Project Gutenberg's Rosemary, by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Rosemary A Christmas story Author: C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson Illustrator: William Hatherell Release Date: February 10, 2006 [EBook #17743] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSEMARY *** Produced by Suzanne Shell, Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net ROSEMARY: A CHRISTMAS STORY By C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON With Eight Illustrations By WILLIAM HATHERELL NEW YORK A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1906, by McClure, Phillips & Co. Evelyn and Rosemary climbed hand in hand, while Hugh carried the two huge baskets. Frontispiece. —Rosemary. To Minda CHAPTER PAGE I. THE WHITE GIRL ON THE TERRACE: THE ROSE GIRL AT THE CASINO 3 II. THE ROSE GIRL'S LITTLE STORY, AND GREAT EYES 21 III. WHEN THE CURTAIN WAS DOWN 40 IV. DOGS AND FATHERS 48 V. ROSEMARY IN SEARCH OF A FATHER 62 VI. FAIRY FATHERS MUST VANISH 78 VII. THE WHITE FIGURE AT THE DOOR 94 VIII. WHEN A MAN GOES SHOPPING 108 IX. THE LAST WORD OF MADEMOISELLE 128 [Pg 1] [Pg 2] EVELYN AND ROSEMARY CLIMBED HAND IN HAND, WHILE HUGH CARRIED TWO HUGE BASKETS Frontispiece FACING PAGE HE TOOK OFF HALF, AND WAS LEAVING THE REST TO RUN, WHEN A VOICE CLOSE TO HIS SHOULDER, SAID, "OH, DO TAKE IT ALL OFF" 12 WITH A CRASH OF MACHINERY HE BROUGHT THE BIG BLUE CAR TO A STOP 70 HE CRUSHED THEM IN HIS, THEN BENT HIS HEAD AND KISSED THEM 102 THEY CAME NEARER, NEAR ENOUGH FOR MADEMOISELLE TO RECOGNISE THE MAN WITH THEM 124 THEIR FLUFFY LACES BURNT AND BLACKENED. CHIFFON FICHUS TORN IN RIBBONS STREWED THE CARPET 138 THE WHITE GIRL ON THE TERRACE: THE ROSE GIRL AT THE CASINO here was a young man in Monte Carlo. He had come in a motor car, and he had come a long way, but he hardly knew why he had come. He hardly knew in these days why he did anything. But then, one must do something. It would be Christmas soon, and he thought that he would rather get it over on the Riviera than anywhere else, because the blue and gold weather would not remind him of other Christmases which were gone—pure, white, cold Christmases, musical with joy-bells and sweet with aromatic pine, the scent of trees born to be Christmas trees. There had been a time when he had fancied it would be a wonderful thing to see the Riviera. He had thought what it would be like to be a rich man, and bring a certain girl here for a moon of honey and roses. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, or he believed her so, which is exactly the same thing; and he had imagined the joy of walking with her on just such a terrace as this Casino terrace where he was walking now, alone. She would be in white, with one of those long ermine things that women call stoles; an ermine muff (the big, "granny" kind that swallows girlish arms up to the dimples in their elbows) and a hat which they would have bought together in Paris. They would have bought jewels, too, in the same street where they found the hat; the Rue de la Paix, which she had told him she longed to see. And she would be wearing some of the jewels with the white dress—just a few, not many, of course. A string of pearls (she loved pearls) a swallow brooch (he had heard her say she admired those swallow [Pg 3] [Pg 4] [Pg 5] brooches, and he never forgot anything she said); with perhaps a sapphire-studded buckle on her white suéde belt. Yes, that would be all, except the rings, which would lie hidden under her gloves, on the dear little hands whose nails were like enamelled rose leaves. When she moved, walking beside him on the terrace, there would be a mysterious silky whisper and rustle, something like that you hear in the woods, in the spring, when the leaves are crisp with their pale green youth, and you shut your eyes, listening to the breeze telling them the secrets of life. There would be a fragrance about the white dress and the laces, and ermine, and the silk things that you could not see,—a fragrance as mysterious as the rustling, for it would seem to belong to the girl, and not to have come from any bottle, or bag of sachet powder. A sweet, fresh, indefinable fragrance, like the smell of a tea rose after rain. They would have walked together, they two, and he would have been so proud of her, that every time a passer-by cast a glance of admiration at her face, he would feel that he could hardly keep in a laugh of joy, or a shout, "She is mine—she is mine." But he had been poor in the old days, when from far away he had thought of this terrace, and the moon of honey and roses, and love. It had all been a dream, then, as it was now; too sweet ever to come true. He thought of the dream, and of the boy who had dreamed it, half bitterly, half sadly, on this his first day in the place of the dream. He was rich—as rich as he had seen himself in the impossible picture, and it would have been almost too easy to buy the white dress, and the ermine, and the pearls. But there was no one for whom he would have been happy to buy them. The most beautiful girl in the world was not in his world now; and none other had had the password to open the door of his heart since she had gone out, locking it behind her. "She would have liked the auto," he said to himself. And then, a moment later, "I wonder why I came?" It was a perfect Riviera day. Everybody in Monte Carlo who was not in the Casino was sauntering on the terrace in the sun; for it was that hour before luncheon when people like to say, "How do you do?