Carmen’s first serious test of her knowledge of English composition was made early in the semester, in an essay on town life in Colombia; and so meritorious did her instructor consider it that he advised her to send it to a prominent literary magazine. The result was that the essay was accepted, and a request made for further contributions.

The girl bubbled with new-found happiness. Then she wrote another, and still another article on the life and customs 40 of her people. Both were given publication; and with the money which she received for them she bought a silk dress for Jude, much to that adoring woman’s surprise and vehement protest. Carmen might have saved the money toward a piano––but, no; that would have been thinking of herself, and was inadmissible. Nor did the Beaubien offer any objection. “Indeed,” commented that fond shepherd of this lone lamb, “she would have poured the money out into somebody’s open hand anyway, and it might as well be Jude’s.”

Then she choked back the tears as she added: “The girl comes home every night with an empty purse, no matter how full it may have been in the morning. What does she do with the money? Follow her some day and see.”

Carmen’s slight success in the field of letters still further aroused Haynerd’s interest. The peacefully somnolent Social Era, he thought, might awaken to new things under the stimulus of such fresh writing as hers. Perhaps life did hold something of real value after all. Would she furnish him with a column or two on the peculiar social aspect of the metropolis?

She would, and did. And the result was that the staid conservative sheet was given a smart shaking; and several prominent society people sat up and blinked. The article was in no way malicious. It was not even condemnatory. It but threw a clear light from a somewhat unusual angle upon certain phases of New York’s social life, and uncovered a few of the more subtly hidden springs of its peculiar activity.

Among those who read her essay in the Social Era was J. Wilton Ames. He first lay back in his chair and laughed uproariously. And then, when his agents discovered for him the identity of the author, he glowered. The Beaubien was still standing between him and this budding genius. And though he might, and would, ultimately ruin the Beaubien financially, yet this girl, despite her social ostracism, bade fair to earn with her facile pen enough to maintain them both in luxury. So he bent anew to his vengeful schemes, for he would make them come to him. As Trustee, he would learn what courses the girl was pursuing in the University––for he had long known that she was in attendance there. Then he would learn who her associates were; what suggestions and advice her instructors gave her; and her plans for the future. And he would trace her sources of income and apply pressure at the most vital point. He had never in his life been successfully balked. Much less by a woman.

Then Haynerd came to congratulate Carmen again, and to request that she attend with him the formal opening of the new Ames mansion, the great Fifth Avenue palace, for he 41 wanted her vivid, first-hand impressions for his account of the brilliant affair in the Social Era. As reporters, he explained, they would of necessity remain in seclusion, and the girl might disguise to such an extent as to prevent recognition, if she chose. It was business for him, and an opportunity for rich experience for her. And the fearless girl went, because it would help Haynerd, though the Beaubien inwardly trembled.

Invitations to the number of three hundred had been issued to the Élite of New York, announcing the formal opening of the newly finished, magnificent Ames dwelling. These invitations were wrought in enamel on cards of pure gold. Each had cost thirty dollars. The mansion itself, twelve millions. A month prior to the opening, the newspapers had printed carefully-worded announcements of the return of Mrs. J. Wilton Ames and her daughter, after a protracted stay at various foreign baths and rest-cures in the hope of restoring the former’s impaired health. But Mrs. Ames now felt that she could no longer deprive society of her needed activities, and so had returned to conduct it through what promised to be a season of unusual brilliancy. The papers did not, however, state that J. Wilton had himself recalled her, after quietly destroying his bill of divorce, because he recognized the necessity of maintaining the social side of his complicated existence on a par with his vast business affairs.

As Carmen and Haynerd approached the huge, white marble structure, cupolaed, gabled, buttressed, and pinnacled, an overwhelming sense of what it stood for suddenly came upon the girl, and she saw revealed in a flash that side of its owner’s life which for so many months she had been pondering. The great shadows that seemed to issue from the massive exterior of the building swept out and engulfed her; and she turned and clasped Haynerd’s arm with the feeling that she would suffocate were she to remain longer in them.

“Perk up, little one,” said Haynerd, taking her hand. “We’ll go round to the rear entrance, and I will present my business card there. Ames’s secretary telephoned me instructions, and I said I was going to bring a lady reporter with me.”

Carmen caught her breath as she passed through the tall, exquisitely wrought iron gateway and along the marble walk which led to the rear. Up the winding steps to the front entrance, where swung the marvelous bronze doors which had stirred the imaginations of two continents, streamed the favored of the fashionable world. Among them Carmen saw many whom she recognized. The buffoon, Larry Beers, was there, swinging jauntily along with the bejeweled wife of Samson, the multimillionaire packer. Kane and his wife, and 42 Weston followed. Outside the gates there was incessant chugging of automobiles, mingled with the shouted orders of the three policemen detailed to direct the traffic. A pinched, ragged urchin and his tattered little sister crept up and peered wildly through the iron pickets of the fence; but a sharp rap from a policeman’s club sent them scattering. Carmen stood for a moment in the shadows and watched the swarm mount the marble steps and enter through those wonderful doors. There were congressmen and senators, magnates and jurists, distillers and preachers. Each one owed his tithe of allegiance to Ames. Some were chained to him hard and fast, nor would break their bonds this side of the grave. Some he owned outright. There were those who grew white under his most casual glance. There were others who knew that his calloused hand was closing about them, and that when it opened again they would fall to the ground, dry as dust. Others, like moths, not yet singed, were hovering ever closer to the bright, cruel flame. Reverend Darius Borwell, bowing and smiling, alighted from his parochial car and tripped blithely up the glistening marble steps. Each and all, wrapping the skeleton of grief, greed, shame, or fear beneath swart broadcloth and shimmering silk, floated up those ghostly steps as if drawn by a tremendous magnet incarnate in the person of J. Wilton Ames.

Carmen shuddered and turned away. Did the pale wraith of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles sigh in the wake of that gilded assembly? Did the moans of poor, grief-stricken Mrs. Gannette, sitting in her poverty and sorrow, die into silence against those bronze doors? Was he, the being who dwelt in that marble palace, the hydra-headed embodiment of the carnal, Scriptural, age-old power that opposes God? And could he stand forever?

Two detectives met them at the rear door. How many others there were scattered through the house itself, Haynerd could only guess. But he passed inspection and was admitted with the girl. A butler took immediate charge of them, and led them quickly through a short passage and to an elevator, by which they mounted to another floor, where, opening a paneled oak door, the dignified functionary preceded them into a small reception hall, with lavatories at either end. Here he bade them remove their wraps and await his return.

“Well,” commented Haynerd, with a light, nervous laugh, “we’ve crossed the Rubicon! Now don’t miss a thing!”

A moment later the butler returned with a sharp-eyed young woman, Mrs. Ames’s social secretary.

“You will be very careful in your report,” the latter began at once in a business-like manner. “And you will submit the 43 same to me for approval before it is published in your magazine. Mr. Ames deems that imperative, since your recent publication of an essay on modern society in this city. I have a list here of the guests, their business and social standing, and other data. You will run that in full. You will say that this is the most brilliant assemblage ever gathered under one roof in New York. The wealth represented here to-night will total not less than three billion dollars. The jewels alone displayed will foot up not less than twenty millions. Now, let me see,” again consulting her notes.

Haynerd stole a covert glance at Carmen and winked.

“The chef,” the secretary resumed, “was brought over from Paris by Mrs. Ames on her recent return. His name, Pierre Lotard, descendant of the famous chef of the Emperor Napoleon First. He considers that his menu to-night surpasses anything he ever before achieved.”

“May I ask,” interrupted Haynerd, “the probable cost of the supper?”

“Yes, perhaps you had better mention that item. It will be in the neighborhood of three hundred dollars a plate. House and table decorations, about eight thousand dollars. Here is a copy of the menu. Run it in full. The menu cards were hand-illuminated by Parisian artists, and each bears a sketch illustrative or suggestive of the guest to whom it is given.”

“Cost?” queried Haynerd off-handedly.

“Three thousand, if I correctly recall it,” was the nonchalant reply. “As to the viands, you will mention that they have been gathered from every part of the world. Now come with me, and I will give you a hasty sketch of the house, while the guests are assembling in the grand salon. Then you will remain in the balcony, where you will make what notes you wish on the dress displayed. Refreshments will be served to you later in this waiting room. I need not remind you that you are not expected to mingle with the guests, nor to address any one. Keep to the balcony, and quite out of view.”

