“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, for God 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, 11 the 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.