—How nice to meet you here!" to their friends. The young man from far away had not, so far as he knew, either enemies or friends at Monte Carlo. He was not conscious of the slightest desire to say "How do you do?" to any of the pretty people he met, although there is a superstition that every soul longs for kindred souls at Christmas time. He had not been actively unhappy before he left the Hotel de Paris and strolled out on the terrace, to have his first sight of Monte Carlo by daylight. Always, there was the sore spot in his heart, and often it ached almost unbearably at night, or when the world hurt him with its beauty, which he must see without Her; but usually he kept the spot well covered up; and being healthy as well as young, he had cultivated that kind of contentment which Thoreau said was only desperate resignation in disguise. He took an interest in books, in politics, and sport and motor cars, and a good many other things; but on the terrace, the blue of the sea; the opal lights on the mountains; the gold glint of oranges among green, glittering leaves; the pearly glimmer of white roses thrown up like a spray against the sky, struck at his heart, and made the ache come back more sharply than it had for a long time. If he had been a girl, tears would have blinded his eyes; but being what he was, he merely muttered in anger against himself, "Hang it all, what a wretched ass I am," and turning his back on the sea, made his way as fast as he could into the Casino. It was close upon twelve o'clock, and the "Rooms" had been open to the public for two hours. The "early gamblers" thronging the Atrium to wait till the doors opened, had run in and snatched seats for themselves at the first tables, or marked places to begin at eleven o'clock, if crowded away from the first. Later, less ardent enthusiasts had strolled in; and now, though it was not by any means the "high season" yet, there were rows of players or lookers on, three deep round each table. The young man was from the South—though a South very different from this. He had the warm blood of Virginia in his veins, and just so much of the gambler's spirit as cannot be divided from a certain recklessness in a man with a temperament. He had seen plenty of life in his own country, in the nine years since he was twenty, and he knew all about roulette and trente et quarante, among other things desirable and undesirable. Still, gambling seemed to be made particularly fascinating here, and he wanted to be fascinated, wanted it badly. He was in the mood for the heavy hush of the Rooms, for the closeness, and the rich perfumes, which mingling together seem like the smell of money piled on the green tables; he was in a mood for the dimmed light like dull gold, gold sifted into dust by passing through many hands. He had got his ticket of admission to the Casino, after arriving yesterday evening; but the Rooms had not pleased him then. He had not played, and had merely walked through, looking at the people; but now he went to a trente et quarante table, and reaching over the shoulders of the players—not so many as in the roulette rooms,—he put a five hundred franc note on couleur. It won. He let the money lie, and it won again. A third time and a fourth he left the notes on, and still luck was with him. He was in for a good run. [Pg 6] [Pg 7] [Pg 8] [Pg 9] [Pg 10] [Pg 11] [Pg 12] As it happened, nobody else had been playing higher than plaques, the handsome hundred franc gold pieces coined for the Principality of Monaco; and people began to watch the new comer, as they always do one who plays high and is lucky. On the fifth deal he had won the maximum. He took off half, and was leaving the rest to run, when a voice close to his shoulder said, "Oh, do take it all off. I feel it's going to lose now. To please me." He took off half, and was leaving the rest to run, when a voice close to his shoulder said, "Oh, do take it all off." Page 12. —Rosemary. He glanced aside, and saw an exceedingly pretty, dark face, which looked vaguely familiar. With a smile, he took up all the notes, and only just in time. Couleur lost; inverse won. "Oh, I'm so glad," said the owner of the pretty face. She spoke English with a slight, but bewitching foreign accent; and her eyes shone at him like brown jewels under the tilted brim of a hat made all of pink and crimson roses. She was rather like a rose, too, a rich, colourful, spicy rose, of the kind which unfolds early. He knew that he had seen her before, and wondered where. After all, it was rather nice to be spoken to by someone other than a hotel manager or a waiter; someone who was good to look at, and friendly. He lost interest in the game, and gained interest in the girl. "Thank you," said he. "You've brought me luck." "I hope you don't think I speak always to strangers, like that," said the girl in the rose hat. "But you see, I recognized you at once. I don't know if you remember me? No, I'm afraid you don't." "Of course I remember you, only I can't think where we—" "Why, it was in Paris. You saved my mother's little dog from being run over one day. We were both so grateful. Afterwards we saw you once or twice at tea at the Ritz, and you took off your hat, so you must have remembered then. Ah me, it's a long time ago!" "Not so very," said the young man. "I remember well, now." (He wished her mother had not been quite such an appalling person, fat and painted.) "It was only last October. I'd just come to Paris. It was my first day there, when I picked up the little dog. Now, on my first day here, you pay me back for what I did then—as if it needed paying back! —by making me pick up my money. That's quite a coincidence." They had moved away from the tables now, and were walking very slowly down the room. The young man smiled at the girl, as he crushed up the notes and stuffed them into his pocket. He saw that she was much prettier than he had thought her in Paris, if he had thought of her at all; and her dress of pale pink cloth was charming with the rose hat. Somehow, he was glad that she was not in white—with an ermine stole. "So it is, quite a coincidence, and a pleasant one for me, since I meet again one who was once so kind," she said. "Especially it is good to meet a friend—if I may call you a friend?