Rosa Mundi | Page 6

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 there. They strewed her path with roses. They almost worshipped her. She tried to think she was happy, but she was not--even then. They came around her in crowds. They made love to her. She was young, and their homage was like a coloured ball to her. She tossed it to and fro, and played with it. But she made game of it all. They were nothing to her--nothing, till one day there came to her a boy--no, he was past his boyhood--a young man--rich, well-born, and honourable. And he--he loved her, and offered her--marriage. No one had ever offered her that before. Can you realize--but no, you are a man!--what it meant to her? It meant shelter and peace and freedom. It meant honour and