Opening a door opposite the one through which she had entered, the young woman led her charges directly out upon the great marble balcony overlooking the grand salon below. A rush of brilliant light engulfed them, and a potpourri of chatter and laughter, mingled with soft music from a distant organ, and the less distinct notes of the orchestra in the still more distant ballroom, rose about them in confused babel, as they tiptoed to the exquisitely carved marble railing and peered down upon the gorgeous pageant. The ceiling rose far above them, delicately tinted like a soft Italian sky. The lofty walls dropped, like gold-gray veils, to the richly carved paneled 44 wainscoting beneath, which had once lined the halls of a mediaeval castle on the Rhine. The great windows were hidden behind rare Venetian lace curtains, over which fell hangings of brocade, repeating the soft tints of the wall and the brocade-covered chairs and divans ranged close about the sides of the splendid room. On the floor lay a massive, priceless Persian carpet, dating from the fifteenth century.

Haynerd drew a long breath, and whistled softly. From the end of the salon he could mark the short flight of steps which led to the mezzanine, with its walls heavily tapestried, and broken by rich oak doors opening into lavatories and lounging rooms, itself widening at the far end into the grand billiard and smoking parlors, done off in Circassian walnut, with tables and furniture to harmonize. From the mezzanine he saw the grand stairway falling away in great, sweeping curves, all in blended marble from the world’s greatest quarries, and delicately chased and carved into classic designs. Two tapestries, centuries old, hung from the walls on either side. Far above, the oak ceiling, for which the Schwarzwald had been ranged, was overlaid with pure gold leaf. The whole was suffused with the glow of myriad hidden and inverted lights, reflected in a thousand angles from burnished gold and marble and rarest gems.

Haynerd turned to the waiting secretary. He groped in the chambers of his imagery for some superlative adjective to express his emotion before this colossal display of wealth. But his ample vocabulary had faded quite. He could only shake his head and give vent to the inept remark, “Swell––by George!”

The secretary, without replying, motioned them to follow. Passing noiselessly around the balcony to the opposite side, she indicated a door below, leading off to the right from the grand salon.

“That room beyond,” she said, “is the petit salon. The decorative effects are by French artists. Beyond that is the morning room. It is in panels from French chateaux, covered with Gobelin tapestry. Now from here you can see a bit of the music room. The grand organ cost, installed, about two hundred thousand dollars. It is electrically controlled, with its pipes running all around the room, so as to give the effect of music coming from every corner.”

Haynerd again softly whistled.

“There are three art galleries beyond, two for paintings, and one for sculpture. Mr. Ames has without doubt the finest art collection in America. It includes several Titians, Veroneses, da Vincis, Turners, three Rubens, and two Raphaels. By the way, it may interest you to know that his negotiations for the 45 Murillo Madonna were completed to-day, and the picture will be sent to him immediately.”

“Might I ask what he paid for it?” Haynerd inquired casually.

“You may say that he paid something over three hundred thousand dollars for it,” she replied, in a quite matter of fact tone. “Now,” she continued, “you will go back to your first position, near the door of the waiting room, and remain there until I return. I may have an opportunity later to show you the library. It is very unique. Great carved stone fireplace, taken from a Scotch castle. Hundreds of rare volumes and first editions. Now, if any one approaches, you can step behind the screen and remain out of view. You have chairs and a table there for your writing. Do not in any event leave this balcony.”

With this final injunction she turned and disappeared into the little waiting room from which they had emerged.

For some moments Carmen and Haynerd stood looking alternately at each other and about them at their magnificent environment. Both had seen much of the gilded life, and the girl had dwelt some months in its alien atmosphere. But neither had ever witnessed such a stupendous display of material wealth as was here unfolded before their astonished gaze. At the head of the grand stairway stood the Ames trio, to receive their resplendent guests. The women were magnificently gowned. But Ames’s massive form in its simple black and chaste linen was the cynosure of all eyes. Even Haynerd could not suppress a note of admiration as he gazed at the splendid figure.

“And yet,” he murmured, “a victim, like the rest, of the great delusion.”

Carmen laid down the opera glasses through which she had been studying the man. “He is an expression,” she said, “of the American ideal––the ideal of practical material life. It is toward his plane of life that this country’s youth are struggling, at, oh, what a cost! Think, think, what his immense, misused revenue could do, if unselfishly used! Why, the cost of this single night’s show would put two hundred men like Father Waite through a four-year course in the University, and train them to do life’s work! And what, what will Mr. Ames get out of it?”

“Oh, further opportunities to increase his pile, I suppose,” returned Haynerd, shrugging his shoulders.

“But, will he get real happiness? Peace? Joy? And does he need further opportunities to accumulate money? Does he not rather need some one to show him the meaning of life, how to really live?”

“He does, indeed! And it may be your mission, Carmen, to do just that. But if you don’t, then I sincerely hope the man may die before he discovers that all that he has achieved, his wealth, his prestige, his power, have not been worth striving for!”

“He hasn’t the slightest idea of the meaning of life,” she murmured, looking down upon the glittering throng. “Nor have any of them.”

“No,” he replied. “They put me in mind of Carlyle’s famous remark, as he stood looking out across the London Strand: ‘There are in this city some four million people, mostly fools.’ How mean, narrow and hard their lives are! These are the high priests of vested privilege, of mediaevalism, of old institutions whose perpetual maintenance, even in a generation that has progressed far beyond them, is a fungus blight upon us. Ah, there’s little Willie Van Wot, all dolled out! He’s glorifying his Creator now by devoting his foolish little existence to coaching trips along the New England shore. He reminds me of the Fleet street poet who wrote a century ago of the similar occupation of a young dandy of that day––

“He’s an interesting outgrowth of our unique social system, eh?”

“We must follow Emerson and treat them all as we do pictures, look at them in the best light,” murmured Carmen.

“Aye, hang them in the best light!” returned Haynerd. “But make sure they’re well hung! There goes the pseudo-princess, member of the royal house of England. She carries the royal taint, too. I tell you, under the splash and glitter you can see the feet of clay, eh?”

“Yes,” smiled Carmen, “resting upon the high heel.”

“Huh!” muttered Haynerd, with a gesture of disgust. “The women of fashion seem to feel that the Creator didn’t do a good job when He designed the feminine sex––that He should have put a hump where the heel is, so’s to slant the foot and make comfortable walking impossible, as well as to insure a plentiful crop of foot-troubles and deformities. The Chinese women used to manifest a similarly insane thought. Good heavens! High heel, low brain! The human mind is a cave of black ignorance!”

Carmen did not reply, but bent her attention again to the throng below.

“Look there,” said Haynerd, indicating a stout, full-toiletted woman, resplendent with diamonds. “That’s our 47 eminent French guest, Madam Carot. She severed herself from her tiresome consort last year by means of a bichloride tablet deftly immersed in his coffee, and then, leaving a sigh of regret hovering over his unhandsome remains, hastened to our friendly shores, to grace the beau monde with her gowns and jewels.”

Carmen turned to him with a remonstrance of incredulity.

“Fact,” he stubbornly insisted. “The Social Era got the whole spicy story. And there beside her is our indispensable Mrs. T. Oliver Pennymon. See, she’s drifted up to young Watson! Coquetting for a husband still, the old buzzard!”

“Mr. Haynerd!”

“Well, it’s fact, anyway,” persisted the society monitor. “And there beyond her is fat little Mrs. Stuffenheimer, with her two unlovely, red-faced daughters. Ah, the despairing mamma is still vainly angling for mates for her two chubby Venuses! If they’re not married off properly and into good social positions soon, it’s mamma for the scrap heap! By George! it’s positively tragic to see these anxious mothers at Newport and Atlantic City and other fashionable places, rushing madly hither and yon with their marriageable daughters, dragging them from one function to another in the wild hope that they may ultimately land a man. Worry and pain dig deep furrows into poor mamma’s face if she sees her daughters fading into the has-been class. It requires heroism, I say, to travel in society! But I guess you know, eh? Well,” taking up his notebook, “we must get busy now. By the way, how’s your shorthand progressing?”

“Oh, splendidly,” replied the girl, her eyes still upon the massive figure of Ames. Then, recovering from her abstraction, “I can write as fast in it now as in longhand.”

“Good!” said Haynerd. “You’ll need it later.”