—when one is very sad." "Of course you may call me a friend," said he, kindly. "I'm sorry to hear you are sad." "That is why I told you the other meeting seemed a long time ago," explained the girl. "I was happy then. Now, I am breaking my heart, and I do not know what to do. Oh, I ought not to talk like this, for after all, you are a stranger. But [Pg 13] [Pg 14] [Pg 15] [Pg 16] you are English, or you are American; and men of those countries never misunderstand a woman, even if she is in trouble. We can feel ourselves safe with them." "I'm American," he answered, "and I'm glad you feel like that. I wish I could help you in some way." He spoke kindly, but not with absolute warmth of sincerity. The girl saw this, and knew that he did not believe in her as she wished him to believe, as she intended to make him believe. She looked up at him with sad and eloquent eyes, which softened his heart in spite of himself. "You can't help me, thank you," she said, "except by kind words and kind thoughts. I think, though, that it would do me good to tell you things, if you really take an interest?" "Of course I do." He was speaking the truth now. He was human, and she was growing prettier, as she grew more pathetic, every moment. "And would you advise me a little? I have nobody else to ask. My mother and I know no one at Monte Carlo. Perhaps you would walk with me on the terrace and let me talk?" "Not on the terrace," he said, quickly, for he could not bear to meet the sweet ghost of the past in the white dress and ermine stole, as he gave advice to the flesh and blood reality of the present, in the pink frock and roses. "What about Ciro's? Couldn't we find your mother somewhere, and get her to chaperon us for lunch? I should think it must be very jolly now, in the Galerie Charles Trois." "So it would be; but my poor mother is very ill in her bed," said the girl. "Would she—er—do you think, as I'm an American, and we're almost old friends, mind letting you have lunch just with me alone? Of course, if she would mind, you must say no. But I must confess, I'm hungry as a wolf; and it would be somewhere to sit and talk together, quietly, you know." "You are hungry," echoed the girl. "Ah, I would wager something that you don't really know what hunger is. But I know—now." "What do you mean?" "I mean it is well my mother is ill, and doesn't wish to eat, for there would be nothing for her, if she did." "Good heavens! And you?" "I have had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and then only a biscuit with a glass of water." "My poor girl, we won't say anything more about chaperons. Come along with me to Ciro's this instant, to lunch, and tell me everything." He was completely won over now, and looked very handsome, with a slight flush on his brown face, and his dark eyes bright with excitement. The girl lowered her long lashes, perhaps to hide tears. When she did this, and drooped the corners of her mouth, she was very engaging, and the young man tingled all over with pity. That poor, pretty creature, starving, in her charming pink dress and hat of roses. How strange life was! It was something to be thankful for that he had met her. A little while ago, he had walked through the Galerie Charles Trois, thinking how delightful the tables looked at Ciro's, and making up his mind to return there for lunch. But afterwards, on the terrace, he had been so miserable that he would probably have forgotten all about his plan, if it had not been for the girl. Now, he chose a small table in a corner of the balcony, close to the glass screen. A month later, he might have had to engage it long beforehand; but to-day, though the place was well filled with pretty women and their attendant men, there was not a crowd, and he could listen to his companion's low-voiced confidences without fear of being overheard. [Pg 17] [Pg 18] [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] THE ROSE GIRL'S LITTLE STORY, AND GREAT EYES e ordered a lunch which he thought the girl would like, with wine to revive the faculties that he knew must be failing. Then, when she had eaten a little, daintily in spite of her hunger, he encouraged her to talk. "Mother and I are all alone in the world," she said. "We are Belgian, and live in Brussels, but we have drifted about a good deal, just amusing ourselves. Somehow we never happened to come here until a month ago. Then my mother said one day in Paris, 'Let us go to Monte Carlo. I dreamed last night that I won twenty thousand francs there.' My mother is rather superstitious. We came, and she did win, at first. She was delighted, and believed in her dream, so much that when she began to lose, she went up and up, doubling each time. They call the game she made, 'playing the martingale!' "She lost all the money we had with us, and telegraphed home for more. Soon, she had sold out every one of our securities. Then she won, and went half mad with the joy and excitement, but the joy didn't last long. She lost all, again —literally, our all. We were penniless. There was nothing left to pay the hotel bill. I went out, and found a Mont de Pieté, just beyond the limits of the Principality; they aren't allowed inside. I pawned all our jewellery, and as we had a great many valuable things, I got several thousand francs. I thought the money would last us until I could find something to do. But, without telling me what she meant to do, mother took it all to the Casino—and—it followed the rest. "She was so horrified at what she had done, when it was too late, that she wished to kill herself. It was a terrible time for me, but I was so sorry—so sorry for her." As the girl said this, she looked full into the young man's eyes, with her great, appealing ones. He thought that she must have a wonderfully sweet nature, to have forgiven that horrible, fat old woman, after being subjected to so much undeserved suffering. It was a thousand pities, he said to himself, that a really good sort of girl should be forced to live her life beside a creature of that type, and under such an influence. He had not quite believed in the poor child, at first, perhaps, and because he did believe in her now, he felt poignant remorse for his past injustice. "What did you do, then?" he asked, honestly absorbed in the story, for he was a generous and warm hearted fellow, who found most of his pleasure, in these latter days, in the help he could give others, to make them happier than he was himself. "I comforted her as well as I could, but I didn't know what would become of us. Then a lady, who had a room next to mine in the hotel, heard me crying, and was very kind." "I should