10
Carmen told her. She mentioned Simití, Padre Josè, and Rosendo. Her voice quavered a little; but she brightened up and concluded: “And Mr. Reed’s Auntie, she met us––that is, me. Oh, isn’t she a beautiful lady!”
The woman seemed to be fascinated by the child’s gaze. Then, suddenly, as if something had given way under great strain, she cried: “For God’s sake, don’t look at me that way! Who are you?” She dropped into a chair and continued to stare at the girl.
“Well, I’ve told you,” replied Carmen. “But,” she continued, going quickly to the woman and taking her hand, “you haven’t told me your name yet. And we are going to be such good friends, aren’t we? Yes, we are. And you are going to tell me all about this beautiful house, and that wonderful carriage I came here in. What did make it go, anyway? Do you ride often? Oh, I hope Mrs. Reed will take me out in it every day!”
The woman’s hand tightened over Carmen’s. She seemed to struggle with herself. Then, in a low voice:
“Your mother––is she living?”
“Madre Maria is,” returned Carmen. “But my mother, my own real mother, she died, long, long ago, on the banks of the great river. My father left her, and she was trying to follow him. Then I was born––”
“The same old story!” muttered the woman fiercely. “I’ve been there, girl, and know all about it. I followed the man––but it was my kid that died! God, if I could have laid my hands on him! And now you have come here––”
She stopped abruptly and swallowed hard. Carmen gently stole an arm about her neck. “It isn’t true,” she murmured, laying her soft cheek against the woman’s painted one. “No one can desert us or harm us, forGod is everywhere. And no one really dies. We have got to know that. Padre Josè said I had a message for the people up here; and now you are the first one I’ve told it to. But that’s it: God is everywhere. And if we know that, why, nothing bad can ever happen to us. But you didn’t know it when your husband left you, did you?”
“Husband!” ejaculated the woman. Then she looked up into the girl’s deep, wondering eyes and checked herself. “Come,” she said abruptly, rising and still holding her hand. “Never mind the clothes.” A grim look settled over her features. “We’ll go down to supper now as you are.”
Carmen’s companion led her down the stairs and through the hall to a brightly lighted room at the rear, where about a long table sat a half dozen women. There were places for as many more, but they were unoccupied. The cloth was white,11the glass shone, the silver sparkled. And the women, who glanced up at the girl, were clad in gowns of such gorgeous hues as to make the child gasp in amazement. Over all hung the warm, perfumed air that she had thought so delicious when she had first entered the house.
The noisy chatter at once ceased. The woman led her to a chair next to the one she herself took. Carmen looked around for the lady who had met her at the boat. She was not there. The silence and the steady scrutiny of the others began to embarrass her. “Where––where is Auntie?” she asked timidly, looking up at her faded attendant.
A titter ran around the table. One of the women, who swayed slightly in her chair, looked up stupidly. “Who’s Auntie?” she muttered thickly. A burst of laughter followed this remark, and Carmen sat down in confusion.
“Where’s the Madam, Jude?” asked one of the younger women of Carmen’s attendant.
“Dining alone in her room. Headache,” was the laconic reply.
“She landed a queen this time, didn’t she?” looking admiringly at Carmen. “Gets me, how the old girl does it! What’s your name, kiddo?”
“Carmen,” replied the girl timidly, looking questioningly about the room.
“That’s a good handle. But what’s the rest?” put in another.
“Carmen Ariza,” the child amended, as her big, wondering eyes swept the group.
“Wow! That’s a moniker for you!” laughed one. “Where do you hail from, angel-face?”
The girl looked uncomprehendingly at her interlocutor.
“Your home, you know. I see your finish, all right. But where’d you begin?”
“Tell them where you lived, child,” said the woman called Jude in a low voice.
“Simití,” replied Carmen, tears choking her words.
“Simití!” echoed around the table. “New York? Ohio? Or Kansas?” A burst of mirth punctuated the question.
“Do the women vote there?”
“Long way from Paris, judging by the fashions.”
“Where is Simití, kidlet?”
Carmen answered in a scarcely audible voice, “South America.”
Low exclamations of astonishment encircled the table, while the women sat regarding the girl curiously.
“But,” continued Carmen in a trembling voice, “where is12Mrs. Reed? And isn’t Mr. Harris here? Why don’t they come? Don’t they know I am here?”
She looked appealingly from one to another. Her beautiful face wore such an expression of mingled fear, uncertainty, and helplessness as to throw a hush upon the room. One of the women rose. “God!” she muttered, “it’s a shame!” She looked for a moment uncertainly into the big, deep eyes of the girl, and then turned and hastily left the room.
The silence which followed was broken by a pallid, painted creature at the end of the table.
“What an old devil the Madam is! My God! One look into those eyes would have been enough for me!”
“What’s the idea, Jude?” asked another, nodding toward the girl. “Does she stay here?”
The woman addressed as Jude shook her head. “This is only a recruiting station for the regular army. She’ll go over to French Lucy’s; and the Madam will get a round price for the job.”
“Old Lucy’ll get rich off of her! But she needs the money. Ames owns her house, too, doesn’t he?”