For more than an hour the two sat in the seclusion of the splendid balcony, looking down upon the scene of magnificence below. Through the mind of the young girl ran a ceaseless paean of thanksgiving for her timely deliverance from the trammels which she so well knew enshackled these glittering birds of paradise. With it mingled a great, consuming desire, a soul-longing to pour into the vacuity of high society the leaven of her own pure thought. In particular did her boundless love now go out to that gigantic figure whose ideals of life this sumptuous display of material wealth and power expressed. Why was he doing this? What ulterior motive had he? Was it only a vainglorious exhibition of his own human prowess? Was it an announcement, magnificent beyond compare, that he, J. Wilton Ames, had attained the supreme 48 heights of gratified world ambition? That the world at last lay at his feet? And that over it brooded the giant’s lament that there remained nothing more to conquer? But, if so, the girl at least knew that the man’s herculean efforts to subdue the material world were as nothing. The real conquest lay still before him, the conquest of self. And when that were faced and achieved, well she knew that no such garish display as this would announce the victory to a breathless world.

The bustling little social secretary again appeared, and briefly announced the production of an opera in the auditorium, to which she had come to conduct them. Passing through the little waiting room and to the elevator, they quickly mounted to the unoccupied gallery of the theater above. The parquet, which would seat nearly a thousand spectators, was rapidly filling with an eager, curious throng. The Ames trio and some of the more distinguished guests were already occupying the gorgeously decorated boxes at the sides. An orchestra of fifty pieces was visible in the hollow below the stage. Caroni, the famous grand opera leader, stood ready to conduct. The opera itself was the much discussed music drama, Salome.

“Now,” commented Haynerd to his fair, wondering companion, who was lost in contemplation of the magnificent mural decorations of the little theater, “we will see something rare, for this opera has been called the most artistic piece of indecency known to the stage. Good heavens! Ames has got Marie Deschamps for the title rÔle. She’ll cost him not less than five thousand dollars for this one night. And––see here,” drawing Carmen’s attention to the bill, “Marcou and Corvalle besides! The man must be made of money! These stars get three thousand dollars a night during the regular season.”

Every phase of sophistication was manifested in that glittering audience when the curtain rose and the sensational theme was introduced. But to none came thoughts like those which clamored for admittance at the portals of Carmen’s mentality. In the bold challenge of the insanely sensual portrayal of a carnal mind the girl saw the age-old defiance of the spirit by the flesh. In the rolls of the wondrous music, in its shrieks, its pleadings, and its dying echoes, she heard voiced again the soul-lament of a weary world searching vainly in the mazes of human thought for truth. As the wonderful Deschamps danced weirdly before her in the ghastly light and fell gloating over her gory trophy, Carmen saw but the frantic struggles of a diseased soul, portrayed as the skilled surgeon lays bare the malignant growth that is eating the quivering tissues of a human frame. The immodesty of dress, the sensual 49 suggestiveness of the dance, the brutal flouting of every element of refinement and delicacy, blazoned in frenzied tone and movement the bloody orgy and dance of death which goes on incessantly upon the stage of human life, and ends in the mad whirl and confusion and insane gibbering over the lifeless trophies for which mankind sell their very souls.

“About the limit of tolerance, eh?” commented Haynerd, when the final curtain dropped. “Yes, even to a vitiated taste. The passionate thirst for the sensational has led to this sickening display of salacity––”

“Splendid, wasn’t it?” came in tones of admiration from the social secretary, who had returned to conduct her charges back to the balcony before the guests emerged from the theater. “You will run the program in full, and comment at some length on the expense attached,” she went on. “You have just witnessed the private production of a full opera, unabridged, and with the regular operatic cast. Supper will follow in a half hour. Meantime, you will remain in the balcony where you were before.”

Returning to their former position, Carmen sank into a chair at the little table behind the screen, and strove to orient her thought. Haynerd sat down beside her to arrange his voluminous notes. Presently footsteps were heard, and the sound of voices. Haynerd glanced through the hinge of the screen. “Ha!” he whispered, “here comes Ames and––who’s with him? Ah, Representative Wales. Showing him about, I suppose.”

Carmen gazed at the approaching men with fascinated eyes, although she saw but one, the towering magician who had reared this fairy palace. She saw Ames lead his companion to the door of the little waiting room at their right, and heard the congressman protest against entering.

“But we can talk undisturbed in here,” urged Ames, his hand on the door.

“Better remain out here on the balcony,” replied the congressman nervously, as he moved toward the railing.

Ames laughed and shrugged his enormous shoulders. He understood the man’s repugnance fully. But he humored him.

“You know, Wales,” he said easily, going to the railing and peering over at the brilliant assemblage below, “if I could get the heathen Chinee to add an extra half-inch to his shirt length, I’d make a hundred millions. And then, perhaps, I wouldn’t need to struggle with your Ways and Means Committee as I do. By the way, the cotton schedule will be reported out unchanged, I presume.” He turned and looked quizzically at his companion as he said this.

Wales trembled slightly when he replied to the question he had been awaiting. “I think not, Mr. Ames.”

The giant’s face clouded. “Parsons will vote for it,” he said suggestively. “What will you do?”

The congressman hesitated. “I––the party, Mr. Ames, is committed to the high tariff principle. We can not let in a flood of foreign cotton––”

“Then you want the fight between the farmers and spinners to continue, eh?” interposed Ames cynically. “You don’t seem to realize that in the end both will get more money than they are getting now, and that it will come from the consumer, who will pay vastly higher for his finished products, in addition to the tariff. Do you get me?”

“It is a party principle, Mr. Ames,” returned the congressman tenaciously.

“Look here, Wales,” said Ames, turning savagely upon his companion. “The cotton farmers are organizing. They have got to be stopped. Their coÖperative associations must be smashed. The tariff schedule which you have before your Committee will do it. And you are going to pass it.”

“Mr. Ames,” replied the congressman, “I––I am opposed to the constant manipulation of cotton by you rich men. I––”

“There,” interrupted Ames, “never mind explaining your conscientious scruples. What I want to know is, do you intend to cast your vote for the unaltered schedule?”

“N––no, Mr. Ames, I can’t––”

“H’m,” murmured Ames. Then, with easy nonchalance, turning to an apparently irrelevant topic as he gazed over the railing, “I heard just before coming from my office this evening that the doors of the Mercantile Trust would not open to-morrow. Too bad! A lot of my personal friends are heavily involved. Bank’s been shaky for some time. Ames and Company will take over their tangible assets; I believe you were interested, were you not?” He glanced at the trembling man out of the corners of his eyes.

Wales turned ashen. His hands shook as he grasped the railing before him and tried to steady himself.

“Hits you pretty hard, eh?” coolly queried Ames.

“It––it––yes––very hard,” murmured the dazed man. “Are you––positive?”

“Quite. But step into the waiting room and ’phone the newspapers. They will corroborate my statements.”

Representative Wales was serving his first term in Congress. His election had been a matter of surprise to everybody, himself included, excepting Ames. Wales knew not that his detailed personal history had been for many months carefully filed in the vaults of the Ames tower. Nor did he ever suspect that his candidacy and election had been matters of most careful 51 thought on the part of the great financier and his political associates. But when he, a stranger to congressional halls, was made a member of the Ways and Means Committee, his astonishment overleaped all bounds. Then Ames had smiled his own gratification, and arranged that the new member should attend the formal opening of the great Ames palace later in the year. Meantime, the financier and the new congressman had met on several occasions, and the latter had felt no little pride in the attention which the great man had shown him.

And so the path to fame had unrolled steadily before the guileless Wales until this night, when the first suspicions of his thraldom had penetrated and darkened his thought. Then, like a crash from a clear sky, had come the announcement of the Mercantile Trust failure. And as he stood there now, clutching the marble railing, his thought busy with the woman and the two fair children who would be rendered penniless by this blow, the fell presence of the monster Ames seemed to bend over him as the epitome of ruthless, brutal, inhuman cunning.

“How much are you likely to lose by this failure?” the giant asked.

Wales collected his scattered senses. “Not less than fifty thousand dollars,” he replied in a husky voice.

“H’m!” commented Ames. “Too bad! too bad! Well, let’s go below. Ha! what’s this?” stooping and apparently taking up an object that had been lying on the floor back of the congressman. “Well! well! your bank book, Wales. Must have slipped from your pocket.”

Wales took the book in a dazed, mechanical way. “Why––I have no––this is not mine,” he murmured, gazing alternately at the pass book and at Ames.