think she would have been," interrupted the young man. "She told me that, as my mother had lost everything, she had better go to the Direction of the Casino, and get what they call a viatique—money to go away with. So she did ask, though it was a great ordeal to make up her mind to do it; and they gave my mother a thousand francs. Then, you know, she had no right to play in the Rooms again; she was supposed to pay her hotel bill, and leave Monte Carlo. But she gave half the money to a woman she had met in the Rooms, and asked her to put it on six numbers she had dreamed about; she was sure that this time she would win." "And did she?" "No. The money was lost. We hadn't enough left to settle our account at the hotel, or to get away from the place, even if there were anywhere to go—when one has no pennies. So my mother begged me to slip into the Rooms, with what was left, and try to get something back. I had been trying when you saw me, with our last louis. Now you know why it seemed so good to see a man I knew, a face I could trust. Now you know why I, who had had such misfortunes, was glad at least to bring you luck." "It's my turn to bring you some, I think," began the man she could trust; but she stopped him by putting up her plump little white hand. "If you mean with money, no," she said, with soft decision that was pretty and sad to hear. "If you mean with advice, yes. If you could only get me something to do! You see, they will be turning us out of our hotel to-morrow. They've let us keep our rooms on, up to now, but for two days they've not given us anything to eat. Of course, it can't go on like this. If it hadn't been for you, I think when I went back to tell my mother that the last louis of the viatique was gone, we would have killed ourselves." "Great Heaven, you must promise me not to do that," the young man implored. "I will promise, now, for you have saved me by—caring a little. You do care, really, don't you?" "I wouldn't have blood in my veins, if I didn't. But—about something for you to do—I must think." [Pg 22] [Pg 23] [Pg 24] [Pg 25] [Pg 26] [Pg 27] "Are you staying here for some time?" asked the girl. "I haven't made up my mind." "I asked because I—I suppose you don't need a secretary, do you? I can write such a good English hand; and I know French and Italian as well as I do German, and your own language. If I could be of use, I would work so hard for you." "I dare say I shall be needing a secretary after Christmas, indeed, I'm sure I shall," insisted the young man, more and more earnest in his desire to do good. "I have dozens of letters to write every day, and all sorts of odds and ends to keep straight. I could bring the things down to your place and you could help me, if you would. But I'm afraid it would be no end of bother to you." "I should love it," said the girl, gently. "Oh, it would be hard work. It would take a lot of your time, and be worth a lot of money." "Would it really? But you mustn't overpay me. I should be so angry if you did that." "There's no danger. I'm a good business man, I assure you. I should pay a capable secretary like you—knowing several languages and all that—say forty dollars a week. That's about two hundred francs." "Wouldn't that be too much?" "Hardly enough." "You are so good—so good! But I knew you would be. I wonder if you would think me a very bold girl if I told you something? It's this; I've never forgotten you since those days in Paris. You were different, somehow, from other men I had seen. I thought about you. I had a presentiment that we should meet again. My mother dreamed of numbers to play at roulette. I dreamed of—but oh, I am saying things I ought not to say! Please don't blame me. When you've starved for two days, and not known what to do—unless to die, and then a man comes who is kind, and saves you from terrible things, you can't be as wise and well behaved as at other times." "Poor child," said the young man. "It does me good to be called that. But you don't know my name, the name of your new secretary. It is Julie—Julie de Lavalette. My mother is the Comtesse de Lavalette. And you?" "Oh, I'm plain Hugh Egerton," said the young man. The girl laughed. "I do not think you are plain Hugh Egerton at all. But perhaps an American girl would not tell you that? Hugh! What a nice name. I think it is going to be my favourite name." She glanced up at him softly, under long lashes,—a thrilling glance; but he missed its radiance, for his own eyes were far away. Hugh had been the favourite name of another girl. When she saw that look of his, she rose from her chair. "I'm taking too much of your time," she exclaimed, remorsefully. "I must go." His eyes and thoughts came back to the wearer of pink and roses. Perhaps there had been just a little too much softness and sweetness. It had been wise of her to change the key, and speak of parting. He paid for the lunch, and tipped the waiters so liberally that they all hoped he would come again often. Then he asked if he might walk with her to the hotel where she and her mother were staying. "It's down in the Condamine," she hesitated. "We've moved there lately, since the money began to go, and we've had to think of everything. It's rather a long walk from here." "All the better for me," he answered, and her smile was an appreciation of the compliment. They sauntered slowly, for there was no haste. Nobody else wanted Hugh Egerton's society, and he began to believe that this girl sincerely did want it. He also believed that he was going to do some real good in the world, not just in the ordinary, obvious way, by throwing about his money, but by being genuinely necessary to someone. When they had strolled down the hill, and had followed for a time the straight road along the sea on that level plain which is the Condamine, the girl turned up a side street. "We live here," she said, and stopped before a structure of white stucco, rococco decoration, and flimsy balconies. Large gold letters, one or two of which were missing, advertised the house as the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil; and those who ran might read that it would be