had said what she came to say, and was retreating with dignity down the
corridor.
Now the figure of a slender woman was silhouetted in the doorway. Hugh
heard a sigh, and saw a hand that glimmered white in the dusk against
the dark paper on the wall, as it groped for the button of the electric
light. Then, suddenly the room was filled with a white radiance, and
she stood in the midst of it, young and beautiful, the woman he had
loved for seven years.
Putting Rosemary away he sprang up, and her eyes, dazzled at first by
the sudden flood of light, opened wide in startled recognition.
"Hugh--Hugh Egerton!" she stammered, whispering as one whispers in a
dream.
She was pale as a lily, but the whiteness of her face was like light,
shining from within; and there was a light in her great eyes, too, such
as had never shone for Hugh on sea or land. Once, a long time ago, he
had hoped that she cared, or would come to care. But she had chosen
another man, and Hugh had gone away; that had been the end. Yet
now--what stars her eyes were! One might almost think that she had not
forgotten; that sometimes she had wished for him, that she was glad to
see him now.
"Lady Clifford," he stammered. "I--will you forgive my being here--my
frightening you like this?"
The brightness died out of her face. "Lady Clifford!" she echoed. "Don't
call me that, unless--I'm to call you Mr. Egerton? And besides, I'm only
Madame Clifford here. It is better; the other would seem like
ostentation in a woman who works."
"Evelyn," he said. "Thank you for letting it be Evelyn." Then, his voice
breaking a little, "Oh, say you're a tiny bit glad to see me, just a
tiny bit glad."
She did not answer in words; but her eyes spoke, as she held out both
hands.
[Illustration: He crushed them in his, then bent his head and kissed
them. Page 102.
--_Rosemary._]
He crushed them in his, then bent his head and kissed them; first the
girlish right hand, then the left. But she saw his face contract as
he caught the gleam of her wedding ring. As he looked up, their eyes met
again, and each knew what was in the other's mind.
"Angel, dearest," said Rosemary, "do tell the fairy father you're glad
to see him."
Evelyn started. "Why do you call him that?"
"Because he said he was a fairy, and would have to vanish soon. But
you'll beg him not to, won't you?"
"I--I should be sorry to lose him again. We haven't many friends, in
these days." The bright head was bowed over the child's, as Rosemary
clung to her mother's dress.
"You never lost me," said Hugh Egerton. "It was I who lost you. Evie,
you don't know what black years these have been. I loved you so."
"But that--was--long ago."
"It was always."
"Hugh! I thought you must have learned to hate me."
"Hate you, because I couldn't make you care for me as--I hoped you
would, and because you cared for someone else? No, I--"
"But--I did care for you. It was for my father's sake that--that--ah, I
can't talk of it, Hugh. You know, we were so poor after father lost his
money, I tried with all my heart to forget, and to do my best for--my
husband. Perhaps it was my punishment that he--oh, Hugh, I was so
miserable. And then--then he went away. He was tired of me. He was on a
yacht, and there was a great storm. But you must have read in the
papers--"
"Never. I never knew till this day."
"It was more than three years ago."
Hugh was very pale. Three years ago--three long years in which he had
worked, and tried not to think of her! And if he had known--"You see,
I've had a queer life, knocking about in strange places," he said,
trying to speak calmly. "Often I didn't see any newspapers for weeks
together. I thought of you always as rich and happy, living in England,
the wife of Sir Edward Clifford--"
"Rich and happy," she repeated, bitterly. "How little one knows of
another's life. After his death, there was nothing--there had been some
wild speculations; and the estates went with the title, of course, to
his cousin. But, yes,--in a way you were right. I was rich and happy
because I had Rosemary."
"And Rosemary had you, Angel," cried the child, who had been listening,
puzzled and bewildered, not knowing that they had forgotten her
presence until this moment. "Rosemary had you. And now we've all got
each other--till the fairy father vanishes."
"But I shan't have to vanish after all," said Hugh.
* * * * *
After that, it seemed they had been together but for a moment, when a
wild wail went moaning through the house; the first gong for the
_pensionnaires'_ dinner.
So loud it was that it hushed their voices for a long minute. And when
cool silence came again, Hugh begged that the two would have their
Christmas Eve dinner with him, at his hotel. "There's so much to plan
for to-morrow, and all the days," he pleaded. "And just for once
Rosemary shall have a late dinner like the grown-ups. Do say yes."
