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 156 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 158 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 159 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 161 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.