“Your name’s on it, at least,” commented Ames laconically. “And the book’s been issued by our bank, Ames and Company. Guess you’ve forgotten opening an account there, let me see, yes, a week ago.” He took the book and opened it. “Ah, yes, I recall the incident now. There’s your deposit, made last Friday.”

Wales choked. What did it mean? The book, made out in his name on Ames and Company, showed a deposit to his credit of fifty thousand dollars!

Ames slipped his arm through the confused congressman’s, and started with him down the balcony. “You see,” he said, as they moved away, “the Mercantile failure will not hit you as hard as you thought. Now, about that cotton schedule, when you cast your vote for it, be sure that––” The voice died away 52 as the men disappeared in the distance, leaving Carmen and Haynerd staring blankly at each other.

“Well!” ejaculated Haynerd at length. “What now?”

“We must save them both,” said Carmen quietly.

“I could make my everlasting fortune out of this!” exclaimed Haynerd excitedly.

“And lose your soul,” replied the girl. “But I will see Mr. Ames, and tell him that we overheard his conversation. He will save us all.”

Haynerd then smiled, but it was a hard smile, coming from one who knew the world. “Listen, my dear girl,” he said, “we will keep quiet, you and I. To mention this would be only to court disaster at the hands of one who would strangle us at the slightest intimation of our knowledge. Can you not see the consequences to us?”

“I can see but the right,” returned Carmen determinedly. “And the right shall prevail!”

“But, my dear girl,” cried Haynerd, now thoroughly alarmed both for himself and her, “he would ruin us! This is no affair of ours. We had no intention of hearing; and so let it be as if we had not heard.”

“And let the lie of evil prevail? No, Mr. Haynerd, I could not, if I would. Mr. Ames is being used by evil; and it is making him a channel to ruin Mr. Wales. Shall I stand idly by and permit it? No!”

She rose, with a look of fixed resolution on her face. Haynerd sprang to his feet and laid a detaining hand upon her arm. As he did so, the screen was quickly drawn aside, and Kathleen Ames and two of her young companions bent their curious gaze in upon them. Absorbed in their earnest conversation, Carmen and Haynerd had not heard the approach of the young ladies, who were on a tour of inspection of the house before supper.

“Reporters for the Social Era, Miss Ames,” explained Haynerd, hastily answering the unspoken question, while he made a courteous bow.

But Kathleen had not heard him. “What––you!” she cried, instantly recognizing Carmen, and drawing back. “How dared you! Oh!”

“What is it, dear?” asked one of the young ladies, as her eyes roved over Carmen’s tense, motionless figure.

“You––creature!” cried Kathleen, spurting her venom at Carmen, while her eyes snapped angrily and her hands twitched. “When the front door is closed against you, you sneak in through the back door! Leave this house, instantly, or I shall have you thrown into the street!”

“Why, Kathleen dear!” exclaimed one of her companions. “She is only a reporter!”

“She is a low, negro wench!” cried Kathleen maliciously. “She comes from a brothel! She foisted herself upon society, and was discovered and kicked out! Her father is a dirty negro priest, and her mother a low––”

Haynerd rushed to the maddened girl and clapped his hand over her mouth. “Hush, for God’s sake, Miss Ames!” Then, to her companions, “Take her away!” he pleaded. “And we will leave at once!”

But a house detective, attracted by the loud conversation, had come up and interposed. At his signal another one approached. “Bring Mr. Ames,” he quietly commanded. “I can not put them out if they have his permission to remain,” he explained to the angry Kathleen.

In a few moments, during which the little group stood tense and quiet, Ames himself appeared.

“Well?” he demanded. “Ah!” as his eyes lighted upon Carmen. “My little girl! And––so this is your assistant?” turning inquiringly to Haynerd. “By George! Her article in last week’s Social Era was a corker. But,” staring from Kathleen to the others, “what’s the row?”

“I want that creature put out of the house!” demanded Kathleen, trembling with rage and pointing to Carmen.

“Tut, tut,” returned Ames easily. “She’s on business, and has my permission to remain. But, by George! that’s a good joke,” winking at Haynerd and breaking into a loud laugh. “You put one over on us there, old man!” he said.

“Father!” Scalding tears of anger and humiliation were streaming down Kathleen’s face. “If she remains, I shall go––I shall leave the house––I will not stay under the same roof with the lewd creature!”

“Very well, then, run along,” said Ames, taking the humiliated Kathleen by the shoulders and turning her about. “I will settle this without your assistance.” Then he motioned to the house detectives to depart, and turned to Haynerd and Carmen. “Come in here,” he said, leading the way to the little waiting room, and opening the door.

“Lord! but you belong down stairs with the rest,” he ejaculated as he faced Carmen, standing before him pale but unafraid. “There isn’t one down there who is in your class!” he exclaimed, placing his hands upon her shoulders and looking down into her beautiful face. “And,” he continued with sudden determination, “I am going to take you down, and you will sit at the table with me, as my special guest!”

A sudden fear gripped Haynerd, and he started to interpose. But Carmen spoke first.

“Very well, Mr. Ames,” she said quietly. “Take me down. I have a question to ask Mr. Wales when we are at the table.”

An expression of surprise and inquiry came into Ames’s face. “Mr. Wales?” he said wonderingly. “You mean Congressman––”

Then he stopped abruptly, and looked searchingly at Carmen and her companion. Haynerd paled. Carmen stood unflinching. Ames’s expression of surprise gave place to one dark and menacing.

“You were behind that screen when Congressman Wales and I––”

“Yes,” returned Carmen calmly. “I overheard all you said. I saw you bribe him.”

Ames stood like a huge, black cloud, glowering down upon the slender girl. She looked up at him and smiled.

“You are going to tell him that the fifty thousand dollars are just a loan, and that he may vote as he chooses, aren’t you?” she said. “You will not ruin his life, and the lives of his wife and babies, will you? You would never be happy, you know, if you did.” Her voice was as quiet as the morning breeze.

“So!” the giant sneered. “You come into my house to play spy, eh? And if I had not caught you when I did you would have written another interesting article for the Social Era, wouldn’t you? By God! I’ll break you, Haynerd, and your infernal sheet into a million pieces if you dare print any such rot as this! And as for you, young lady––”

“You can do nothing to me, Mr. Ames; and you don’t really want to,” said Carmen quickly. “My reputation, you know––that is, the one which you people have given me––is just as black as it could be, isn’t it? So that is safe.” She laughed lightly.

Then she became very serious again. “It doesn’t really make any difference to you, Mr. Ames,” she said, “whether the cotton schedule is passed or not. You still have your millions––oh, so much more than you will ever know what to do with! But Mr. Wales, he has his wife and his babies and his good reputation––would you rob him of those priceless treasures, just to make a few dollars more for yourself?––dollars that you can’t spend, and that you won’t let others have?”

During the girl’s quiet talk Ames was regaining his self-control. When she concluded he turned to Haynerd. “Miss Carmen can step out into the balcony. You and I will arrange this matter together,” he said.

Carmen moved toward the door.

“Now,” said Ames significantly, and in a low voice, “what’s your price?”

Instantly the girl turned back and threw herself between 55 the two men. “He is not for sale!” she cried, her eyes flashing as she confronted Ames.

“Then, by God!” shouted Ames, who had lost himself completely, “I will crush him like a dirty spider! And you, I’ll drag you through the gutters and make your name a synonym of all that is vile in womanhood!”

Carmen stepped quietly to the elevator and pressed the signal button.

“You shall not leave this house!” cried the enraged Ames, starting toward her. “Or you’ll go under arrest!”

The girl drew herself up with splendid dignity, and faced him fearlessly. “We shall leave your house, and now, Mr. Ames!” she said. “You and that for which you stand can not touch us! The carnal mind is back of you! Omnipotent God is with us!”

She moved away from him, then turned and stood for a moment, flashing, sparkling, radiant with a power which he could not comprehend. “You know not what you do. You are blinded and deceived by human lust and greed. But the god you so ignorantly worship now will some day totter and fall upon you. Then you will awake, and you will see your present life as a horrid dream.”

The elevator appeared. Carmen and the dazed Haynerd stepped quickly into it and descended without opposition to the lower floor. A few moments later they were again in the street and hurrying to the nearest car line.

“Girlie,” said Haynerd, mopping the perspiration from his brow, “we’re in for it now––and I shall be crushed! But you––I think your God will save you.”