“Sure thing!” replied Jude, brightening under the stimulus of her wine. “He owns every house in this block, they say. Got long leases for ’em all. And the rents––suffering Moses! The Madam rolls on the floor and cusses for a week straight every time she pays hers. But just the same, if you’ve ever noticed, the houses that Ames owns are never raided by the coppers. Ames whacks up with the mayor and the city hall gang and the chief of police. That means protection, and we pay for it in high rents. But it’s a lot better’n being swooped down on by the cops every few weeks, ain’t it? We know what we’re expected to pay, that way. And we never do when we keep handin’ it out to the cops.”
“That’s right,” approved some one.
“It sure is. That’s what the collector says. And he’s got a new collector, fellow from the Ketchim Realty Company. They’re the old man’s agents now for his dive-houses. He can’t get anybody else to handle ’em, so the collector tells me.”
“Belle Carey’s place was pulled last night, I hear,” said one of the women, pushing back her plate and lighting a cigarette.
“Yes,” returned Jude, “and why? Cause the house is owned by Gannette––swell guy livin’ up on Riverside Drive––and he don’t divvy with the city hall. Belle don’t pay no such rent as the Madam does––at least so old Lucy tells me.”
The half-intoxicated woman down the table, who had stirred their laughter a few minutes before, now roused up heavily.13“Ol’ Lucy––huh! Used to work for her m’self. Caught a pippin for her once––right off the train––jus’ like this li’l hussy. Went to th’ depot in a hack. Saw th’ li’l kid comin’ an’ pretended to faint. Li’l kid run to me an’ asked could she help. Got her to see me safe home––tee! hee! She’s workin’ f’r ol’ Lucy yet, sound’s a dollar.”
She fixed her bleared eyes upon Carmen and lapsed back into her former state of sodden stupidity.
The girl rose hastily from her chair. The policeman’s words at the pier were floating confusedly through her thought. The strange talk of these women increased the confusion. Perhaps a mistake had been made. She turned beseechingly to Jude. “Isn’t this––Mr. Reed’s house?” she asked.
Another of the women got up hurriedly and left the table. “I haven’t the nerve for another sob-scene,” she commented as she went out.
“Where am I? Where am I?” pleaded Carmen, turning from one to another.
Jude reached out and seized her hand tightly. “Pleasant job for me!” she commented ironically, looking at the others. Then, to Carmen:
“You are in a––a hotel,” she said abruptly.
“Oh––then––then it was a mistake?” The girl turned her great, yearning eyes upon the woman. Jude shrank under them. “Sit down, and finish your supper,” she said harshly, pulling the girl toward the chair.
“No!” replied Carmen loudly. “You must take me to Mr. Reed!”
The maudlin woman down the table chuckled thickly. The negro waitress went quickly out and closed the door. Jude rose, still holding the girl’s hand. “Come up stairs with me,” she said, leading her away.
“Poor old Jude!” commented one of the women, when the two had left the room. “She’s about all in. This sort of business is getting her nerve. But she’s housekeeper, and that’s part of her job. And––the poor little kid! But ain’t she a beauty!”
Jude took the girl into her own room and locked the door. Then she sank wearily into a chair. “God!” she cried, “I’m sick of this––sick of the whole thing!”
Carmen went quickly to her. “Don’t!” she said. “Don’t! It was all a mistake, and we can go.”
“Go!” echoed the woman bitterly. “Where––and how?”
“Why, you said this was a hotel––”
“Hotel! God, it’s hell! And you are in forever!”
Carmen gazed at the excited woman with a puzzled expression on her face.
14
“Now listen,” said Jude, bracing herself, “I’ve got something to tell you. You have been––good God! I can’t––I can’t! For God’s sake, child, don’t look at me that way! Who are you? Where do you come from?”
“I told you,” replied Carmen quietly.
“Your face looks as if you had come down from the sky. But if you did, and if you believe in a God, you had better pray to Him now!”
“Why––I am not afraid. God is everywhere––right here. I was afraid––a little––at first. But not now. When we stop and just know that we love everybody, and that everybody really loves us, why, we can’t be afraid any more, can we?”
The woman looked up at the child in blank amazement. Love! That warped, twisted word conveyed no meaning to her. And God––it was only a convenient execrative. But––what was it that looked out from that strange girl’s eyes? What was it that held her fascinated there? What was emerging from those unfathomable depths, twining itself about her withered heart and expanding her black, shrunken soul? Whence came that beautiful, white life that she was going to blast? And could she, after all? Then what stayed her now?
“Look here,” she cried sharply, “tell me again all about yourself, and about your friends and family down south, and what it was that the Madam said to you! And be quick!”
Carmen sat down at her feet, and taking her hand, went again over the story. As the child talked, the woman’s hard eyes widened, and now and then a big tear rolled down the painted cheek. Her thought began to stray back, far back, along the wreck-strewn path over which she herself had come. At last in the dim haze she saw again the little New England farm, and her father, stern, but honest and respected, trudging behind the plow. In the cottage she saw her white-haired mother, every lineament bespeaking her Puritan origin, hovering over her little household like a benediction. Then night fell, swiftly as the eagle swoops down upon its prey, and she awoke from a terrible dream, stained, abandoned, lost––and seared with a foul oath to drag down to her own level every innocent girl upon whom her hands might thereafter fall!
“And I have just had to know,” Carmen concluded, “every minute since I left Simití, that God was everywhere, and that He would not let any harm come to me. But when we really know that, why, the wayalwaysopens. For that’s prayer, right prayer; the kind that Jesus taught.”
