Carmen Ariza Part 126

But Carmen sat shrouded in thoughts that were not stimulated by the puppet-show before her. The tenor shrieked out his tender pa.s.sion, and the tubby soprano sank into his inadequate arms with languishing sighs. Carmen heeded not their stage amours. She saw in the glare before her the care-lined face of the priest of Simiti; she saw the grim features and set jaw of her beloved, black-faced Rosendo, as he led her through the dripping jungle; she saw Anita's blind, helpless babe; she saw the little newsboy of Cartagena; and her heart welled with a great love for them all; and she buried her face in her hands and wept softly.

CHAPTER 15

"Wait, my little princess, wait," the Beaubien had said, when Carmen, her eyes flowing and her lips quivering, had again thrown herself into that strange woman's arms and poured out her heart's surcease. "It will not be long now. I think I see the clouds forming."

"I want to go back to Simiti, to Padre Jose, to my home," wailed the girl. "I don't understand the ways and the thoughts of these people.

They don't know G.o.d--they don't know what love is--they don't know anything but money, and clothes, and sin, and death. When I am with them I gasp, I choke--"

"Yes, dearest, I understand," murmured the woman softly, as she stroked the brown head nestling upon her shoulder. "It is social asphyxia. And many even of the 'four hundred' are suffering from the same disease; but they would die rather than admit it. Poor, blind fools!"

To no one could the attraction which had drawn Carmen and the Beaubien together seem stranger, more inexplicable, than to that lone woman herself. Yet it existed, irresistible. And both acknowledged it, nor would have had it otherwise. To Carmen, the Beaubien was a sympathetic confidante and a wise counselor. The girl knew nothing of the woman's past or present life. She tried to see in her only the reality which she sought in every individual--the reality which she felt that Jesus must have seen clearly back of every frail mortal concept of humanity.

And in doing this, who knows?--she may have transformed the sordid, soiled woman of the world into something more than a broken semblance of the image of G.o.d. To the Beaubien, this rare child, the symbol of love, of purity, had become a divine talisman, touching a dead soul into a sense of life before unknown. If Carmen leaned upon her, she, on the other hand, bent daily closer to the beautiful girl; opened her slowly warming heart daily wider to her; twined her lonely arms daily closer about the radiant creature who had come so unexpectedly into her empty, sinful life.

"But, mother dear"--the Beaubien had long since begged Carmen always to address her thus when they were sharing alone these hours of confidence--"they will not listen to my message! They laugh and jest about real things!"

"True, dearie. And yet you tell me that the Bible says wise men laughed at the great teacher, Jesus."

"Oh, yes! And his message--oh, mother dearest, his message would have helped them so, if they had only accepted it! It would have changed their lives, healed their diseases, and saved them from death. And my message"--her lip quivered--"my message is only his--it is the message of love. But they won't let me tell it."

"Then, sweet, live it. They can not prevent that, can they?"

"I do live it. But--I am so out of place among them. They scoff at real things. They mock all that is n.o.ble. Their talk is so coa.r.s.e, so low and degraded. They have no culture. They worship money. They don't know what miserable failures they all are. And Mrs. Hawley-Crowles--"

The Beaubien's jaw set. "The social cormorant!" she muttered.

"--she will not let me speak of G.o.d in her house. She told me to keep my views to myself and never voice them to her friends. And she says I must marry either a millionaire or a foreign n.o.ble."

"Humph! And become a sn.o.bbish expatriate! Marry a decadent count, and then shake the dust of this democratic country from your feet forever!

Go to London or Paris or Vienna, and wear tiaras and coronets, and speak of disgraceful, boorish America in hushed whispers! The empty-headed fool! She forgets that the tarnished name she bears was dragged up out of the ruck of the impecunious by me when I received Jim Crowles into my house! And that I gave him what little gloss he was able to take on!"

"Mother dear--I would leave them--only, they need love, oh, so much!"

The Beaubien strained her to her bosom. "They need you, dearie; they little realize how they need you! I, myself, did not know until you came to me. There, I didn't mean to let those tears get away from me." She laughed softly as Carmen looked up anxiously into her face.

"Now come," she went on brightly, "we must plan for the Charity Ball."

A look of pain swept over the girl's face. The Beaubien bent and kissed her. "Wait, dearie," she repeated. "You will not leave society voluntarily. Keep your light burning. They can not extinguish it. They will light their own lamps at yours--or they will thrust you from their doors. And then," she muttered, as her teeth snapped together, "you will come to me."

Close on the heels of the opera season followed the Charity Ball, the Horse Show, and the Fashion Show in rapid succession, with numberless receptions, formal parties, and nondescript social junketings interspersed. During these fleeting hours of splash and glitter Mrs.

Hawley-Crowles trod the air with the sang-froid and exhilaration of an expert aviator. Backed by the Beaubien millions, and with the wonderful South American girl always at her right hand, the worldly ambitious woman swept everything before her, cut a social swath far wider than the glowering Mrs. Ames had ever attempted, and marched straight to the goal of social leadership, almost without interference. She had apparently achieved other successes, too, of the first importance. She had secured the a.s.sistance of Ames himself in matters pertaining to her finances; and the Beaubien was actively cooperating with her in the social advancement of Carmen.