Carmen took his hand. “His arm is not shortened,” she murmured, “that He can not save us both.”

CHAPTER 5

ON the Monday morning following the Ames reception the society columns of the daily papers still teemed with extravagant depictions of the magnificent affair. On that same morning, while Haynerd sat gloomily in the office of the Social Era, meditating on his giant adversary’s probable first move, Carmen, leaving her studies and classes, sought out an unpretentious home in one of the suburbs of the city, and for an hour or more talked earnestly with the timid, frightened little wife of Congressman Wales. Then, her work done, she dismissed the whole affair from her mind, and hastened joyously 56 back to the University. She would have gone to see Ames himself. “But,” she reflected, as she dwelt on his conduct and words of the previous Saturday evening, “he is not ready for it yet. And when he is, I will go to him. And Kathleen––well, I will help her by seeing only the real child of God, which was hidden that night by the veil of hatred and jealousy. And that veil, after all, is but a shadow.”

That evening the little group of searchers after God assembled again in the peaceful precincts of the Beaubien cottage. It was their third meeting, and they had come together reverently to pursue the most momentous inquiry that has ever stimulated human thought.

Haynerd and Carmen had said little relative to the Ames reception; but the former, still brooding over the certain consequences of his brush with Ames, was dejected and distraught. Carmen, leaning upon her sustaining thought, and conceding no mite of power or intelligence to evil, glowed like a radiant star.

“What are you listening to?” she asked of Haynerd, drawing him to one side. “Are you giving ear to the voices of evil, or good? Which are you making real to yourself? For those thoughts which are real to you will become outwardly manifested, you know.”

“Bah! He’s got us––tight!” muttered Haynerd, with a gesture signifying defeat. “And the insults of that arrogant daughter of his––”

“She did not insult me,” said Carmen quickly. “She could not, for she doesn’t know me. She merely denounced her concept of me, and not my real self. She vilified what she thought was Carmen Ariza; but it was only her own thought of me that she insulted. Can’t you see? And such a concept of me as she holds deserves denouncing, doesn’t it?”

“Well, what are we going to do?” he pursued testily.

“We are going to know,” she whispered, “that we two with God constitute an overwhelming majority.” She said nothing about her visit to the Wales home that morning, but pressed his hand, and then went to take her place at the table, where Father Waite was already rapping for order.

“My friends,” began that earnest young man, looking lovingly about at the little group, “as we are gathered here we symbolize that analytical, critical endeavor of the unbiased human mind to discover the essence of religion. Religion is that which binds us to absolute truth, and so is truth itself. If there is a God, we believe from our former investigations that He must be universal mind. This belief carries with it as necessary corollaries the beliefs that He must be perfect, eternal, 57 and self-existent. The question, Who made God? must then receive its sufficient answer in the staggering statement that He has always existed, unchanged and unchangeable.”

A sigh from Haynerd announced that quizzical soul’s struggle to grasp a statement at once so radical and stupendous.

“True,” continued Father Waite, addressing himself to his doubting friend, “the acceptance as fact of what we have deduced in our previous meetings must render the God of orthodox theology quite obsolete. But, as a compensation, it gives to us the most enlarged and beautiful concept of Him that we have ever had. It ennobles, broadens, purifies, and elevates our idea of Him. It destroys forever our belittling view of Him as but a magnified human character, full of wrath and caprice and angry threats, and delighting in human ceremonial and religious thaumaturgy. And, most practical of all for us, it renders the age-long problem of evil amenable to solution.”

Just then came a ring at the front door; and a moment later the Beaubien ushered Doctor Morton into the room. All rose and hastened to welcome him.

“I––I am sure,” began the visitor, looking at Carmen, “that I am not intruding, for I really come on invitation, you know. Miss Carmen, first; and then, our good friend Hitt, who told me this afternoon that you would probably meet this evening. I––I pondered the matter some little time––ah, but––well, to make it short, I couldn’t keep away from a gathering so absolutely unique as this––I really couldn’t.”

Carmen seized both his hands. “My!” she exclaimed, her eyes dancing, “I am glad you came.”

“And I, too,” interposed Haynerd dryly, “for now we have two theological Philistines. I was feeling a bit lonely.”

“Ah, my friend,” replied the doctor, “I am simply an advocate of religious freedom, not a––”

“And religious freedom, as our wise Bill Nye once said, is but the art of giving intolerance a little more room, eh?” returned Haynerd with a laugh.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “You are a Philistine,” he said. “I am a human interrogation.”

Carmen took the doctor by the arm and led him to a place beside her at the table. “You––you didn’t bring poor Yorick?” she whispered, with a glint of mischief in her bright eyes.

“No,” laughed the genial visitor, “he’s a dead one, you told me.”

“Yes,” replied the girl, “awfully dead! He is an outward manifestation of dead human beliefs, isn’t he? But now listen, Father Waite is going to speak.”

After a brief explanation to the doctor of the purpose of 58 the meeting, and a short rÉsumÉ of their previous deductions, Father Waite continued the exposition of his subject.

“The physical universe,” he said, “is to human beings a reality. And yet, according to Spencer’s definition of reality, we must admit that the universe as we see it is quite unreal. For the real is that which endures.”

“And you mean to say that the universe will not endure?” queried Haynerd abruptly.

“I do,” replied Father Waite. “The phenomena of the universe, even as we see it, are in a state of ceaseless change. Birth, growth, maturity, decay, and death seems to be the law for all things material. There is perpetual genesis, and perpetual exodus.”

“But,” again urged Haynerd, “matter itself remains, is indestructible.”

“Not so,” said Father Waite. “Our friend, Doctor Morton, will corroborate my statement, I am sure.”

The doctor nodded. “It is quite true,” he said in reply. “And as revolutionary as true. The discovery, in the past few years, of the tremendously important fact that matter disintegrates and actually disappears, has revolutionized all physical science and rendered the world’s text books obsolete.”

“And matter actually disappears?” echoed Miss Wall incredulously.

“Absolutely!” interposed Hitt. “The radium atom, we find, lasts some seventeen hundred years, or a trifle longer. What becomes of it when it is destroyed? We can only say that it disappears from human consciousness.”

“And so you reason that the whole material universe will ultimately disappear from the human consciousness?”

“Yes,” returned Hitt, “I feel certain of it. Let us consider of what the universe consists. For many months I have been pondering this topic incessantly. I find that I can agree, in a measure, with those scientists who regard the physical universe as composed of only a few elementary constituents, namely, matter, energy, space, and time––”

“Each one of these elements is mental,” interrupted Carmen.

“Exactly!” replied Hitt. “And the physical universe, even from the human standpoint, is, therefore, wholly mental.”

“Well, but we see it!” ejaculated Haynerd. “And we feel and hear it! And I’m sure we smell it!”

Hitt laughed. “Do we?” he asked.

“No,” interposed Father Waite; “we see only our mental concept of a universe, for seeing is wholly a mental process. Our comprehension of anything is entirely mental.”

“But now,” resumed Hitt, “to get back to the supposed reality of the physical universe, let us examine its constituents. First, let us consider its unity established by the harmonious interplay of the forces permeating it. This great fact is what led Herbert Spencer to conclude that the universe could have but one creator, one ruler, and that polytheism was untenable.”

“We are quite agreed regarding that,” said Father Waite. “If the Creator is mind, He is of very necessity infinite and omnipotent; hence there can be but one Creator.”

“Very well,” continued Hitt. “Now as to time. Is it material or tangible? Would it exist, but as a convenience for the human mind? Is it not really a creation of that mind? And, lastly, is it not merely a mental concept?”

“Our consciousness of time,” replied Carmen, “is only our awareness of a continuous series of mental states.”

“That classifies it exactly,” said Hitt, “and renders it wholly mental. And now as to space,” he resumed. “We are accustomed to say, loosely, that space is that in which we see things about us. But in what does the process of seeing consist? I say, I see a chair. What I really mean is that I am conscious of a chair. The process of seeing, we are told, is this: light, coming from the chair, enters the eye and casts an image of the chair upon the retina, much as a picture is thrown upon the ground glass of a camera. Then, in some way, the little rods and cones––the branching tips of the optic nerve which project from the retina––are set in motion by the light-waves. This vibration is in some mysterious manner carried along the optic nerve to a center in the brain, and––well, then the mind becomes cognizant of the chair out there, that’s all.”