The woman sat staring at the girl, an expression of utter blankness upon her pallid face. Prayer! Oh, yes, she had been taught to pray. Well she remembered, though the memory15now cut like a knife, how she knelt at her beautiful mother’s knee and asked the good Father to bless and protect them all, even to the beloved doll that she hugged to her little bosom. But God had never heard her petitions, innocent though she was. And He had let her fall, even with a prayer on her lips, into the black pit!
A loud sound of male voices and a stamping of feet rose from below. The woman sprang to the door and stood listening. “It’s the boys from the college!” she cried in a hoarse whisper.
She turned and stood hesitant for a moment, as if striving to formulate a plan. A look of fierce determination came into her face. She went to the bureau and took from the drawers several articles, which she hastily thrust into the pocket of her dress.
“Now,” she said, turning to Carmen and speaking in a low, strained voice, “you do just as I say. Bring your bundle. And for God’s sake don’t speak!”
Leaving the light burning, she stepped quickly out with Carmen and locked the door after her. Then, bidding the girl wait, she slipped softly down the hall and locked the door of the room to which the girl had first been taken. Both keys she dropped into her pocket. “Now follow me,” she said.
Laughter and music floated up from below, mingled with the clink of glasses. The air was heavy with perfume and tobacco smoke. A door near them opened, and a sound of voices issued. The woman pulled Carmen into a closet until the hall was again quiet. Then she hurried on to another door which she entered, dragging the girl with her. Again she locked the door after her. Groping through the darkness, she reached a window, across which stood a hinged iron grating, secured with a padlock. The woman fumbled among her keys and unfastened this. Swinging it wide, and opening the window beyond, she bade the girl precede her cautiously.
“It’s a fire-escape,” she explained briefly. She reached through the window grating and fastened the padlock; then closed the window; and quickly descended with the girl to the ground below.
Pausing a moment to get her breath, she seized Carmen’s hand and crept swiftly around the big house and into a dark alley. There she stopped to throw over her shoulders a light shawl which she had taken from the bureau. Then she hurried on.
Their course lay through the muddy alley for several blocks. When they emerged they were in a dimly lighted cross street. The air was chill, and the thinly clad woman shivered. Carmen,16fresh from the tropics, felt the contrast keenly. A few moments’ rapid walking down the street brought them to a large building of yellow brick, surrounded by a high board fence. The woman unfastened the gate and hurried up to the door, over which, by the feeble light of the street lamp, Carmen read, “The Little Sisters of the Poor.”
A black-robed woman admitted them and went to summon the Sister Superior. Carmen marveled at her strange attire. A moment later they were silently ushered into an adjoining room, where a tall woman, similarly dressed, awaited them.
“Sister,” said Jude excitedly, “here’s a little kid––you got to care for her until she finds her friends!”
The Sister Superior instantly divined the status of the woman. “Let the child wait here a moment,” she said, “and you come with me and tell your story. It would be better that she should not hear.”
In a little while they appeared again. Carmen was drowsing in her chair.
“She’s chock full of religion,” the woman was saying.
“But you,” the Sister replied, “what will you do? Go back?”
“God, no!” cried the woman. “They would murder me!”
“Then you will stay here until––”
“No, no! I have friends––others like myself––I will go to them. I––I couldn’t stay here––with her,” nodding toward the girl. “But––you will take care of her?”
“Surely,” returned the Sister in a calm voice.
Jude looked at Carmen for a moment. She made as if she would speak. Then she turned abruptly and went swiftly out into the chill night.
“Come,” said the Sister to Carmen, extending a hand. “Poor little thing!” she murmured as they mounted the stairs. “Poor little thing!”
CHAPTER 2
Carmen was astir next morning long before the rising-bell sounded its shrill summons through the long corridors. When she opened her eyes she gazed at the ceiling above in perplexity. She still seemed to feel the tossing motion of the boat, and half believed the bell to be the call to the table, where she should again hear the cheery voice of Harris and meet the tolerant smile of Mrs. Reed. Then a rush of memories swept her, and her heart went down in the flood. She was alone in a great foreign city! She turned her face to the pillow, and for a moment a sob shook her. Then she reached under the pillow17and drew out the little Bible, which she had taken from her bundle and placed there when the Sister left her the night before. The book fell open to Isaiah, and she read aloud:
“I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles.”
“I the Lord have called thee in righteousness, and will hold thine hand, and will keep thee, and give thee for a covenant of the people, for a light of the Gentiles.”
She snapped the book shut and quickly rose. “That means me,” she said firmly. “Padre Josè said I had a message for the world; and now I am to tell it to these people up here. God has called me in righteousness. That means, He has called me to doright thinking. And I am to tell these people how to think right. They don’t know as yet.”
Suddenly her thought reverted to Cartagena, and to the sturdy little lad who had so proudly claimed the name of Rincón. For a moment she stood still. Then she burst into tears and threw herself back upon the bed.
But she did not lie there long. “I must think only God’s thoughts,” she said, struggling to her feet and checking her grief. “If it is right for the little boy to be his son, then I must want it to be so. Imustwant only the right––I havegotto want it! And if it is not right now, then God will make it so. It is all in His hands, and I must not think of it any more, unless I think right thoughts.”