It is true, she gasped whenever her thought wandered to her notes which the Beaubien held, notes which demanded every penny of her princ.i.p.al as collateral. And she often meditated very soberly over the large sums which she had put into the purchase of Simiti stock, at the whispered suggestions of Ames, and under the irresistibly pious and persuasive eloquence of Philip O. Ketchim, now president of that flourishing but as yet non-productive company. But then, one day, an idea occurred to her, and she forthwith summoned Carmen into the library.

"You see, my dear," she said, after expounding to the girl certain of her thoughts anent the famous mine, "I do not want Mr. Ketchim to have any claim upon you for the expense which he incurred on account of your six months in the Elwin school. That thought, as well as others relating to your complete protection, makes it seem advisable that you transfer to me your share in the mine, or in the Simiti company. See, I give you a receipt for the same, showing that you have done this as part payment for the great expense to which I have been put in introducing you to society and in providing for your wants here. It is merely formal, of course. And it keeps your share still in our family, of which you are and always will be a member; but yet removes all liability from you. Of course, you know nothing about business matters, and so you must trust me implicitly. Which I am sure you do, in view of what I have done for you, don't you, dear?"

Of course Carmen did; and of course she unhesitatingly transferred her claim on La Libertad to the worthy Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. Whereupon the good woman tenderly kissed the innocent child, and clasped a string of rich pearls about the slender, white neck. And Carmen later told the Beaubien, who said nothing, but frowned darkly as she repeated the tidings over her private wire to J. Wilton Ames. But that priest of finance only chuckled and exclaimed: "Excellent, my dear! Couldn't be better! By the way, I had a cable from Lafelle this morning, from Cartagena. Oh, yes, everything's all right. Good-bye." But the Beaubien hung up the receiver with a presentiment that everything was far from right, despite his bland a.s.surance. And she regretted bitterly now that she had not warned Carmen against this very thing.

The Charity Ball that season was doubtless the most brilliant function of its kind ever held among a people who deny the impossible. The newspapers had long vied with one another in their advertis.e.m.e.nts and predictions; they afterward strove mightily to outdo themselves in their vivid descriptions of the gorgeous _fete_. The decorative effects far excelled anything ever attempted in the name of "practical" charity. The display of gowns had never before been even closely approximated. The scintillations from jewels whose value mounted into millions was like the continuous flash of the electric spark. And the huge a.s.semblage embraced the very cream of the n.o.bility, the aristocracy, the rich and exclusive caste of a great people whose Const.i.tution is founded on the equality of men, and who are wont to gather thus annually for a few hours to parade their material vestments and divert their dispirited mentalities under the guise of benefaction to a cla.s.s for whom they rarely hold a loving thought.

Again the subtle Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had planned and executed a _coup_.

Mrs. Ames had subscribed the munificent sum of twenty-five thousand dollars to charity a week before the ball. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had waited for this. Then she gloated as she telephoned to the various newspaper offices that her subscription would be fifty thousand. Did she give a new note to the Beaubien for this amount? That she did--and she obtained the money on the condition that the little Inca princess should lead the grand march. Of course, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles knew that she must gracefully yield first place to the South American girl; and yet she contrived to score a triumph in apparent defeat.

For, stung beyond endurance, Mrs. Ames and her daughter Kathleen at the last moment refused to attend the function, alleging fatigue from a season unusually exacting. The wily Mrs. Hawley-Crowles had previously secured the languid young Duke of Altern as a partner for Carmen--and then was most agreeably thwarted by Ames himself, who, learning that his wife and daughter would not attend, abruptly announced that he himself would lead the march with Carmen.

Why not? Was it not quite proper that the city's leading man of finance should, in the absence of his wife and daughter, and with their full and gratuitous permission--nay, at their urgent request, so it was told--lead with this fair young damsel, this tropical flower, who, as rumor had it, was doubtless a descendant of the royal dwellers in ancient Cuzco?

"Quite proper, _O tempora, O mores_!" murmured one Amos A. Hitt, erstwhile Presbyterian divine, explorer, and gentleman of leisure, as he settled back in his armchair in the fashionable Weltmore apartments and exhaled a long stream of tobacco smoke through his wide nostrils.

"And, if I can procure a ticket, I shall give myself the pleasure of witnessing this sacred spectacle, produced under the deceptive mask of charity," he added.

In vain the Beaubien labored with Ames when she learned of his intention--though she said nothing to Carmen. Ames had yielded to her previously expressed wish that he refrain from calling at the Hawley-Crowles mansion, or attempting to force his attentions upon the young girl. But in this matter he remained characteristically obdurate. And thereby a little rift was started. For the angry Beaubien, striving to shield the innocent girl, had vented her abundant wrath upon the affable Ames, and had concluded her denunciation with a hint of possible exposure of certain dark facts of which she was sole custodian. Ames smiled, bowed, and courteously kissed her hand, as he left her stormy presence; but he did not yield.

And Carmen went to the Ball.