They sat silent for some moments. Then Miss Wall spoke. “Do you mean to say,” she queried, “that, after thousands of years of thought and investigation, mankind now know nothing more than that about the process of seeing?”

“I do,” returned Hitt. “I confess it in all humility.”

“Then all I’ve got to say,” put in Haynerd, “is that the most remarkable thing about you learned men is your ignorance!”

The doctor smiled. “I find it is only the fool who is cocksure,” he replied.

“Now,” said Hitt, resuming the conversation, “let us go a step further and inquire, first, What is light? since the process of seeing is absolutely dependent upon it.”

“Light,” offered the doctor, “is vibrations, or wave-motion, so physicists tell us.”

“Just so,” resumed Hitt. “Light, we say, consists of vibrations. Not vibrations of anything tangible or definitely material, 60 but––well, just vibrations in the abstract. It is vibratory or wave motion. Now let us concede that these vibrations in some way get to the brain center; and then let us ask, Is the mind there, in the brain, awaiting the arrival of these vibrations to inform it that there is a chair outside?”

Haynerd indulged in a cynical laugh.

“It is too serious for laughter, my friend,” said Hitt. “For to such crude beliefs as this we may attribute all the miseries of mankind.”

“How is that?” queried Miss Wall in surprise.

“Simply because these beliefs constitute the general belief in a universe of matter without and about us. As a plain statement of fact, there is no such thing. But, I ask again, Is the mind within the brain, waiting for vibrations that will give it information concerning the external world? Or does the mind, from some focal point without the brain, look first at these vibrations, and then translate them into terms of things without? Do these vibrations in some way suggest form and color and substance to the waiting mind? Does the mind first look at vibrating nerve-points, and then form its own opinions regarding material objects? Does anything material enter the eye?”

“No,” admitted the doctor; “unless we believe that vibrations per se are material.”

“Now I ask, Is the mind reduced to such slavery that it must depend upon vibrations for its knowledge of an outside world?” continued Hitt. “And vibrations of minute pieces of flesh, at that! Flesh that will some day decay and leave the mind helpless!”

“Absurd!” exclaimed Haynerd. “Why doesn’t the mind look directly at the chair, instead of getting its knowledge of the chair through vibrations of bits of meat? Or isn’t there any chair out there to look at?”

“There!” exclaimed Hitt. “Now you’ve put your mental finger upon it. And now we are ready to nail to the cross of ignominy one of the crudest, most insensate beliefs of the human race. The human mind gets nothing whatsoever from vibrations, from the human, fleshly eye, nor from any one of the five so-called physical senses! The physical sense-testimony which mankind believe they receive from the eyes, the ears, and the other sense organs, can, even at best, consist only of a lot of disconnected, unintelligible vibrations; and anything that the mind may infer from such vibrations is inferred without any outside authority whatsoever!”

“Well!” ejaculated Miss Wall and Haynerd in a breath.

“And, further,” continued Hitt, “we are forced to admit 61 that all that the mind knows is the contents of itself, of its own consciousness, and nothing more. Then, instead of seeing, hearing, and feeling real material objects outside of ourselves, we are in reality seeing, hearing, and feeling our own mental concepts of things––in other words, our own thoughts of things!”

A deep silence lay for some moments over the little group at the conclusion of Hitt’s words. Then Doctor Morton nodded his acquiescence in the deduction. “And that,” he said, “effectually disposes of the question of space.”

“There is no space, Doctor,” replied Hitt. “Space is likewise a mental concept. The human mind sees, hears, and feels nothing but its own thoughts. These it posits within itself with reference to one another, and calls the process ‘seeing material objects in space.’ The mind as little needs a space in which to see things as in which to dream them. I repeat, we do not see external things, or things outside of ourselves. We see always and only the thoughts that are within our own mentalities. Everything is within.”

“That’s why,” murmured Carmen, “Jesus said, ‘The kingdom of heaven is within you.’”

“Exactly!” said Hitt. “Did he not call evil, and all that originates in matter, the lie about God? And a lie is wholly mental. I tell you, the existence of a world outside of ourselves, an objective world composed of matter, is wholly inferred––it is mental visualizing––and it is unreal, for it is not based upon fact, upon truth!”

“Then,” queried Haynerd, “our supposed ‘outer world’ is but our collection of thought-concepts which we hold within us, within our own consciousness, eh?”

“Yes.”

“But––the question of God?”

“We are ready for that again,” replied Hitt. “We have said that in the physical universe all is in a state of incessant change. Since the physical universe is but a mental concept to each one of us, we must admit that, were the concept based upon truth, it would not change. Our concept of the universe must be without the real causative and sustaining principle of all reality, else would it not pass away. And yet, beneath and behind all these changes, something endures. What is it? Matter? No. There is an enduring substance, invisible to human sight, but felt and known through its own influence. Is it law? Yes. Mind? Yes. Ideas? Yes. But none of these things is in any sense material. The material is the fleeting, human concept, composed of thought that is not based upon reality. These other things, wholly mental, or spiritual, if you 62 prefer, are based upon that ‘something’ which does endure, and which I will call the Causative Principle. It is the Universal Mind. It is what you loosely call God.”

“Then did God make matter?” persisted Haynerd.

“I think,” interposed Doctor Morton at this juncture, “that I can throw some light upon the immaterial character of matter, if I may so put it; for even our physical reasoning throws it entirely into the realm of the mental.”

“Good!” exclaimed Hitt. “Let us hear from you, Doctor.”

The doctor sat for some moments in a deep study. Then he began:

“The constitution of matter, speaking now from an admittedly materialistic standpoint, that of the physical sciences, is a subject of vastest interest and importance to mankind, for human existence is material.

“The ultimate constituent of matter has been called the atom. But we have said little when we have said that. The atom was once defined as a particle of matter so minute as to admit of no further division. That definition has gone to the rubbish heap, for the atom can now be torn to pieces. But––and here is the revolutionary fact in modern physical science––it is no longer held necessary that matter should consist of material particles! In fact, the great potential discovery of our day is that matter is electrical in composition, that it is composed of what are called ‘electrons,’ and that these electrons are themselves composed of electric charges. But what is an electric charge? Is it matter? No, not as we know matter. Is it even material? We can not say that it is. It is without weight, bulk, dimensions, or tangibility. Well, then, it comes dangerously near being a mental thing, known to the human mind solely by its manifestations, does it not? And of course our comprehension of it is entirely mental, as is our comprehension of everything.”

He paused for a moment, that his words might be fully grasped. Then he went on:

“Now these atoms, whatever they are, are supposed to join together to form molecules. What brings them together thus? Affinity, we are told. And what is affinity? Why, it is––well, law, if you please. And law? A mental thing, we must admit. Very good. Then, going a step further, molecules are held together by cohesion to form material objects, chairs, trees, coal, and the like. But what is cohesion? Is it glue? Cement? Ah, no! Again, it is law. And law is mental.”

“But, Doctor––” interrupted Haynerd.

The doctor held up a detaining hand. “Let me finish,” he said. “Now we have the very latest word from our physical 63 scientists regarding the constitution of matter: it is composed of electric charges, held together by law. Again, you may justly ask: Is matter material––or mental?”

He paused again, and took up a book that lay before him.

“Here,” he continued, “I hold a solid, material, lumpy thing, composed, you will say, of matter. And yet, in essence, and if we can believe our scientists, this book is composed of billions of electric charges––invisible things, without form, without weight, without color, without extension, held together by law, and making up a material object which has mass, color, weight, and extension. From millions of things which are invisible and have no size, we get an object, visible and extended.”

“It’s absurd!” exclaimed Miss Wall.

“Granted,” interposed Hitt. “Yet, the doctor is giving the very latest deductions of the great scientists.”

“But, Doctor,” said Father Waite, “the scientists tell us that they have experimental evidence in support of the theories which you have stated regarding the composition of matter. Electricity has been proven granular, or atomic, in structure. And every electrical charge consists of an exact number of electrical atoms spread out over the surface of the charged body. All this admits of definite calculation.”

“Admitted,” said Hitt, taking up the challenge. “And their very calculations and deductions are rapidly wearing away the ‘materialistic theory’ of matter. You will admit that mathematics is wholly confined to the realm of mind. It is a strictly mental science, in no way material. It loses definiteness when ‘practically’ applied to material objects. Kant saw this, and declared that a science might be regarded as further removed from or nearer to perfection in proportion to the amount of mathematics it contained. Now there has been an astonishing confirmation of this great truth just lately. At a banquet given in honor of the discoverer of wireless telegraphy it was stated that the laws governing the traversing of space by the invisible electric waves were more exact than the general laws of physics, where very complex formulas and coefficients are required for correcting the general laws, due to surrounding material conditions. The greater exactness of laws governing the invisible electric waves was said to be due to the absence of matter. And it was further stated that whenever matter had to be taken into consideration there could be no exact law of action!” “Which shows––?”