She dressed herself quickly, but did not put on the shoes. “I simply can not wear these things,” she mourned, looking at them dubiously; “and I do not believe the woman will make me. I wonder why the other woman called her Sister. Why did she wear that ugly black bonnet? And why was I hurried away from that hotel? It was so much pleasanter there, so bright and warm; and here it is so cold.” She shivered as she buttoned her thin dress. “But,” she continued, “I have got to go out now and find Mr. Reed and Mr. Harris––I have justgotto find them––and to-day! But, oh, this city is so much larger than Simití!”
She shook her head in perplexity as she put the Bible back again in the bundle, where lay the title papers to La Libertad and her mother’s little locket, which Rosendo had given her that last morning in Simití. The latter she drew out and regarded wistfully for some moments. “I haven’t any father or mother but God,” she murmured. “But He is both father and mother to me now.” With a little sigh she tied up the bundle again. Holding it in one hand and carrying the much despised shoes in the other, she left the cheerless room and started down the long, cold hall.
When she reached the stairway leading to the floor below18she stopped abruptly. “Anita’s babe!” she exclaimed half-aloud. “I have been thinking only of myself. It isnotblind! It sees! It sees as God sees! What is it that the Bible says?––‘And I will bring them by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight.’ I must know that––always! And Padre Josè said he would remember it, too.”
Again she choked back the tears which surged up at the remembrance of the priest, and, bracing herself, hastily descended the stairs, murmuring at every step, “God is everywhere––right here!”
At the far end of the lower hall she saw, through an open door, a number of elderly people sitting at long tables. Toward them she made her way. When she reached the door, she stopped and peered curiously within. A murmur of astonishment rose from the inmates when they caught sight of the quaint object in the doorway, standing uncertainly, with her shoes in one hand, the awkwardly tied bundle in the other, and garbed in the chaotic attire so hastily procured for her in Cartagena.
A Sister came quickly forward and, taking the girl’s hand, led her into a smaller adjoining room, where sat the Sister Superior at breakfast. The latter greeted the child gently and bade her be seated at the table. Carmen dropped into a chair and sat staring in naïve wonder.
“Well,” began the Sister at length, “eat your breakfast quickly. This is Sunday, you know, and Mass will be said in the chapel in half an hour. You look frightened. I don’t wonder. But you are with friends here, little girl. What is your name?”
Carmen quickly recovered her spirits, and her nimble tongue its wonted flexibility. Without further invitation or preface she entered at once upon a lively description of her wonderful journey through the jungle, the subsequent ocean voyage, and the mishap at the pier, and concluded with the cryptical remark: “And, you know, Señora, it is all just as Padre Josè said, only a series of states of consciousness, after all!”
The Sister stared blankly at the beaming child. What manner of being was this that had been so strangely wafted into these sacred precincts on the night breeze! The abandoned woman who had brought her there, the Sister remembered, had dropped an equally cryptical remark––“She’s chock full of religion.”
But gratitude quickly mastered her wonder, and the woman,19pondering the child’s dramatic recital, murmured a sincere, “The Virgin be praised!”
“Oh,” said Carmen, looking up quickly as she caught the words, “you people up here talk just like those in Simití. But Padre Josè said you didn’t know, either. You ought to, though, for you have had so many more ad––advantages than we have. Señora, there are many big, clumsy words in the English language, aren’t there? But I love it just the same. So did Padre Josè. We used to speak it all the time during the last years we were together. He said it seemed easier to talk about God in that language than in any other. Do you find it so, Señora?”
“What do you mean, child?” asked the puzzled Sister. “And who is this Josè that you talk so much about?”
“He––taught me––in Simití. He is the priest there.”
“Well,” replied the Sister warmly, “he seems to have taught you queer things!”
“Oh, no!” returned Carmen quickly, “he just taught me the truth. He didn’t tell me about the queer things in the world, for he said they were not real.”
Again the Sister stared at the girl in dumb amazement. But the child’s thought had strayed to other topics. “Isn’t it cold up here!” she exclaimed, shivering and drawing her dress about her. “I guess I’ll have to put on these shoes to keep my feet warm.”
“Certainly, child, put them on!” exclaimed the Sister. “Didn’t you wear shoes in your country?”
“No,” replied Carmen, tugging and straining at the shoes; “I didn’t wear much of anything, it was so warm. Oh, it is beautiful down there, Señora, so beautiful and warm in Simití!” She sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. But she brushed them away and smiled bravely up at the Sister. “I’ve come here because it is right,” she said with a firm nod of her head. “Padre Josè said I had a message for you. He said you didn’t know much about God up here. Why, I don’t know much of anything else!” She laughed a happy little laugh as she said this. Then she went on briskly:
“You know, Señora, Padre Josè isn’t really a priest. But he said he had to stay in the Church in order to teach me. I never could understand why. I am sure he just thought wrong about it. But, anyway, he will not have to be a priest any more, now that I have gone, will he? You know, Don Jorge said priests were a bad lot; but that isn’t so, for there are many good priests, aren’t there? Yes, there are. Only, they don’t understand, either. Why, Señora,” she exclaimed, suddenly remembering the Sister’s previous injunction, “is this a church? You said there would be Mass in the chapel––”
20
“No,” replied the Sister, still studying the girl attentively, while her manner became more severe; “this is a home for old people, a charitable institution.”
