Rosa Mundi | Page 9

anxious appeal in her eyes that he could not meet it. He
turned his own away.
There fell a silence between them, and through it the long, long roar of
the sea rose up--a mighty symphony of broken chords.
The man moved at last, looked down at the slight boyish figure beside
him, hesitated, finally spoke. "I still think that I should like to meet
Rosa Mundi," he said.

Her eyes smiled again. "And you will not despise her now," she said,
her tone no longer a question.
"I think," said Randal Courteney slowly, "that I shall never despise any
one again."
"Life is so difficult," said Rosemary, with the air of one who knew.
* * * * *
They were strewing the Pier with roses for Rosa Mundi's night. There
were garlands of roses, festoons of roses, bouquets of roses; roses
overhead, roses under foot, everywhere roses.
Summer had returned triumphant to deck the favourite's path.
Randal Courteney marked it all gravely, without contempt. It was her
hour.
No word from her had reached him, but that night he would meet her
face to face. Through days and nights of troubled thought, the resolve
had grown within him. To-night it should bear fruit. He would not rest
again until he had seen her. For his peace of mind was gone. She was
about to throw herself away upon a man she did not love, and he felt
that it was laid upon him to stop the sacrifice. The burden of
responsibility was his. He had striven against this conviction, but it
would not be denied. From the days of young Eric Baron's tragedy
onward, this woman had made him as it were the star of her destiny. To
repudiate the fact was useless. She had, in her ungoverned, impulsive
fashion, made him surety for her soul.
The thought tormented him, but it held a strange attraction for him also.
If the story were true, and it was not in him to doubt it, it touched him
in a way that was wholly unusual. Popularity, adulation, had been his
portion for years. But this was different, this was personal--a matter in
which reputation, fame, had no part. In a different sphere she also was a
star, with a host of worshippers even greater than his own. The humility
of her amazed him. She had, as it were, taken her fate between her

hands and laid it as an offering at his feet.
And so, on Rosa Mundi's night, he went to the great Pavilion, mingling
with the crowd, determined when her triumph was over, to seek her out.
There would be a good many seekers, he doubted not; but he was
convinced that she would not deny him an interview.
He secured a seat in the third row, avoiding almost by instinct any more
conspicuous position. He was early, and while he waited, the thought of
young Eric Baron came to him--the boy's eager-face, the adoration of
his eyes. He remembered how on that far-off night he had realized the
hopelessness of combating his love, how he had shrugged his shoulders
and relinquished the struggle. And the battle had been his even then--a
bitter victory more disastrous than defeat.
He put the memory from him and thought of Rosemary--the child with
the morning light in her eyes, the innocence of the morning in her soul.
How tenderly she had spoken of Rosa Mundi! How sweetly she had
pleaded her cause! With what amazing intuition had she understood!
Something that was greater than pity welled up within him. Rosa
Mundi's guardian angel had somehow reached his heart.
People were pouring into the place. He saw that it was going to be
packed. And outside, lining the whole length of the Pier, they were
waiting for her too, waiting to strew her path with, roses.
Ah! she was coming! Above the wash of the sea there rose a roar of
voices. They were giving her the homage of a queen. He listened to the
frantic cheering, and again it was Rosa Mundi, splendid and brilliant,
who filled his thoughts as she filled the thoughts of all just then.
The cheering died down, and there came a great press of people into the
back of the building. The lights were lowered, but he heard the
movement, the buzz of a delighted crowd.
Suddenly the orchestra burst into loud music. They were playing
"Queen of the Earth," he remembered later. The curtain went up. And
in a blaze of light he saw Rosa Mundi.

Something within him sprang into quivering life. Something which till
that moment he had never known awoke and gripped him with a force
gigantic. She was robed in shimmering, transparent gold--a
queen-woman, slight indeed, dainty, fairy-like--yet magnificent. Over
her head, caught in