  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 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?” Harris threw a quick glance at Ketchim. The latter sat blank, wondering if there were any portions of the earth to which Ames’s long arms did not reach. “As a matter of fact,” Ames continued, leaning back in his chair and pressing the tips of his fingers together before him, “a hitch seems to have developed in SimitÍ proceedings. I am interested, Mr. Ketchim,” turning suddenly and sharply upon that gentleman, “because my brokers have picked up for me several thousand shares of the stock.” Ketchim’s hair began to rise. “But,” proceeded Ames calmly, “now that I have put money into it, I learn that the SimitÍ Company has no property whatever in Colombia.” A haze slowly gathered before Ketchim’s eyes. His ears hummed. His heart throbbed violently. “How do you make that out, Mr. Ames?” he heard Harris say in a voice that seemed to come from an infinite distance. “I myself saw the title papers which old Rosendo had, and saw them transferred to Mr. Ketchim for the SimitÍ Company. Moreover, I personally visited the mine in question.” “La Libertad? Quite so,” returned Ames. “But, here’s the rub. The property was relocated by this Rosendo, and he secured title to it under the name of the Chicago mine. It was that name which deceived the clerks in the Department of Mines in Cartagena, and caused them to issue title, not knowing that it really was the famous old La Libertad.” “Well, I don’t see that there is any ground for confusion.” “Simply this,” returned Ames evenly: “La Libertad mine, since the death of its former owner, Don Ignacio de RincÓn, has belonged to the Church.” “What!” Harris was on his feet. “By what right does it belong to the Church?” “By the ancient law of ‘en manos muertas’, my friend,” replied Ames, unperturbed. “Good Lord! what’s that?” “Our friend, Monsignor Lafelle, representing the Church, will explain,” said Ames, waving a hand toward that gentleman. Lafelle cleared his throat. “I deeply regret this unfortunate situation, gentlemen,” he began. “But, as Mr. Ames has pointed out, the confusion came about through issuing title to the mine under the name Chicago. Don Ignacio de RincÓn, long before his departure from Colombia after the War of Independence, drew up his last will, and, following the established custom among wealthy South Americans of that day, bequeathed this mine, La Libertad, and other property, to the Church, invoking the old law of ‘en manos muertas’ which, being translated, means, ‘in dead hands.’ Pious Catholics of many lands have done the same throughout the centuries. Such a bequest places property in the custody of the Church; and it may never be sold or disposed of in any way, but all revenue from it must be devoted to the purchase of Masses for the souls in purgatory. It was through the merest chance, I assure you, that your mistake was brought to light. Knowing that our friend, Mr. Ames, had purchased stock in your company, I took the pains to investigate while in Cartagena recently, and made the discovery which unfortunately renders your claim to the mine quite null.” “God a’mighty!” exploded Harris. “Did you know this?” turning savagely upon the paralyzed Ketchim. “That,” interposed Ames with cruel significance, “is a matter which he will explain in court.” Fleeting visions of the large blocks of stock which he had sold; of the widows, orphans, and indigent clergymen whom he had involved; of the notes which the banks held against him; of his questionable deals with Mrs. Hawley-Crowles; and of the promiscuous peddling of his own holdings in the now ruined company, rushed over the clouded mind of this young genius of high finance. His tongue froze, though his trembling body dripped with perspiration. Somehow he got to his feet. Somehow he found the door, and groped his way to a descending elevator. And somehow he lived through that terror-haunted day and night. But very early next morning, while his blurred eyes were drinking in the startling report of the SimitÍ Company’s collapse, as set forth in the newspaper which he clutched in his shaking hand, the maid led in a soft-stepping gentleman, who laid a hand upon his quaking shoulder and read to him from a familiar-looking document an irresistible invitation to take up lodgings in the city jail. There were other events forward at the same time, which came to light that fateful next day. It was noon when Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, after a night of mingled worry and anger over the deliberate or unintentional exclusion of herself and Carmen from the Ames reception the preceding night, descended to her combined breakfast and luncheon. At her plate lay the morning mail, including a letter from France. She tore it open, hastily scanned it, then dropped with a gasp into her chair. “Father––married to––a French––adventuress! Oh!” The long-cherished hope of a speedy inheritance of his snug fortune lay blasted at her feet. The telephone bell rang sharply, and she rose