“Oh,” replied Carmen, with a very vague idea of what that meant. “Well,” her face alight and her eyes dancing, “I don’t belong here then, do I? I am never going to be old,” she meditated. “Why, God never grows old! And we are His children, you know. The Bible says we are made in His image and likeness. Well, if that is so, how can we ever grow old? Just think of God hobbling around in heaven with a cane and saying: ‘Well, I’m getting old now! I’ll soon be dying!’ Isn’t that awful! We wouldn’t grow old and die if it wasn’t for our wrong way of thinking, would we? When we think His thoughts, why, we will be like Him. But not until then. Padre Josè says this, and he knows it is true––only, he seems to have a hard time proving it. But, Señora, we have all got to prove it, some time, every one of us. And then there will not be any places like this for old people––people who still believe that two and two are seven, you know. And that’s my message.”
The woman looked at her blankly; but the girl rambled on. “Padre Josè sometimes talked of the charitable institutions out in the world, and he always said that charity was a crime against the people. And he was right, for that is just the way Jesus looked at it, isn’t it? Jesus did not give money to beggars, but he did better, he healed them of the bad state of mind that was making them poor and sick. Why don’t the priests do that? Can you heal the sick? Jesus, when he taught, first said a thing, and then he turned right around and proved it. Now do you do that? I try to. I’ve tried it all my life. And, why, Señora, I’ve had thousands of proofs!”
The Sister did not reply; and Carmen, stealing a covert glance at her, continued:
“You know, Señora, it is just as wicked to be sick and poor as it is to tell a lie, because being sick and poor is just the ex––the ex-ter-nal-i-zation of our thought; and such thought is not from God; and so to hold such thoughts and to believe them real is to believe in power apart from God. It is having other gods than the one God; and that is breaking the very first Commandment, isn’t it? Yes, it is; and you can prove it, just as you can prove the principles in mathematics. Señora, do you know anything about mathematics?”
The astonished woman made an involuntary sign of negation.
“Oh, Señora,” cried the enthusiastic girl, “the things that Jesus taught can be proved just as easily as we prove the rules in mathematics! Why not? for they are truth, and all truth21can be demonstrated, you know. You know, Señora, God is everywhere––not only in heaven, but right here where we are. Heaven, Padre Josè used to say so often, is only a perfect state of mind; and so it is, isn’t it? God, you know, is mind. And when we reflect Him perfectly, why, we will be in heaven. Isn’t it simple? But,” she went on after catching her breath, “we can’t reflect Him as long as we believe evil to be real and powerful. Evil isn’t anything. It is just zero, nothing––”
“I’ve heard that before,” interrupted the woman, recovering somewhat from her surprise. “But I think that before you get out of New York you will reverse that idea. There’s a pretty fair amount of evil here, and it is quite real, we find.”
“But it isn’t!” cried Carmen. “If it is real, then God made it. It seems real to you––but that is only because you give it reality in your consciousness. You believe it real, and so it becomes to you.”
“Well,” said the woman dryly, “on that basis I think the same may be said of good, too.”
“No,” answered Carmen eagerly, “good is––”
“There,” interrupted the Sister coldly, holding up an admonitory hand, “we are not going to discuss the foolish theological notions which that fallen priest put into your poor little head. Finish your breakfast.”
The child looked at the woman in mute protest. Josè a fallen priest! Would these people up here so regard him? It was a new thought, and one that she would not accept.
“Señora,” she began again, after a brief interval, “Padre Josè is a good man, even the human Padre Josè. And he is trying to solve his problem and know God. And he is trying to know himself, not as other people think they know him, but as God knows him, and as I have always tried to know him. You have no right to judge him––and, anyway, you are not judging him, but only your wrong idea of him. And that,” she said softly, “is nothing.”
The Sister did not answer. She was beginning to feel the spell of those great brown eyes, that soft, rich voice, and the sparkling expression of innocence, purity, and calm assurance that bubbled from those red lips. And she was losing herself in contemplation of the girl’s luxuriant beauty, whose rich profusion her strange, foreign attire could not disguise.
“Señora,” said Carmen suddenly, “the people on the boat laughed at my clothes. But I don’t think them half as funny as that great black bonnet you are wearing. Why do you wear it? I never saw one until I was brought here.”
It was said innocently, and with no thought of offense. But the woman instantly roused from her meditation and assumed22an attitude of severe dignity. “Finish your breakfast,” she commanded sharply. “And remember after this that children’s manners here are not those of your country.”
The girl fell quiet under the rebuke, and the meal ended in silence. As they were rising from the table a cheery voice came from the outer room, and presently a priest looked in.
“Good morning, Sister,” he cried heartily. “Well, who’s this?” as his eyes fell upon Carmen. He was a young man, apparently still in the twenties, of athletic build, inclined rather to stoutness, and with a round, shining face that radiated health and good nature.
The Sister quietly returned his cordial greeting. “It is a little waif,” she said in answer to his query, “who strayed in here last night.”
“Aha,” said the priest, “another derelict! And will you send her to the orphanage?”
“I’m afraid if I do the little heretic will corrupt all the other children,” replied the Sister. “Father,” she continued seriously, “I want you to examine this child, and then tell me what you think should be done with her.”
“What is it––health?” asked the priest, studying the girl.
“No,” replied the Sister; “but another priest has gone wrong, and this,” pointing to Carmen, “is the result of his pernicious teachings.”
The priest did not reply for some moments. Then he sighed wearily. “Very well, Sister,” he said in a low voice. “I will talk with her after the service.” He seemed suddenly to have lost his cheerfulness, as he continued to converse with the woman on matters pertaining to the institution.