So Evelyn said yes. And it was not until they were all three seated in
the restaurant of the Hotel de Paris, that he remembered he had been
engaged to dine at the Beau Soleil with Mademoiselle and the Comtesse,
her mother.
But he did not even blush because he had forgotten.
[Illustration: CHAPTER EIGHT]
WHEN A MAN GOES SHOPPING
[Illustration: W]
Many of Hugh Egerton's best moments during the last six years had been
spent in dreams. In those dreams the past had lived again; for he had
seen the future as once he had hoped it might be for him.
But all through this night of Christmas Eve he lay awake; and no dreams
had ever been as half as sweet as the thoughts that came to him then. It
would have been a hideous waste of time to sleep, when he could lie
there and live over again each moment of his evening, beginning at the
beginning, when She had come into the room, and going on to the end
when he had brought her and Rosemary to the door of the Hotel Pension
Beau Soleil, to say "goodbye until to-morrow." When he came to the end,
he went back to the beginning again with renewed zest, trying to call up
some word, some look of hers which he might have neglected to count
among his treasured jewels.
Then, when he was sure that he had each pearl and ruby and diamond duly
polished and strung on the fine gold chain of loving memory, he would
let his mind run ahead of time, to the next day.
What a Christmas it was going to be! There never had been one like it
before, in the history of the world; but--the best of it was--there was
reason to hope that there would be many others to come just as
exquisite, if not more perfect.
Evelyn Clifford had loved him, even when she had let him go. She loved
him now; and she had promised to make up for the long grey years of the
past by marrying him almost at once.
There was nothing to wait for. He was lonely and rich. She was lonely
and poor. Both were young, and starving for happiness. In a week they
would be married, for she had promised to begin the New Year as his
wife. Meanwhile, there would be a great deal to do (so she said, though
he could not see why) in getting ready. But Christmas was to be a
holiday. They were going on that picnic to Éze, all three. That was
already planned; but Hugh had mentally made an addition to the plan, of
which he had said not a word.
He was as excited over the thought of this plan as Rosemary would have
been had she known. And lest there should be a hitch, or he should not
have time to accomplish all, he was out of bed by half past six--that
mysterious hour of dawn when across the glimmering sea Corsica can be
seen, floating like a heaped basket of violets in waves of transparent
gold.
Last night he had anxiously enquired of the concierge whether the Monte
Carlo shops would be open on Christmas morning, and had been informed
that they would. Otherwise, Hugh Egerton would have been capable of
battering down the doors, helping himself to the things he wanted, and
leaving enough money to pay for damages as well as purchases.
After all, he was ready long before the shutters of those attractive
plate glass windows were taken away; but he was not sorry for that. He
had the joy of walking down to the Condamine and gazing up at other
windows far more attractive, and saying to the closed green blinds,
"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas, my darling--mine for always, now!"
Then he darted back to rolls and coffee; beamed on the waiters, gave
them fat five franc pieces merely for beaming in return; and arrived in
the Galerie Charles Trois just as the shop windows were opening radiant
Christmas eyes.
The first visit he paid was to the florist's; and to save time in
choosing he simply said, "I'll take all those things you have in the
window, please."
There were about two hundred francs worth of roses, the same of white
lilacs, and enough lilies of the valley, nestling in baby leaves of
yellow green, to clean out any save a well-filled pocket book; but that
was all the better. The more he could spend to-day, the more was Hugh
Egerton pleased. He gave "Madame Clifford's" address, and wrote
something in English on his visiting card. The flowers were to go at
once; at once, mind; not in fifteen minutes, but now, this very now.
"How much in love is that handsome young Monsieur!" thought the
Mademoiselle of the shop, with a little sigh for some of the wonders of
the world which she had missed, and must always miss. Her heels were
appallingly high, and her waist was incredibly small; but she had a
heart; and there was no heart which would not have softened to Hugh, and
wished him the best of good luck, this day.
The next window which attracted the young man's eye, was one which
displayed just such a dress as he had vaguely pictured yesterday, for a
dear companion on the terrace. It was white, of course; and he was not
sure, but he thought it was made of cloth. Anyway there was a lot of
embroidery on it, full of little holes, which somehow contrived to be
extraordinarily fetching. It had a mantle which hung in soft folds,
marvellously intricate, yet simple in effect; and he could have fallen
upon the neck of the stout, powdered lady in black silk who assured him
that the costume could be worn without alteration by any "_dame de jolie
taille_."