charitable to describe its accommodation as second rate. "It is not nice," she went on, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. "But—it is good to know all the same that we will not be turned out. I have a new heart in my breast, since I left this house a few hours ago—because there is a You in the world." As she said this, she held out her hand for goodbye, and when he had shaken it warmly, the young man was bold [Pg 28] [Pg 29] [Pg 30] [Pg 31] [Pg 32] [Pg 33] enough to slip off her wrist the little pink leather bag which hung there by its chain. "Now for that advance on your secretarial work," he said; and taking from his pocket a wad of notes which he had won at the Casino, he stuffed it hastily into the yawning mouth of the bag, while the girl's soft eyes gazed at the sea. Then he closed the spring with a snap, and she let him pass the chain over her hand once more. "Oh, but it looks very fat," she exclaimed. "Are you sure you counted right?" "There's a little more there," he said, uncomfortably, "just a little to save the bother of counting here in the street. Don't look angry. Only the salary part's for you, of course, but the rest—couldn't you just hand it over to your mother, and say, 'Winnings at the Casino'? That's true, you know; it was, every bit. And you needn't say who won it. Besides, if it hadn't been for you, it would have been lost instead of won. It would be a kind of Christmas present for your mother from the Casino, which really owes her a lot more." The girl shook her head, gently. "I couldn't do that, even for my mother's sake; but I don't misunderstand, now we are such friends. I know how kindly you mean, and though neither mother nor I can accept presents of money, even from dear friends (after all we are of the noblesse!) I'm not going to hurt you by giving the money back, if you will do what I ask of you." "What is that?" He felt ready to do anything within reason. "Let us sell you our dear little dog, for this extra money you have put into my bag. He is very, very valuable, for he cost thousands of francs, the sweet pet, so you would really have something not unworthy, in return for your goodness. Ah, don't say no. You would love Papillon, and we should love you to have him. We couldn't have parted with our little darling to a stranger, though we were starving; but it would make us happy to think he was yours. And then, if you won't, you must take all this back." As she spoke, she touched the bag on her arm. "Oh, I'll have the dog!" Hugh Egerton said, quickly. Anything rather than the girl should return the money, which she so much needed. "I remember he was a dear little chap, Pomeranian or something of the sort. I hope he likes motors." "He will like whatever you like. If you will come and fetch him this evening, I will show you all his tricks. Do come. It would be good to see you again so soon." "With pleasure," said the young man, flushing slightly. "If you think your mother will be well enough to receive me?" "The news I have to give will almost cure her. If you would dine with us? They will give us a dinner, now"—and she laughed childishly—"when I have paid the bill. It will be very stupid for you at a place like this, but you will have a welcome, and it is the best we can do." "It is the welcome I want," said Hugh. "But if you and your mother could dine with me somewhere—" "Another time we will." There were to be other times, of course! "And this evening," she went on, "we can talk of my beginning work, as your secretary. It shall be directly after Christmas?" "Whenever you are ready." "I suppose you have friends to whom you will go for Christmas?" "Not a friend." "Oh, perhaps we might be together—all three?" "I'll think of something pleasant for us to do, if you'll let me." "How good you are! Then, till this evening. It will seem long till then." They shook hands once more. She had taken off her glove now, and her palm left on his a reminiscence of Peau d'Espagne. He did not know what the scent was, but it smelled rich and artificial, and he disliked to associate it with his new friend. "But probably it's her mother's, and she didn't choose it herself," he thought. "Well—I have a new interest in life now. I expect this is the best thing that's happened to me for a long time." As he walked back to his hotel, his head was full of plans for the girl's transient pleasure and lasting benefit. "Poor lonely child," he thought. "And what a mother! She ought not to be left with a person like that. She ought to marry. It would be a good deed to take her away from such an influence. So young, and so ingenuous as she is still, in spite of the surroundings she must have known, she is capable of becoming a noble woman. Perhaps, if she turns out to be really as sweet and gentle as she seems—" The sentence broke off unfinished, in his mind, and ended with a great sigh. There could be only second best, and third best things in life for him now, since love was over, and it would be impossible for him to care for an angel from heaven, who had not the face and the dear ways of the girl he had lost. But [Pg 34] [Pg 35] [Pg 36] [Pg 37] [Pg 38] [Pg 39] second best things might be better than no good things at all, if only one made up one's mind to accept them thankfully. And it was a shame to waste so much money on himself, when there were soft-eyed, innocent girls in the world who ought to be sheltered and protected from harm. WHEN THE CURTAIN WAS DOWN he soft-eyed, innocent girl who had inspired the thought went into the hotel, and was rather cross to the youthful concierge, because the ascenseur was not working. There were three flights of stairs to mount before she reached her room, and she was so anxious to open her bag to see what was inside, that she ran up very fast, so fast that she stepped on her dress and ripped out a long line of gathers. Her eyes were not nearly as soft as they had been, while she picked up the hanging folds of pink cloth, and went on. The narrow corridor at the top of the staircase was somewhat dark, and, her eyes accustomed to the brilliant light out of doors, the girl stumbled against a child who