“That matter admits of no definite laws,” replied Hitt. “That there are no real laws of matter. And that definiteness is attained only as we dematerialize matter itself.”

“In other words, get into the realm of the mental?”

“Just so. And now for the application. I have said that we do not receive any testimony whatsoever through the so-called material senses, but that we see, hear, feel, taste, and smell our own thoughts––that is, the thoughts which, from some source, come into our mentalities. Very well, our scientists show us that, as they get farther away from dense material thoughts, and deal more and more with those which have less material structure, less material composition, their laws become more definite, more exact. Following this out to its ultimate conclusion, we may say, then, that only those laws which have to do with the non-material are perfect.”

“And those,” said Carmen, “are the laws of mind.”

“Exactly! And now the history of physical science shows that there has been a constant deviation from the old so-called fixed ‘laws of matter.’ The law of impenetrability has had to go. A great physicist tells us that, when dealing with sufficiently high speeds, matter has no such property as impenetrability. Mass is a function of velocity. The law of indestructibility has had to go. Matter deteriorates and goes to pieces. The material elements are not fixed. The decided tendency of belief is toward a single element, of which all matter is composed, and of which the eighty-odd constituent elements of matter accepted to-day are but modifications. That unit element may be the ether, of course. And the great Russian chemist, Mendeleef, so believed. But to us, the ether is a mental thing, a theory. But, granting its existence, its universal penetrability renders matter, as we know it, non-existent. Everything reduces to the ether, in the final analysis. And all energy becomes vibrations in and of the ether.”

“And the ether,” supplemented the doctor, “has to be without mass, invisible, tasteless, intangible, much more rigid than steel, and at the same time some six hundred billion times lighter than air, in order to fulfill all the requirements made of it and to meet all conditions.”

“Yes; and yet the ether is a very necessary theory, if we are going to continue to explain the phenomena of force on a material basis.”

“But if we abandon that basis––?”

“Then,” said Carmen, “matter reduces to what it really is, the human mind’s interpretation of substance.”

“Yes,” said Hitt, turning to her; “I think you are right; matter is the way real substance––let us say, spirit––looks to the human mentality. It is the way the human mind interprets its ideas of spirit. In other words, the human mind looks at the material thoughts and ideas which enter it, and calls 65 them solid substance, occupying space––calls them matter, with definite laws, and, in certain forms, containing life and intelligence.”

“Aye, that is it!” said Father Waite. “And that has been the terrible mistake of the ages, the one great error, the one lie, that has caused us all to miss the mark and come short, far short, of the glory of the mind that is God. There is the origin of the problem of evil!”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Hitt. “For evil is in essence but evil thought. And evil thought is invariably associated with matter. The origin of all evil is matter itself. And matter, we find, is but a mental concept, a thing of thought. Oh, the irony of it!”

“Well,” put in Haynerd, who had been twitching nervously in his chair, “let’s get to the conclusion of this very learned discussion. I’m a plain man, and I’d like to know just where we’ve landed. What have you said that I can take home with me? The earth still revolves around the sun, even if it is a mean mud ball. And I can’t see that I can get along with less than three square meals a day.”

“We have arrived,” replied Hitt gravely, “at a most momentous conclusion, deduced by the physical scientists themselves, namely, that things are not what they seem. In other words, all things material seem to reduce to vibrations in and of the ether; the basis of all materiality is energy, motion, activity––mental things. All the elements of matter seem to be but modifications of one all-pervading element. That element is probably the ether, often called the ‘mother of matter.’ The elements, such as carbon, silicon, and the others, are not elementary at all, but are forms of one universal element, the ether. Hence, atoms are not atoms. The so-called rare elements are rare only because their lives are short. They disintegrate rapidly and change into other forms of the universal element––or disappear. ‘Atoms are but fleeting phases of matter,’ we are told. They are by no means eternal, even though they may endure for millions of years.”

“Y-e-s?” commented Haynerd with a yawn.

“A great scientist of our own day,” Hitt continued, “has said that ‘the ether is so modified as to constitute matter, in some way.’ What does that mean? Simply that ‘visible matter and invisible ether are one and the same thing.’ But to the five so-called physical senses the ether is utterly incomprehensible. So, then, matter is wholly incomprehensible to the five physical senses. What is it, then, that we call matter? It can be nothing more than the human mind’s interpretation of its idea of an all-pervading, omnipresent something, a something which represents substance to it.”

“Let me add a further quotation from the great physical scientist to whom you have referred,” said the doctor. “He has said that the ether is not matter, but that it is material. And further, that we can not deny that the ether may have some mental and spiritual functions to subserve in some other order of existence, as matter has in this. It is wholly unrelated to any of our senses. The sense of sight takes cognizance of it, but only in a very indirect and not easily recognized way. And yet––stupendous conclusion!––without the ether there could be no material universe at all!”

“In other words,” said Hitt, “the whole fabric of the material universe depends upon something utterly unrecognizable by the five physical senses.”

“Exactly!” replied the doctor.

“Then,” concluded Hitt, “the physical senses give us no information whatsoever of a real physical universe about us.”

“And so,” added Father Waite, “we come back to Carmen’s statement, namely, that seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling are mental processes, in no way dependent upon the outer fleshly organs of sense––”

“Nonsense!” interjected Haynerd. “Why is it, then, that if the eyes are destroyed we do not see?”

“Simply, my friend, because of human belief,” replied Hitt. “The human mind has been trained for untold centuries to dependence upon beliefs in the reality of matter, and beliefs in its dependence upon material modes for sight, hearing, touch, and so on. It is because of its erroneous beliefs that the human mind is to-day enslaved by matter, and dependent upon it for its very sense of existence. The human mind has made its sense of sight dependent upon a frail, pulpy bit of flesh, the eye. As long as that fleshly organ remains intact, the human mind sees its sense of sight externalized in the positing of its mental concepts about it as natural objects. But let that fleshly eye be destroyed, and the human mind sees its belief of dependence upon the material eye externalized as blindness. When the fleshly eye is gone the mind declares that it can no longer see. And what it declares as truth, as fact, becomes externalized to it. I repeat, the human mind sees and hears only its thoughts, its beliefs. And holding to these beliefs, and making them real to itself, it eventually sees them externalized in what it calls its outer world, its environment, its universe. And yet, the materialistic scientists themselves show that the human mind can take no cognizance whatever through the five physical senses of the all-pervading basis of its very existence, the ether. And the ether––alas! it is but a theory which we find necessary for any intelligible explanation of the farce of human existence on a material basis.”

“Now see here!” retorted Haynerd, rising and giving expression to his protest by means of emphatic gestures. “I’m getting mixed––badly! You tell me that the existence of things demands a creator, and I admit it, for there can be no effect without a cause. Then you say that the universe is infinite; and I admit that, too, for the science of astronomy finds no limits to space, and no space unoccupied. You say that the unity manifested in the universe proves that there can be but one creator. Moreover, to create an infinite universe there must needs be an omnipotent creator; and there can be but one who is omnipotent. I cordially agree. Further, I can see how that creator must be mind––infinite mind. And I can see why that mind must be absolutely perfect, with no intelligence of evil whatsoever, else would it be a house divided against itself. And such a house must eventually fall. Now I admit that the universe must be the manifestation, the expression, of that infinite creative mind. But––and here’s the sticking point––the universe is both good and evil! Hence, the mind which it manifests is likewise both good and evil––and the whole pretty theory blows up!”

He sat down abruptly, with the air of having given finality to a perplexing question.

All eyes then turned to Carmen, who slowly rose and surveyed the little group.

“It is not surprising,” she said, smiling at the confused Haynerd, “that difficulties arise when you attempt to reach God through human reasoning––spirit through matter. You have taken the unreal, and, through it, have sought to reach back to the real.”

“Well,” interrupted Haynerd testily, “kindly explain the difference.”

