Rosa Mundi | Page 6

tell you," he said again.
Still she looked at him, and again there seemed to be in her eyes that
expression of a child who has seen life without understanding it.
"Perhaps you think I am too young to know good from evil," she said
after a moment. "I am not. I have told you I am older than I look, and in
some things I am older even than my years. Then, too, I belong to Rosa
Mundi. I told you, didn't I? I am her familiar spirit. She has even called
me her angel, or her better self. I know a great many things about her,
and some of them are very sad. May I tell you some of the things I
know?"
He turned his eyes away from her abruptly, with the feeling that he was
resisting some curious magnetism. What was there about this child that
attracted him? He was not a lover of children. Moreover, she was
verging upon womanhood approaching what he grimly termed "the
dangerous age."
He filled his pipe deliberately while she waited for his answer, turning
his gaze upon the dazzling line of the horizon.
"You can do as you like," he said at last, and added formally, "May I
smoke?"
She nodded. "Yes, I would like you to. It will keep you from being

bored. I want to tell you about Rosa Mundi, because you do not judge
her fairly. You only know her by repute, and I--I know her heart to
heart."
Her voice deepened suddenly, and the man glanced downwards for an
instant, but immediately looked away again. She should tell him what
she would, but by no faintest sign should she imagine that she had
succeeded in arousing his interest. The magnetism was drawing him.
He was aware of the attraction, and with firmness he resisted it. Let her
strive as she would, she would never persuade him to think kindly of
Rosa Mundi.
"You think her--bad," said Rosemary, her voice pitched very low. "I
know--oh, I know. Men--some men--are very hard on women like her,
women who have had to hew their own way in the world, and meet
temptation almost before"--her voice quivered a little--"they knew what
temptation meant."
He looked down at her again suddenly and searchingly; but her clear
eyes never flinched from his. They were pleading and a little troubled,
but wholly unafraid.
"Perhaps you won't believe me," she said. "You'll think you know best.
But Rosa Mundi wasn't bad always--not at the beginning. Her dancing
began when she was young--oh, younger than I am. It was a dreadful
uphill fight. She had a mother then--a mother she adored. Did you ever
have a mother like that, I wonder? Perhaps it isn't the same with men,
but there are some women who would gladly die for their mothers.
And--and Rosa Mundi felt like that. A time came when her mother was
dying of a slow disease, and she needed things--many things. Rosa
Mundi wasn't a success then. She hadn't had her chance. But there was
a man--a man with money and influence--who was willing to offer it to
her--at--at--a price. She was dancing for chance coppers outside a San
Francisco saloon when first he made his offer. She--refused."
Rosemary's soft eyes were suddenly lowered. She did not look like a
child any longer, but a being sexless, yet very pitiful--an angel about to
weep.

Courteney watched her, for he could not turn away.
Almost under her breath, she went on: "A few days later her mother
began to suffer--oh, terribly. There was no money, no one to help. She
went again and danced at the saloon entrance. He--the man--was there.
She danced till she was tired out. And then--and then--she was hungry,
too--she fainted." The low voice sank a little lower. "When she came to
herself, she was in his keeping. He was very kind to her--too kind. Her
strength was gone, and--and temptation is harder to resist when one is
physically weak too. When she went back to her mother she had
accepted--his--offer. From that night her fortune was made."
Two tears gathered on the dark lashes and hung there till she put up a
quick hand and brushed them away.
The man's face was curiously softened; he looked as if he desired to dry
those tears himself.
Without looking up she continued. "The mother died--very, very soon.
Life is like that. Often one pays--in vain. There is no bargaining with
death. But at least she never knew. That was Rosa Mundi's only
comfort. There was no turning back for her then. And she was so
desolate, so lonely, nothing seemed to matter.
"She went from triumph to triumph. She carried all before her. He took
her to New York, and she conquered