dully to answer it. The call came from the city editor of one of the great dailies. “It is reported,” said the voice, “that your ward, Miss Carmen Ariza, is the illegitimate daughter of a negro priest, now in South America. We would like your denial, for we learn that it was for this reason that you and the young lady were not included among the guests at the Ames reception last evening.” Mrs. Hawley-Crowles’s legs tottered under her, as she blindly wandered from the telephone without replying. Carmen––the daughter of a priest! Her father a negro––her mother, what? She, a mulatto, illegitimate––! The stunned woman mechanically took up the morning paper which lay on the table. Her glance was at once attracted to the great headlines announcing the complete exposure of the SimitÍ bubble. Her eyes nearly burst from her head as she grasped its fatal meaning to her. With a low, inarticulate sound issuing from her throat, she turned and groped her way back to her boudoir. Meanwhile, the automobile in which Carmen was speeding to the Beaubien mansion was approached by a bright, smiling young woman, as it halted for a moment at a street corner. Carmen recognized her as a reporter for one of the evening papers, who had called often at the Hawley-Crowles mansion that season for society items. “Isn’t it fortunate!” exclaimed the young reporter. “I was “JosÈ?” laughed the innocent girl, utterly unsuspecting. The problem of her descent had really become a source of amusement to her. “It began with a D, if I am not mistaken. I’m not up on Spanish names,” the young woman returned pleasantly. “Oh, perhaps you mean Diego.” “That’s it! Was that your father’s name? We’re very much interested to know.” “Well, I’m sure I can’t say. It might have been.” “Then you don’t deny it?” “No; how can I?” she said, smiling. “I never knew him.” “But––you think it was, don’t you?” “Well, I don’t believe it was Padre Diego––he wasn’t a good man.” “Then you knew him?” “Oh, very well! I was in his house, in Banco. He used to insist that I was his child.” “I see. By the way, you knew a woman named Jude, didn’t you? Here in the city.” “Yes, indeed!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Do you know where she is?” “No. But she took you out of a house down on––” “Yes. And I’ve tried to find her ever since.” “You know Father Waite, too, the ex-priest?” “Oh, yes, very well. We’re good friends.” “You and he going to work together, I suppose?” “Why, I’m sure I don’t know. He’s very unsettled.” “H’m! yes. Well, I thank you very much. You think this Diego might have been your father? That is, you can’t say positively that he wasn’t?” “I can’t say positively, no. But now I must go. You can come up to the house and talk about South America, if you want to.” She nodded pleasantly, and the car moved away. The innocent, ingenuous girl was soon to learn what modern news-gathering and dissemination means in this great Republic. But she rode on, happy in the thought that she and the Beaubien were formulating plans to save Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. “We’ll arrange it somehow,” said the Beaubien, looking up from her papers when Carmen entered. “Go, dearie, and play the organ while I finish this. Then I will return home with you to have a talk with Mrs. Hawley-Crowles.” For hours the happy girl lingered at the beloved organ. The Beaubien at her desk below stopped often to listen. And often she would hastily brush away the tears, and plunge again into her papers. “I suppose I should have told Mrs. Hawley-Crowles,” she said. “But I couldn’t give her any hope. And even now it’s very uncertain. Ames will yield! I’ll force him to! He knows I can expose him! And yet,” she reflected sadly, “who would believe me?” The morning papers lay still unread upon her table. Late in the afternoon the Beaubien with Carmen entered her car and directed the chauffeur to drive to the Hawley-Crowles home. As they entered a main thoroughfare they heard the newsboys excitedly crying extras. “Horrible suicide! Double extra! Big mining scandal! Society woman blows out brains! Double extra!” Of a sudden a vague, unformed presentiment of impending evil came to the girl. She half rose, and clutched the Beaubien’s hand. Then there flitted through her mind like a beam of light the words of the psalmist: “A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.” She sank back against the Beaubien’s shoulder and closed her eyes. The car rolled on. Presently the chauffeur turned and said something through the speaking tube. “What!” cried the Beaubien, springing from the seat. “Merciful heaven! Stop and get a paper at once!” The chauffeur complied. A loud cry escaped her as she took the sheet and glanced at the startling headlines. Mrs. James Hawley-Crowles, financially ruined, and hurled to disgrace from the pinnacle of social leadership by the awful exposure of the parentage of her ward, had been found in her bedroom, dead, with a revolver clasped in her cold hand. CARMEN ARIZABOOK 4
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