence the rich possess! An intelligence wherein the sentiments of love and justice have melted into money!”

“Mr. President,” put in Ames at this juncture, “I think we have spent quite enough time moralizing. Suppose you now indicate your attitude on the cotton tariff. I’d like to know what to expect.”

Carmen glanced quickly up. Her sparkling eyes looked right into the President’s. A smile wreathed her mouth. “I admire the man,” she said, “who dares to stand for the right in the face of the great taboo! There are few men nowadays who stand for anything in particular.”

“Look here!” exclaimed Ames, aware now that he had made a mistake in permitting the girl to remain, “I wish my interview to be with you alone, Mr. President.”

Carmen rose. “I have embarrassed you both, haven’t I?” she said. “I will go. But first––”

She went to Ames and laid a hand on his arm. “I wish––I wish I might awaken you,” she said gently. “There is no victim at Avon in so desperate a state as you. More gold will not cure you, any more than more liquor can cure a slave to strong drink. You do not know that you are hourly practicing the most despicable form of robbery, the wringing of profits which you do not need out of the dire necessities of your fellow-beings.”

She stopped and smiled down into the face of the man. His emotions were in a whirl. This girl always dissected his soul with a smile on her face.

“I wish I might awaken you and your poor victims by showing you and them that righteousness makes not for a home in the skies, but for greater happiness and prosperity for everybody right here in this world. Don’t you really want the little babies to have enough to eat down there at Avon? Do you really want the President to support you in the matter of the 172 cotton schedule, and so increase the misery and sorrow at your mills? You don’t know, do you? that one’s greatest happiness is found only in that of others.” She stood looking at him for a few moments, then turned away.

The President rose and held out his hand to her. She almost laughed as she took it, and her eyes shone with the light of her eager, unselfish desire.

“I––I guess I’m like Paul,” she said, “consumed with zeal. Anyway, you’ll wear my rose, won’t you?”

“Indeed I will!” he said heartily.

“And––you are not a bit afraid about a second term, are you? As for party principle, why, you know, there is only one principle, God. He is the Christ-principle, you know, and that is way above party principle.”

Under the spell of the girl’s strange words every emotion fled from the men but that of amazement.

“Righteousness, you know, is right-thinking. And that touches just that about which men are most chary, their pocketbooks.”

She still held his hand. Then she arched her brows and said naÏvely: “You will find in yesterday’s Express something about Avon. You will not use your influence with Congress until you have read it, will you?” And with that she left the room.

A deep quiet fell upon the men, upon the great executive and the great apostle of privilege. It seemed to the one that as the door closed against that bright presence the spirit of night descended; the other sat wrapped in the chaos of conflicting emotions in which she always left him.

Suddenly the President roused up. “Who is she?” he asked.

“She’s the bastard daughter of a negro priest,” replied Ames in an ugly tone.

“What––she? That beautiful girl––! I don’t believe it!”

“By God, she is!” cried the thoroughly angered Ames, bringing a huge fist down hard upon the desk. “And I’ve got the proof! And, what’s more, she’s head over heels in love with another renegade priest!

“But that’s neither here nor there,” he continued savagely. “I want to know what you are going to do for us?”

“I––I do not see, Mr. Ames, that I can do anything,” replied the President meditatively.

“Well––will you leave the details to us, and do as we tell you then?” the financier pursued, taking another tack.

The President hesitated. Then he raised his head. “You say you have proof?” he asked.

“Proof?”

“Yes––about the girl, you––”

“Damn the girl!” almost shouted Ames. “I’ve got proofs that will ruin her, and you too––and, by God, I’ll use ’em, if you drive me to it! You seem to forget that you were elected to do our bidding, my friend!”

The President again lapsed into silence. For a long time he sat staring at the floor. Then he looked up. “It was wonderful,” he said, “wonderful the way she faced you, like David before Goliath! There isn’t a vestige of fear in her make-up. I––we’ll talk this matter over some other time, Mr. Ames,” he finished, rising abruptly.

“We’ll talk it over now!” roared Ames, his self-control flying to the winds. “I can ruin you––make your administration a laughing-stock––and plunge this country into financial panic! Do you do as I say, or not?”

The President looked the angry man squarely in the eyes. “I do not,” he answered quietly. “Good morning.”