Carmen, wondering and receptive, took the place assigned to her in the chapel and sat quietly through the service. She had often seen Josè celebrate Mass in the rude little church in Simití, but with no such elaboration as she witnessed here. Once or twice she joined in the responses, not with any thought of worship, but rather to give vent, even if slight, to the impelling desire to hear her own musical voice. She thought as she did so that the priest looked in her direction. She thought others looked at her attentively at the same time. But they had all stared at her, for that matter, and she had felt confused and embarrassed under their searching scrutiny. Yet the old people attracted her peculiarly. Never had she seen so many at one time. And never, she thought, had she seen such physical decrepitude and helplessness. And then she fell to wondering what they were all there for, and what they got out of the service. Did the Mass mean anything to them? Did they believe that thereby their sins were atoned? Did they believe23that that priest was really changing the wafer and wine into flesh and blood? She recalled much that Josè had told her about the people up in the States. They were not so different, mentally, from her own, after all.
The Host had been elevated. The people, still gossiping cheerfully, had prostrated themselves before it. The sermon had been short, for the old people waxed impatient at long discourses. Then the priest descended from the pulpit and came to Carmen. “Now, little girl,” he said, seating himself beside her, “tell me all about yourself, who you are, where you come from, and what you have been taught. And do not be afraid. I am your friend.” Carmen smiled up at him; then plunged into her narrative.
It was two hours later when the Sister Superior looked in and saw the priest and girl still sitting in earnest conversation. She stood listening. “But,” she heard the priest say, “you tell me that this Father Josè taught you these things?”
“He taught me English, and French, and German. He taught me mathematics. And he taught me all I know of history, and of the world,” the girl replied.
“Yes, yes,” the priest went on hurriedly; “but these other things, these religious and philosophical notions, who taught you these?”
The Sister drew closer and strained her ears to hear.
The girl looked down as she answered softly, “God.”
The priest’s head sank upon his breast. He reached out and laid a hand on hers. “I believe you,” he said, in a voice scarcely audible. “I believe you––for we do not teach such things.”
The girl looked up with luminous eyes. “Then,” she said quizzically, “you are not really a priest.”
“Father Waite!” The Sister’s voice rang sternly through the quiet chapel. The priest started to his feet in confusion. “The dinner-bell will ring in a few minutes,” continued the Sister, regarding the man severely.
“Ah, true,” he murmured, hastily glancing at the clock. “The time passed so rapidly––a––a––this girl––”
“Leave the girl to me,” replied the Sister coldly. “Unless,” she added, “you consider her deranged. Coming from that hot country suddenly into this cold climate might––”
“No, no,” interrupted the priest hastily; “she seems uncommonly strong mentally. She has some notions that are a––somewhat different from ours––that is––but I will come and have a further talk with her.”
He raised his hand in silent benediction, while the Sister bowed her head stiffly. Then, as if loath to take his eyes from the girl, he turned and went slowly out.
24
“Come,” said the woman sharply. Carmen followed her out into the hall and down a flight of steps to the kitchen below.
“Katherine,” said the Sister Superior, addressing an elderly, white-haired Sister who seemed to be in charge of the culinary department, “put this girl to work. Let her eat with you and sleep in your room. And see if you can’t work some of the foolish notions out of her head.”
CHAPTER 3
“Get some o’ th’ foolish notions out of your head, is it? Och, puir bairn, wid yer swate face an’ that hivenly hair, it’s welcome ye air to yer notions! But, hist! Ye have talked too brash to the Sister Superior. Ye air that innocent, puir thing! But, mind your tongue, honey. Tell your funny notions to old Katie, an’ they’ll be safe as the soul of Saint Patrick; but keep mum before the others, honey.”
“But, Señora, don’t they want to know the truth up here?” There was a note of appeal in the quavering voice.
“Now listen, honey; don’t call me sich heathen names. Call me Sister. I’m no Señora, whativer that may be. And as for wantin’ to know the truth, God bless ye, honey! th’ good Fathers know it all now.”
“They don’t, Señ––Sister!”
“Well, thin, they don’t––an’ mebby I’m not so far from agreein’ wid ye. But, och, it’s dead beat I am, after the Sunday’s work! But ye air a right smart little helper, honey––only, ye don’t belong in th’ kitchen.”
“Señ––I mean, Sister––”
“That’s better, honey; ye’ll get it in time.”
“Sister, I’ve justgotto find Mr. Reed! Do you know him?”
“No, honey, it’s few I know outside these walls. But ye can put up a bit of a prayer when ye turn in to-night. An’ we’d best be makin’ for th’ bed, too, darlin’, for we’ve a hard day’s work to-morrow.”
It was Carmen’s second night in New York, and as the girl silently followed the puffing old woman up the several long, dark flights of stairs to the little, cheerless room under the eaves, it seemed to her that her brain must fly apart with the pressure of its mental accumulation. The great building in which she was now sheltered, the kitchen, with its marvels of equipment, gas stoves, electric lights, annunciators, and a thousand other equally wonderful appliances which the human mind has developed for its service and comfort, held her fascinated,25despite her situation, while she swelled with questions she dared not ask. Notwithstanding the anxiety which she had not wholly suppressed, her curiosity, naïve, eager, and insatiable, rose mountain high. Sister Katherine had been kind to her, had received her with open arms, and given her light tasks to perform. And many times during the long afternoon the old woman had relaxed entirely from her assumed brusqueness and stooped to lay a large, red hand gently upon the brown curls, or to imprint a resounding kiss upon the flushed cheek. Now, as night was settling down over the great, roaring city, the woman took the homeless waif into her big heart and wrapped her in a love that, roughly expressed, was yet none the less tender and sincere.