“Then, first,” replied Carmen, “let us adopt some common meeting ground, some basis which we can all accept, and from which we can rise. Are you all agreed that, in our every-day life, everything is mental?––every action?––every object?––and that, as the philosopher Mill said, ‘Everything is a feeling of which the mind is conscious’? Let me illustrate my meaning,” she continued, noting Haynerd’s rising protest. “I see this book; I take it up; and drop it upon the table. Have I really seen a book? No; I have been conscious of thoughts which I call a book, nothing more. A real material book did not get into my mind; but thoughts of a book did. And the activity of such thought resulted in a state of consciousness––for consciousness is mental activity, the activity of thought. Remember that, even according to your great physical scientists, this book is composed of millions of charges of electricity, or electrons, 68 moving at a tremendously high rate of speed. And yet, regardless of its composition, I am conscious only of my thoughts of the book. It is but my thoughts that I see, after all.”

She paused and waited for the protest which was not voiced.

“Very well,” she said, continuing; “so it is with the sense of touch; I had the thought of touching it, and that thought I saw; I was conscious of it when it became active in my mentality. So with sound; when I let the book drop, I was conscious of my thought of sound. If the book had been dropped in a vacuum I should not have been conscious of a thought of sound––why? Because, as Mr. Hitt has told us, the human mind has made its sense-testimony dependent upon vibrations. And yet, there is a clock ticking up there on the wall. Do you hear it?”

“Yes,” replied Haynerd; “now that you’ve called my attention to it.”

“Ah, yes,” replied the girl. “You hear it when your thought is directed to it. And yet the air was vibrating all the time, and, if hearing is dependent upon the fleshly ear, you should have heard it incessantly when you were not thinking of it, as well as you hear it now when you are thinking of it. Am I not right?”

“Well, perhaps so,” assented Haynerd with some reluctance.

“We hear, see, and feel,” continued the girl, “when our thought is directed to these processes. And the processes are wholly mental––they take place within our mentalities––and it is there, within our minds, that we see, hear, and feel all things. And it is there, within our minds, that the universe exists for us. It is there that we hold our world, our fleshly bodies, everything that we call material. The universe that we think we see all about us consists of the mental concepts, made up of thought, which we hold within our mentalities.”

Haynerd nodded somewhat dubiously. Carmen proceeded with the exposition of her theme.

“Whence come these material thoughts that are within us? And are they real? Can we control them? And how? They are real to us, at any rate, are they not? And if they are thoughts of pain and suffering and death, they are terribly real to us. But let us see, now that we can reason from the basis of the mental nature of all things. We have agreed that the creative principle is mind, and we call it God. This infinite mind constantly expresses and manifests itself in ideas. Why, that is a fundamental law of mind! You express yourself in your ideas and thoughts, which you try to externalize materially. But the infinite mind expresses itself in an infinite 69 number and variety of ideas, all, like itself, pure, perfect, eternal, good, without any elements or seeds of decay or discord. And the incessant expression of the creative mind in and through its numberless ideas constitutes the never-ending process of creation.”

“Let me add here,” interrupted Hitt, “that the Bible states that God created the heavens and earth in seven days. But numbers, we must remember, were mystical things to the ancient Hebrews, and were largely used symbolically. The number seven, for example, was used to express wholeness, completeness. So we must remember that its use in Genesis has a much wider meaning than its absurd theological interpretation into seven solar days. As Carmen says, the infinite creative mind can never cease to express itself; creation can never cease; and creation is but the whole, complete revelation or unfoldment of infinite mind’s ideas.”

“And infinite mind,” continued Carmen, “requires infinite time in which to completely express itself. So time ceases to be, and we find that all real things exist now, in an endless present. Now, the ideas of infinite mind range throughout the realm of infinity, but the greatest idea that the creative mind can have is the idea of itself. That idea is the image and likeness of the infinite creative mind. It is the perfect reflection of that mind––its perfect expression. That idea is what the man Jesus always saw back of the human concept of man. That idea is the real man!”

“Well!” exclaimed Haynerd. “That’s quite a different proposition from the mud-men that I do business with daily. What are they? Children of God?”

“If they were real,” said Carmen, “they would have to be children of God. But then they would not be ‘mud-men.’ Now I have just spoken of the real, the spiritual creation. That is the creation mentioned in the first chapter of Genesis, where all was created––revealed, unfolded––by God, and He saw that it was perfect, good. ‘In the beginning,’ says the commentator. That is, ‘To begin with––God.’ Everything begins with God in the realm of the real. The creative mind is first. And the creation, or unfoldment, is like its creative principle, eternal and good.”

“But,” persisted Haynerd, “how about the material man?”

“Having created all things spiritually,” continued the girl, “was it necessary that the creative mind should repeat its work, do it over again, and produce the man of dust described in the second chapter of Genesis? Is that second account of the creation an inspiration of truth––or a human comment?”

“Call it what you will,” said the cynical Haynerd; “the 70 fact remains that the mud-man exists and has to be reckoned with.”

“Both of your premises are wholly incorrect,” returned the girl gently. “He does not exist, excepting in human, mortal thought. He is a product of only such thought. He and his material universe are seen and dealt with only in such thought. And such thought is the direct antithesis of God’s thought. And it is therefore unreal. It is the supposition, the lie, the mist that went up and darkened the earth.”

“But––the human man––?”

“Is just what you have said, a hue of a man, a dark hue, the shadowy opposite which seems to counterfeit the real, spiritual man and claim all his attributes. He is not a compound of mind and matter, for we have seen that all things are mental, even matter itself. He is a sort of mentality, a counterfeit of real mind. His body and his universe are in himself. And, like all that is unreal, he is transient, passing, ephemeral, mortal.”

“Yet, God made him!”

“No, for he does not exist, excepting in supposition. Does a supposition really exist? If so, then not even truth can destroy it. But supposition passes out before truth. No, the human mind is the ‘old man’ of Paul. He is to be put off by knowing his nothingness, and by knowing the unreality of his supposed material environment and universe. As he goes out of consciousness, the real man, the idea of God, perfect, harmonious, and eternal, comes in.”

“And there,” said Father Waite impressively, “you have the whole scheme of salvation, as enunciated by the man Jesus.”

“There is no doubt of it,” added Hitt. “And, oh, my friends! how futile, how base, how worse than childish now appear the whole theological fabric of the churches, their foolish man-made dogmas, their insensate beliefs in a fiery hell and a golden heaven. Oh, how belittling now appear their concepts of God––a God who can damn unbaptised infants, who can predestine his children to eternal sorrow, who creates and then curses his handiwork! Do you wonder that sin, sorrow, and death remain among us while such awful beliefs hold sway over the human mind? God help us, and the world!”

Haynerd, who had been sitting quietly for some moments, deep in thought, rose and held out his hands, as if in entreaty. “Don’t––don’t!” he exclaimed. “I can’t hear any more. I want to think it all over. It seems––it seems as if a curtain had been raised suddenly. And what I see beyond is––”

Carmen went swiftly to the man and slipped an arm about 71 him. “That infinite creative Mind, so misunderstood and misinterpreted by human beings, is back of you,” she whispered. “And it is Love.”

Haynerd turned and grasped her hands. “I believe it,” he murmured. “But had I not seen the proof in you, no amount of reasoning would have convinced me.” And, bowing to the little group, he went out.

“Well?” said Hitt, turning inquiringly to the doctor.

The latter raised his head. “If these things are true,” he made answer slowly, “then I shall have to recast my entire mentality, my whole basis of thinking.”

“It is just what you must do, Doctor, if you would work out your salvation,” said Carmen. “Jesus said we must repent if we would be saved. Repentance––the Greek metanoia––means a complete and radical change of thought.”

“But––do you mean to say that the whole world has been mistaken? That the entire human race has been deceived for ages?”

“Why,” said Hitt, “it was only in our own day, comparatively speaking, that the human race was undeceived in regard to the world being round. And there are thousands of human beings to-day who still believe in witchcraft, and who worship the sun and moon, and whose lives are wholly under the spell of superstition. Human character, a great scientist tells us, has not changed since history began.”

“But we can’t revamp our thought-processes!”

“Then we must go on missing the mark, sinning, suffering, sorrowing, and dying, over and over and over again, until we decide that we can do so,” said Hitt.

The doctor looked at Carmen and met that same smile of unbounded love which she gave without stint to a sin-weary world.

“I––I’ll come again,” he said. “When? To-morrow night?”

“Yes,” said Carmen, rising and coming around to him. “And,” in a whisper, “bring Pat.”