was coming towards her. "Petit bête!" she snapped. "You have all but made me fall. Awkward little thing, why don't you keep out of people's way?" The child flushed. She would have liked to answer that it was Mademoiselle who had got in her way; but Mother wished her to be always polite. "I am sorry," she replied instead, not saying a word about the poor little toes which the pretty pink lady had crushed. "Well, then, if you are sorry, why don't you let me pass?" asked the girl of the soft eyes. "If you please, I want to give you a note," said the child, anxiously searching a small pocket. "It's from Mother, for Madame. She told me to take it to your door; so I did, several times, but nobody answered. Here 'tis, please, Mademoiselle." Mademoiselle snatched it from the hand, which was very tiny, and pink, with dimples where grown up folk have knuckles. She then pushed past the child, and went on to a door at the end of the passage, which she threw open, without knocking. "Eh bien, Julie! You have been gone long enough to break the bank twice over. What luck have you had?" exclaimed the husky voice of a woman who sat in an easy chair beside a wood fire, telling her own fortune with an old pack of cards, spread upon a sewing board, on her capacious lap. She was in a soiled dressing gown of purple flannel, with several of the buttons off. In the clear light of a window at the woman's back, her hair, with a groundwork of crimson, was overshot with iridescent lights. On a small table at her side a tray had been left, with the remains of déjeuner; a jug stained brown with streaks of coffee; a crumbled crescent roll; some balls of silver paper which had contained cream chocolates; ends of cigarettes, and a scattered grey film of ashes. At her feet a toy black Pomeranian lay coiled on the torn bodice of a red dress; and all the room was in disorder, with an indiscriminate litter of hats, gloves, French novels, feather boas, slippers, and fallen blouses or skirts. The lady of the roses went to the mirror over the untidy mantel piece, and looked at herself, as she answered. "No luck at roulette or trente. But the best of luck outside." "What, then?" The girl began to hum, as she powdered her nose with a white glove, lying in a powder box. "You remember le beau brun?" [Pg 40] [Pg 41] [Pg 42] [Pg 43] [Pg 44] "The young man in Paris you made so many enquiries about at Ritz's? Is he here?" "He is. I've just had lunch with him. Oh, there are lots of things to tell. He is a good boy." "How, good? You told him we had had losses?" "I painted a sad picture. He was most sympathetic." "To what extent?" "Chere maman! One would think we were vulgar adventuresses. We are not. He respects me, this dear young man, and it is right that he should. I deserve to be respected. You know the fable about the dog who dropped his meat in the water, trying to snap at its reflection? Well, I don't ask strangers for loans. I make my impression. Monsieur Hugh Egerton is my friend—at present. Later, he will be what I choose. And most certainly I shall choose him for a husband. What luck, meeting him again! It is time I settled down." "They said at Ritz's that he was one of the young millionaires, well known already in America," the fat woman reflected aloud. "It is a good thing that I have brought you up well, Julie, and that you are pretty." "Yes, it is a good thing that I am pretty," repeated the girl. "We have had many hopes often before, but this seems to be the most promising. I think it is very promising indeed, and I don't mean to let it slip." She turned her back to the easy chair, and opened the pink bag. As the woman talked on, she secretly counted out the money. There were more than ten thousand francs in mille notes and others of smaller denominations. Quietly she put them away in the top of a travelling box, which she locked. Then she noticed the letter which the child had given her, still lying on the dressing table, with her gloves. "Here's something from la belle Americaine, upstairs," said she. "A billet doux." "A dun," exclaimed the woman. "No doubt. It can be nothing else." "Well, we can't pay." "No, we can't pay," said the girl, looking at the locked box. "Let me see, how much was it she lent?" "Two hundred francs, I think. We told her we'd give it back in a week. That's nearly a month ago." "Serve her right for trusting strangers. The saints alone know when she'll see her money again. She shouldn't be so soft hearted. It doesn't pay in these days." "Neither do we—when we can help it." They both laughed. "But when you are Madame—let me see, what was the name of the young monsieur, they told you at the Ritz?" "Egerton." "Ah yes. When you are Madame Egerton—" "Everything will be very different then." And the girl slipped the key of the box into the little pink bag. DOGS AND FATHERS [Pg 45] [Pg 46] [Pg 47] [Pg 48] fter delivering her letter, the child went slowly on downstairs, to the room she had been on the way to visit. It was on the second floor, just under the room of the Comtesse de Lavalette. "Come in," said a Cockney voice shrill with youth, in answer to her tap; and the child obeyed. Though this room was of the same size and shape, it was very different from that of the Comtesse. The plain furniture was stiffly arranged, and there was no litter of clothing or small feminine belongings. By the window, which gave a glimpse of the sea, and of Monaco rock with the old part of the Palace, a plump young girl sat, with a baby a year or two old in her arms, and a nurse's cap on her smooth head. "You invited me to come down after I'd had my déjeûner, so I came," said the child. "Right you are, Miss Rosemary," returned the plump girl. "You're such a quaint little body, you're a regular treat. I declare I ain't 'alf sure I wouldn't rather talk to you, than read the Princess Novelettes. Besides, I do get that tired of 'earin' nothin' but French, I'm most sorry I undertook the job; and the Biby don't pick up English much yet." "Don't you think he's a bright baby?" asked the child, sitting down on a footstool, which was a favourite seat of hers. "For a French biby, 'e 's as bright as you could expect," replied her hostess, judicially. "Are they different?" "Well, they ain't Hinglish." "I'm half American," said the little girl. "You don't talk through your nose. Far as I can see, you've got as good a haccent as me." "I suppose yours is good?" asked Rosemary, as if she longed to have a doubt set forever at rest. "Rather! Ain't I been brought out from London on purpose so as this biby can learn to speak Hinglish, instead of French? It's pretty near the sime thing as bein' nursery governess. Madame wouldn't trust her own wye of pronouncing the languidge. She must 'ave a Hinglish girl." "And she sent for you on purpose?" the child enquired, with increasing respect. "Well, I was the only one as would come at the price. 