“Ye can ask the Virgin, honey, to send ye to yer frinds,” said the woman, as they sat in the gloaming before the window and looked out over the kindling lights of the city.
“What good would that do, Sister?”
“Not much, I guess, honey,” answered the woman frankly. “Troth, an’ I’ve asked her fer iverything in my time, from diamonds to a husband, an’ she landed me in a convint! But I ain’t complainin’.”
“You didn’t ask in the right way, Sister––”
“Faith, I asked in ivery way I knew how! An’ whin I had th’ carbuncle on me neck I yelled at her! Sure she may have answered me prayer, fer th’ whoop I gave busted the carbuncle, an’ I got well. Ye nivir kin tell, honey. An’ so I ain’t complainin’.”
“But, Sis––I can’t call you Sister!” pleaded the girl, going to the woman and twining her arms about her neck.
“Och, honey darlin’”––tears started from the old woman’s eyes and rolled down her wrinkled cheeks––“honey darlin’, call me Katie, just old Katie. Och, Holy Virgin, if I could have had a home, an’ a beautiful daughter like you––!” She clasped the girl in her great arms and held her tightly.
“Katie, when you pray you must pray knowing that God has already given you what you need, and that there is nothing that can keep you from seeing it.”
The woman wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “An’ so, darlin’, if I want diamonds I must know that I have ’em, is it that, honey?”
“You dear thing!” murmured Carmen, drawing closer, and laying her soft cheek against the leathery visage of the old woman.
“Say that again, honey––och, say it again! It’s words, darlin’, that’s nivir been said to old Katie!”
“Why, hasn’t any one ever been kind to you?”
26
“Kind! Och, ivirybody’s kind to me, honey! But nobody has ivir loved me––that way. The good Lord made me a fright, honey––ain’t ye noticed? I’ve a face like an owl. An’ they told me from th’ cradle up I’d nivir land a man. An’ I didn’t, honey; they all ran from me––an’ so I become a bride o’ th’ Church. But I ain’t complainin’.”
“But, Katie, the face is nothing. Why, your heart is as big––as big as the whole world! I hadn’t been with you an hour before I knew that. And, Katie dear, I love you.”
“Och, darlin’,” murmured the woman, “sure th’ Virgin be praised fer sendin’ ye to me, a lonely old woman!”
“It was not the Virgin, Katie, but God who brought me here,” said the girl gently, as she caressed the old Sister’s cheek.
“It’s all one, honey; the Virgin’s th’ Mother o’ God.”
“Why, Katie! You don’t know what you are saying!”
“Troth, child, she has th’ same power as God! Don’t we pray to her, an’ she prays to th’ good God to save us? Don’t she have influence with Him?”
“No, Katie, no. There is no person or thing that persuades God to be good to His children. There is nothing that influences Him. He is infinite––infinite mind, Katie, and infinite good. Oh, Katie, what awful things are taught in this world as truth! How little we know of the great God! And yet how much people pretend they know about Him! But if they only knew––reallyknew, as Jesus did––why, Katie, there wouldn’t be an old person, or a sick or unhappy one in the whole world! Katie,” after a little pause, “I know. And I’m going to tell them.”
The old Sister drew the child closer. “Air these more o’ yer funny notions, darlin’?”
“I suppose they are what the world thinks funny, Katie,” answered the girl.
“An’ I don’t wonder! We are not taught such things, honey. But then, th’ world moves, girlie––even old Katie sees that. Only, the Church don’t move with it. An’ old Katie can see that, too. An’ so, I’m thinkin’, does Father Waite.”
“I know he does, Katie.”
“Faith, an’ how do ye know it, child?”
“He talked with me––a long time, this morning. He said God had taught me what I know.”
“Aye, is it so? Thin me own suspicions air right; he’s out o’ tune! Did ye say, girlie dear, that he didn’t scold ye fer yer funny notions?”
“No, Katie, he said they were right.”
“Did he so! Thin, lassie dear, things is goin’ to happen.27An’ he’s a good man––troth, they make no better in this world!”
The old Sister lapsed into thought. Carmen looked out wonderingly over the city. She yearned to know what it held for her.
“Katie,” she said at length, bending again over the woman, “will you help me find Mr. Reed?”
“Och, lassie––what’s your name again?”
“Carmen,” replied the girl, “Carmen Ariza.”
“Cair-men Aree––now ain’t that a name fer ye! An’ yer nationality, girl?”
“I’m a Colombian, Katie.”
“Whist! Where is it? In Afrikay?”
“South America,” with a little sigh.
“Now think o’ that! An’ I’m Scotch-Irish, honey; an’ we’re both a long way from th’ ol’ sod! Lassie dear, tell me about last night. But, no; begin ’way back. Give us th’ whole tale. Old Katie’s weak in th’ head, girlie, but she may see a way out fer ye. Th’ Virgin help ye, puir bairn!”
Midnight boomed from the bell in a neighboring tower when Carmen finished her story.
