“There is a way out, dearest,” whispered Carmen. “I know there is, no matter what seems to be or to happen, for ‘underneath are the everlasting arms.’ I am not afraid. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles told me this morning that Mrs. Ames intends to give a big reception next week. Of course we will go. And then I will see Mr. Ames and talk with him. Don’t fear, dearest. He will do it for me. And––it will be right, I know.”
And Carmen sat with the repentant woman all that day, struggling with her to close the door upon her sordid past, and to open it wide to “that which is to come.”
The days following were busy ones for many with whom our story is concerned. Every morning saw Carmen on her way to the Beaubien, to comfort and advise. Every afternoon found her yielding gently to the relentless demands of society, or to the tiresome calls of her thoroughly ardent wooer, the young Duke of Altern. Carmen would have helped him if she could. But she found so little upon which to build. And she bore with him largely on account of Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, for whom she and the Beaubien were now daily laboring. The young man tacitly assumed proprietorship over the girl, and all society was agog with expectation of the public announcement of their engagement.
Mrs. Hawley-Crowles still came and went upon a tide of unruffled joy. The cornucopia of Fortune lay full at her feet. Her broker, Ketchim, basked in the sunlight of her golden smiles––and quietly sold his own Simití stock on the strength of her patronage. Society fawned and smirked at her approach, and envied her brilliant success, as it copied the cut of her elaborate gowns––all but the deposed Mrs. Ames and her unlovely daughter, who sulked and hated, until they received a call from Monsignor Lafelle. This was shortly after that gentleman’s meeting with Carmen and Father Waite in the Beaubien mansion. And he left the Ames home with an ominous look on his face. “The girl is a menace,” he muttered, “and she deserves her fate.”
The Ames grand reception, promising to be the most brilliant event of the year, barring the famous Bal de l’Opéra, was set for Thursday. But neither Mrs. Hawley-Crowles nor Carmen had received invitations. To the former it was evident that there was some mistake. “For it can’t be possible that the 183 hussy doesn’t intend to invite us!” she argued. But Thursday morning came, and found Mrs. Hawley-Crowles drenched with tears of anxiety and vexation. “I’d call her up and ask, if I dared,” she groaned. But her courage failed. And, to the amazement of the exclusive set, the brilliant function was held without the presence of its acknowledged leaders, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles and her ward, the Inca princess.
On Wednesday night Harris arrived from Denver. His arrival was instantly made known to J. Wilton Ames, who, on the morning following, summoned both him and Philip O. Ketchim to his private office. There were present, also, Monsignor Lafelle and Alonzo Hood. Harris and Ketchim came together. The latter was observed to change color as he timidly entered the room and faced the waiting audience.
“Be seated, gentlemen,” said Ames genially, after cordially shaking hands with them and introducing the churchman. Then, turning to Harris, “You are on your way to Colombia, I learn. Going down to inaugurate work on the Simití holdings, I suppose?”
Harris threw a quick glance at Ketchim. The latter sat blank, wondering if there were any portions of the earth to which Ames’s long arms did not reach.