'Tain't big wages; but I'm seein' loife. Lor', I come down here with Madame and Mounseer a fortnight ago, and Monte Carlo ain't got many secrets from me. I was a duffer, though, at first. When I 'eerd all them shots poppin' off every few minutes, up by the Casino, I used to think 'twas the suicides a shooting theirselves all over the place, for before I left 'ome, I 'ad a warnin' from my young man that was the kind of goin's on they 'ad here. But now I know it's only the pigeon shooters, tryin' for prizes, and I wouldn't eat a pigeon pie in this 'otel, not if 'twas ever so!" "Do they ever have them?" asked the little girl, awed. "Not as I knows of, but they may for Christmas. I sye, are you lookin' forward to your Christmas, kiddy?" "Angel—that's Mother, I mean—says I'm not going to have much of a Christmas this year. I'm trying not to mind. I suppose it's because Santa Claus can't get to the Riviera, with his sleigh and reindeer. How could he, Miss Jane, when there's no snow, and not even a scrap of ice?" "Pshaw!" said Miss Jane. "It ain't Santa Claus brings you things, snow or no snow. Only babies believe that. You're old enough to know better. It's your father and mother does it all." "Are you sure?" asked Rosemary. "Dead sure. Don't be a silly and cry, now, just because there ain't any Santa Claus, nor any fairies." "It isn't that," said the little girl. "It's because I can never have any more Christmases, if it depends on a father. You know, I haven't a father." "I supposed you 'adn't, as 'e ain't 'ere, with yer ma," replied the young person. "She's mighty pretty." "I think she's the prettiest mother in the world," said Rosemary, proudly. "She don't look much like a mother." The child opened her eyes very wide at this new point of view. "I couldn't have a mother who looked any other way," she said. "What do you think she does look like?" "Silly puss! I only mean she isn't much more'n a kid, 'erself." [Pg 49] [Pg 50] [Pg 51] [Pg 52] [Pg 53] "She's twenty five, twenty whole years more than me. Isn't that old?" "Lawkes, no. I'm goin' on seventeen myself. I 'avent got any father, no more'n you 'ave, so I can feel fur you. Your ma 'as to do typewritin'. Mine does charrin'. It's much the sime thing." "Is it?" asked Rosemary. "Angel doesn't like typewriting so very well. It makes her shoulder ache, but it isn't that she minds. It's not having enough work to do." "Bless your hinnercent 'eart, charrin' mikes you ache all over! Betcherlife my ma'd chinge with yours if she could." "Would she? But Angel doesn't get on at all well here. I've heard her telling a lady she lent some money to, and wanted to have it back, after awhile. You see, when we were left poor, people said that she could make lots of money in Paris, because they pay a good deal there for the things Angel does; but others seemed to have got all the work for themselves, before we went over to Paris to live, so some friends she had told her it would be better to try here where there was no—no com—com—" "No compertishun," suggested the would-be nursery governess. "Yes, that's the right word, I think. But there was some, after all. Poor Angel's so sad. She doesn't quite know what we'll do next, for we haven't much money left." "She's got a job of char—I mean, typin' to-day anyhow," said Jane. "Yes, she's gone to a hotel, where a gentleman talks a story out loud, and she puts it down on paper. She's been three times; but it's so sad; the story is a beautiful one, only she doesn't think he'll live to finish it. He came here to get well, because there's sunshine, and flowers; but his wife cried on Angel's shoulder, in the next room to his, and said he would never, never get well any more. Angel didn't tell me, for I don't think she likes me to know sad things; but I heard her saying it all to a lady she works for sometimes, a lady who knows the poor man. I don't remember his name, but he's what they call a Genius." "It's like that out here on the Riviera," said Jane, shaking her head so gloomily that the ruffled cap wobbled. "Lots of ill people come, as well as those who wants fun, and throwin' thur money about. In the midst of loife we are in death. Drat the Biby, I believe 'e's swallowed 'is tin soldier! No, 'ere it is, on the floor. But, as I was sayin', your ma and mine might be sisters, in some wyes. Both of 'em lost their 'usbins, young—" "How did your father get lost?" Rosemary broke in, deeply interested. "'E went to the dogs," replied Jane, mysteriously. "Oh!" breathed the child, thrilled with a vague horror. She longed intensely to know what had happened to her friend's parent after joining his lot with that of the dogs, but was too delicate-minded to continue her questioning, after such a tragic beginning. She wondered if there were a kind of dreadful dog which made a specialty of eating fathers. "And did he never come back again?" she ventured to enquire, at last. "Not 'e. You never do, you know, if once you goes to the dogs. There ain't no wye back. I was wonderin', since we've been acquainted, kiddy, if your pa didn't go the sime road? It 'appens in all clarses." "Oh no, my father was lost at sea, not on the road; and there aren't any dogs there, at least I don't think so," said Rosemary. "If it's only the sea 'as swallered 'im, 'e may be cast up again, any day, alive an' bloomin'," replied Jane cheerfully. "My ma 'ad a grite friend, sold winkles; 'er 