“Be the Saints above!” exclaimed the old Sister, staring at the girl in amazement. “Now do ye let me feel of ye to see that ye air human; fer only a Saint could go through all that an’ live to tell it! An’ the place ye were in last night! Now be Saint Patrick, if I was rich I’d have Masses said every day fer that Jude who brung ye here! Don’t tell me th’ good Lord won’t forgive her! Och, God! she’s a Saint already.”
“She’s a good woman, Katie; and, somehow, I felt sorry for her, but I don’t know why. She has a beautiful home in that hotel––”
“Hotel, is it! Hivins above! But––och, sure, it was a hotel, honey. Only, ye air better off here wi’ old Katie.”
“And now you will help me?”
“Help you, lassie! God bless ye, yes! But––unless it’s wi’ Father Waite, I don’t know what I can do. Ye air in bad with th’ Sister Superior fer yer talk at th’ breakfast table. Ye’re a fresh little heathen, honey. An’ she’s suspicious of Father Waite, too. We all air. An’ he th’ best man on airth! But his doctrine ain’t just sound, sweatheart. Hivins, doctrine! It means more’n a good heart! There, honey, lave it to me. But it’s got to be done quick, or th’ Sister Superior’ll have ye in an orphan asylum, where ye’ll stay till ye air soused in th’ doctrine! I can manage to get word to Father Waite to-morrow, airly. Jinny will run over fer me. A bit of a word wi’ him’ll fix it, lassie dear. An’ now, honey swate, off with28them funny clothes and plump into bed. Saints above! it’s all but marnin’ now!”
A few minutes later the woman turned to the girl who lay so quiet at her side.
“Honey,” she whispered, “was ye tellin’ me awhile back that ye knew the right way to pray?”
“Yes, Katie dear,” the child murmured.
“Thin do you pray, lass, an’ I’ll not trouble the Virgin this night.”
“Well, Father, what do you think now?” The Sister Superior looked up aggressively, as Father Waite slowly entered the room. His head was bowed, and there was a look of deep earnestness upon his face.
“I have talked with her again––an hour, or more,” he said reflectively. “She is a––a remarkable girl, in many ways.” He stopped, uncertain how to proceed.
The Sister eyed him keenly. “She attracts and repels me, both,” she said. “At times she seems positively uncanny. And she appears to be suffering from religious dementia. Do you not think so?”
It was a compromising question, and the priest weighed his words carefully before replying. “She does––seem to––to have rather––a––rather unusual––religious views,” said he slowly.
“Would it not be well to have Dr. Sullivan examine her?”
“To what end?”
“That we may know what to do with her. If she is mentally unsound she must not be sent to the orphanage.”
“She should be taken––a––I mean, we should try to locate her friends. I have already searched the city directory; but, though there are many Reeds, there are none listed with the initials she gave me as his. I had thought,” he continued hesitatingly, “I had thought of putting her in charge of the Young Women’s Christian Association––”
“Father Waite!” The Sister Superior rose and drew herself up to her full height. “Do you mean to say that you have contemplated delivering her into the hands of heretics?” she demanded coldly, her tall figure instinct with the mortal pride of religious superiority.
“Why, Sister,” returned the priest with embarrassment, “would it not be wise to place her among those whose views harmonize more closely with hers than ours do?”
“Father! I am surprised––!”
“But––she is not a Catholic!” urged the man, with a gesture of impatience. “And she will never be one. The combined weight of all the centuries of church authority could not make29her one––never! I must take her to those with whom she rightfully belongs.”
The Sister Superior’s eyes narrowed and glittered, and her face grew dark. “Never!” she said in a low tone. “I would rather see her dead! Father Waite, you exceed your authority! I am in charge here, and I shall report this case to the Bishop!”
The priest stood hesitant for a moment. The futility of his case seemed to impress him. Taking up his hat, he bowed without speaking and went out. The Sister Superior stepped to the telephone. Outside the door the man listened until he caught the number she called. His face grew dark and angry, and his hands clenched a she strode down the hall.
On the stairs that led up from the kitchen stood Sister Katherine.
“Hist! Father!”
He stopped and turned to the woman. Her finger went up to her lips.
“Wait on th’ corner––behind the church! The lassie will meet you there!”
Before he could reply the woman had plunged again into the dark stairway. Stopping at a small closet below, she took out a bundle. Then she hurried to the kitchen and summoned Carmen, who was sitting at a table peeling potatoes.
“Troth, lazy lass,” she commanded sharply, “do you take the bucket and mop and begin on the front steps. And mind that ye don’t bring me heavy hand down on ye! Och, lassie darlin’,” she added, when she had drawn the startled girl out of hearing of the others, “give yer old Katie a kiss, and then be off! Troth, it breaks me heart to see ye go––but ’twould break yours to stay! Go, lassie darlin’, an’ don’t fergit old Katie! Here,” thrusting the girl’s bundle and a dollar bill into her hands, “an’ God bless ye, lass! Ye’ve won me, heart an’ soul! Ye’ll find a frind at th’ nixt corner!” pointing up the street. She strained the girl again to her breast, then opened the door and hastily thrust her out into the street.
For a moment Carmen stood dazed by the suddenness of it all. She looked up confusedly at the great, yellow building from which she had been ejected. There was no visible sign of life. Then, grasping her bundle and the dollar bill, she hurried out through the gate and started up the street.
Around the corner stood Father Waite. The man’s face was furrowed, and his body trembled. The girl went up to him with a glad smile. The priest looked up, and muttered something incoherent under his breath a she took her hand.
“Where are we going, Padre?” she asked.