Rosemary in Search of a Father Part 2

"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. n.o.body 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 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 pa.s.s 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 n.o.blesse!) 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 a.s.sociate 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 n.o.ble 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 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.

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN THE CURTAIN WAS DOWN

The 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.

"_Pet.i.t bete!_" 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 pa.s.s?" 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 n.o.body answered.

Here 'tis, please, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sage, 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 b.u.t.tons 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 _dejeuner_; a jug stained brown with streaks of coffee; a crumbled crescent roll; some b.a.l.l.s 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_?"