'usbin was lost at sea for years and years, till just wen she was comfortably settled with 'er second, along 'e comes, as large as loife. Besides, I've read of such things in the Princess Novelettes; only there it's most generally lovers, not 'usbins, nor yet fathers. Would you know yours again, if you seen 'im?" Rosemary shook her head doubtfully, and her falling hair of pale, shimmering gold waved like a wheat-field shaken by a breeze. "Angel lost him when I was only two," the child explained. "She's never talked much to me about him; but we used to live in a big house in London—because my father was English, you know, though Angel's American—and I had a nurse who held me in her lap and told me things. I heard her say to one of the servants once that my father had been lost on a yacht, and that he was oh, ever such a handsome man. But—but she said—" Rosemary faltered, her grey-blue eyes suddenly large and troubled. "What was it she said?" prompted Jane, with so much sympathetic interest that the little girl could not refuse to answer. Nevertheless, she felt that it would not be right to finish her sentence. "If you please, I'd rather not tell you what Nurse said," she pleaded. "But anyway, I'd give everything I've got if my father would get found again. You see, it isn't only not having proper Christmases any more, that makes me feel sad, it's because Angel has to work so hard for me; and if I had a father, I s'pose he'd do that." "If 'e didn't he'd deserve to get What For," said Jane, decidedly. "If you was a child in a story book, your pa'd come back and be lookin' for you everywhere, on Christmas Eve; this Christmas Eve as ever was." "Oh, would he?" cried Rosemary, a bright colour flaming on her little soft cheeks. [Pg 54] [Pg 55] [Pg 56] [Pg 57] [Pg 58] [Pg 59] [Pg 60] "Yes; and what's more," went on her hostess, warming to the subject, "you'd know 'im, the hinstant you clapped heyes on his fice, by 'eaven-sent hinstinct." "What's 'eaven-sent hinstinct?" demanded Rosemary. "The feelin' you 'ave in your 'eart for a father, wot's planted there by Providence," explained Jane. "Now do you hunderstand? Because if you do, I don't know but you'd better be trottin'. Biby's gorn to sleep, and seems to be sleepin' light." "Yes, I think I understand," Rosemary whispered, jumping up from her footstool. "Goodbye. And thank you very much for letting me come and see you and the baby." She tiptoed across the room, her long hair waving and shimmering again, softly opened, and shut the door behind her, and slowly mounted the stairs to her own quarters, on the fourth floor. ROSEMARY IN SEARCH OF A FATHER he had a doll and a picture book there, but she had looked at the picture book hundreds of times; and though her doll was a faithful friend, somehow they had nothing to say to each other now. Rosemary flitted about like a will o' the wisp, and finally went to the window, where she stood looking wistfully out. Supposing that Jane were right, and her father came back out of the ocean like the fathers of little girls in story books, this might be a very likely place for him to land, because there was such lots of sea, beautiful, sparkling, blue sea. Of course, he couldn't know that Angel and she were in this town, because it was only about a month since they came. It must be difficult to hear things in ships; and he might go away, to look for them somewhere else, without ever finding them here. Little thrills of excitement running from Rosemary's fingers to her toes felt like vibrating wires. What could she do? Jane had said, if he came at all, he was sure to come on Christmas Eve, according to the habit of fathers, and it was Christmas Eve now. By and bye it would be too late, anyhow for a whole year, which was just the same as forever and ever. Oh, she must go out, this very minute! The child had put on her hat and coat, before she remembered that Angel had told her she must never stir beyond the hotel garden alone. But then, Angel probably did not know this important fact about fathers lost at sea, returning on Christmas Eve, and not at any other time. If she waited until Angel came in, it might be after sunset, as it had been yesterday; and then even if they hurried into the street to search, they could not recognize him in the dark. "I do think Angel would surely want me to go, if she knew," thought Rosemary. Her heart was beating fast, under the little dark blue coat. What a glorious surprise for Angel, if she could bring a tall, handsome man into this room, and say, "Dearest, now you won't have to work any more, or cry in the night when you think I've gone to sleep. Here's father, come back out of the sea." "Oh, oh!" she cried, and ran from the room, afraid of wasting another instant. The sallow young concierge had often seen the child go out alone to disappear round the path that circled the hotel, and play in the dusty square of grass which, on the strength of two orange trees and a palm, was called a garden. He thought nothing of it now, when she nodded in her polite little way, and opened the door for herself. Five minutes later, he was reading of a delicious jewel robbery, which had happened in a tunnel near Nice, and had forgotten all about Rosemary's existence. [Pg 61] [Pg 62] [Pg 63] [Pg 64] [Pg 65] The little girl had an idea that she ought to go to the place where ships came in, and as she had more than once walked to the port with her mother, she knew the way very well. Two white yachts were riding at anchor in the harbour, but no one had come on shore who looked handsome enough for a father to be recognised by 'eaven-sent-hinstinct, the moment you set eyes upon him. Rosemary stood by the quay for a few minutes, uncertain what to do. Two or three deep-eyed, long-lashed Monegasque men smiled at her kindly, as Monegasque men and Italians smile at all children. She had learned to lisp French with comparative fluency, during the months she and "Angel" had spent in Paris; and now she asked where the people went who had come in on those pretty white ships? "Those are yachts," said one of the deep-eyed men; "and the people who come on them are rowed to sh...