Through the perfumed air and the garish light tore the crashing notes of the great band. The loud hum of voices ceased, and all eyes turned to the leaders of the grand march, as they stepped forth at one end of the great auditorium. Then an involuntary murmur arose from the mult.i.tude--a murmur of admiration, of astonishment, of envy. The gigantic form of Ames stood like a towering pillar, the embodiment of potential force, the epitome of human power, physical and mental. His ma.s.sive shoulders were thrown back as if in haughty defiance of comment, critical or commendatory. The smile which flitted about his strong, clean-shaven face bespoke the same caution as the gentle uplifting of a tiger's paw--behind it lay all that was humanly terrible, cunning, heartless, and yet, in a sense, fascinating. His thick, brown hair, scarcely touched with gray, lay about his great head like a lion's mane. He raised a hand and gently pushed it back over the lofty brow. Then he bent and offered an arm to the slender wisp of a girl at his side.

"Good G.o.d!" murmured a tall, angular man in the crowd. "Who is she?"

"I don't know, Hitt," replied the friend addressed. "But they say she belongs to the Inca race."

The graceful girl moving by the side of her giant escort seemed like a slender ray of light, a radiant, elfish form, transparent, intangible, gliding softly along with a huge, black shadow. She was simply clad, all in white. About her neck hung a string of pearls, and at her waist she wore the rare orchids which Ames had sent her that afternoon. But no one saw her dress. No one marked the pure simplicity of her attire.

The absence of sparkling jewels and resplendent raiment evoked no comment. The mult.i.tude saw but her wonderful face; her big eyes, uplifted in trustful innocence to the ma.s.sive form at her side; her rich brown hair, which glittered like string-gold in the strong light that fell in torrents upon it.

"Hitt, she isn't human! There's a nimbus about her head!"

"I could almost believe it," whispered that gentleman, straining his long neck as she pa.s.sed before him. "G.o.d! has she fallen into Ames's net?"

Immediately behind Carmen and Ames strode the enraptured Mrs.

Hawley-Crowles, who saw not, neither heard, and who longed for no further taste of heaven than this stupendous triumph which she had won for herself and the girl. Her heavy, unshapely form was squeezed into a marvelous costume of gold brocade. A double ballet ruffle of stiff white tulle encircled it about the hips as a drapery. The bodice was of heavy gold net. A pleated band of pale moire, in a delicate shade of pink, crossed the left shoulder and was caught at the waist in a large rose bow, amba.s.sadorial style. A double necklace of diamonds, one bearing a great pendant of emeralds, and the other an alternation of emeralds and diamonds, encircled her short, thick neck. A diamond coronet fitted well around her wonderful amber-colored wig--for, true to her determination, she had antic.i.p.ated the now _pa.s.see_ Mrs. Ames and had boldly launched the innovation of colored wigs among the smart set. An ivory, hand-painted fan, of great value, dangled from her thick wrist. And, as she lifted her skirts to an unnecessary height, the gaping people caught the glitter of a row of diamonds in each high, gilded heel.

At her side the young Duke of Altern shuffled, his long, thin body curved like a kangaroo, and his monocle bent superciliously upon the ma.s.s of common clay about him. "Aw, beastly crush, ye know," he murmured from time to time to the unhearing dame at his right. And then, as she replied not, he fell to wondering if she fully realized who he was.

Around and across the great hall the gorgeous pageant swept. The big-mouthed horns bellowed forth their noisy harmony. In the distant corridors great illuminated fountains softly plashed. At the tables beyond, sedulous, touting waiters were hurriedly extracting corks from frosted bottle necks. The rare porcelain and cut gla.s.s shone and glittered in rainbow tints. The revelers waxed increasingly merry and care-free as they lightly discussed poverty over rich viands and sparkling Burgundy. Still further beyond, the ma.s.sive oak doors, with their leaded-gla.s.s panes, shut out the dark night and the bitter blasts of winter. And they shut out, too, another, but none the less unreal, externalization of the mortal thought which has found expression in a social system "too wicked for a smile."

"G.o.d, no--I'd get arrested! I can't!"

The frail, hungry woman who stood before the great doors clutched her wretched shawl closer about her thin shoulders. Her teeth chattered as she stood shivering in the chill wind. Then she hurried away.

At the corner of the building the cold blast almost swept her off her feet. A man, dirty and unkempt, who had been waiting in an alley, ran out and seized her.

"I say, Jude, ain't ye goin' in? Git arrested--ye'd spend the night in a warm cell, an' that's better'n our bunk, ain't it?"

"I'm goin' to French Lucy's," the woman whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "I'm dead beat!"

"Huh! Ye've lost yer looks, Jude, an' ol' Lucy ain't a-goin' to take ye in. We gotta snipe somepin quick--or starve! Look, we'll go down to Mike's place, an' then come back here when it's out, and ye kin pinch a string, or somepin, eh? Gawd, it's cold!"

The woman glanced back at the lights. For a moment she stood listening to the music from within. A sob shook her, and she began to cough violently. The man took her arm, not unkindly; and together they moved away into the night.