He bought it instantly, and then seized upon precisely such a "long
white thing" of ermine as he had seen in his mind's eye. A "granny" muff
went with it. (Really the people of the shop must have had prophetic
souls!) And there was a white hat, with a gold buckle and a long white
ostrich feather which looked as if it had been born to shade the face of
Evelyn Clifford.
When these "confections" had been secured, Madame of the black satin and
powdered nose assured Monsieur that his Christmas purchases would be
incomplete without a certain blouse which, to an untutored eye, appeared
to be a combination of sea-foam and rose-leaves. There was a belt, too,
crusted with seed pearls; and a hanging bag to match. Oh, certainly
Monsieur would take these, and anything else which Madame could
conscientiously recommend. She could, and did, recommend several other
things; and no doubt it was a mere coincidence that they happened to be
among the most expensive in the shop. She also won Hugh's gratitude by
being able to produce a coat and a frock in which a little girl of five,
already beautiful, would be more akin to fairyhood than ordinary
childhood, and might become the "exception that would prove the rule" to
an unbelieving Jane.
The cloak was pale blue; and another shop had to be searched for a hat
to be worn with it, but Madame was most kind in directing Monsieur where
to find one. Her sister would serve him, therefore he would be well
served.
On the way, he passed a jeweller's; and exactly the right string of
pearls, and the right "swallow brooch" stared him in the face, in the
window. It was odd, how all the prettiest things in the world, of
whatever description, looked as if they ought to belong to Evelyn and
Rosemary Clifford. There was a gold bag, too; but that was a detail, for
really the principal thing he had called for was a ring with a single
diamond in it--and perhaps--well, yes--that little sapphire band to keep
it on a slender finger.
The rings, in their delicate cases, he put into his pocket when he had
paid; but the other purchases were to go in that very same now which had
been impressed upon the florist; the sort of now to which Riviera
shopkeepers are accustomed only when they deal with Americans.
Then Madame's sister was found, and a blue hat; and there was just time
left for a frantic rush to a toyshop, round a corner and up a hill.
Perhaps Doll Evie might be jealous of one rival, but there's safety in
numbers; and Hugh thought that a dozen assorted sizes, from life-size
down, would keep a doll's house from echoing with loneliness. As for the
presents for the Éze children, Rosemary was to choose them herself by
and by; but all these special things were to be served up, so to speak,
at the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil with early breakfast.
When he had finished,--which means, when he had bought everything he
could think of--Hugh looked at his watch. It was half an hour to the
minute since he had left his hotel.
"I don't see why it should take women a long time to shop," said he to
himself. "It seems to me the simplest thing in the world. You just see
what you want, and then you buy it."
It was not until all the boxes and parcels must have arrived in the
Condamine, that an agonizing thought struck Hugh. What if Evie should be
offended with him for buying her things to wear? What if she should
imagine him capable of thinking that the things she already had were not
good enough when she was coming out with him?
He suddenly felt a hundred years old. "Ass--worm--menagerie!" he
anathematized himself.
It was now nine thirty. At ten forty-five he was to call at the Hotel
Pension Beau Soleil, to take Evelyn and Rosemary to the English church.
How could he bear the suspense till then,--how endure it not to know
whether he had ruined the Christmas which was to have been so perfect?
He dashed into his own hotel, wrote five notes one after the other,
tearing up each one before it was finished. It was no good explaining.
If she didn't understand nothing would make her. But _would_ she
understand? He knew now why some women said that all men were fools.
They were quite right.
If he had dared, he would have gone to her at once, to be put out of
his misery, one way or the other. But he did not dare; so he waited,
until he had persuaded himself that not only his watch, but the hotel
clock and the Casino clock must be slow.
Then he started, and suffered five suffocating minutes in the public
sitting-room of the Beau Soleil. It was a hideous room, with abominable
flowers sprawling over the wall paper and carpet, and all the windows
were shut, but he did not notice these things; nor did he recognise the
heavy scent that hung in the air as that which Mademoiselle de Lavalette
affected. The lady of the roses had ceased to exist for him; but, if he
had thought of her at all, he would have been glad that he had opened
her pink leather bag when it was thin, and shut it up when it was very
fat.
At the end of the five minutes, the door opened, and gave to his eyes a
vision; Evelyn and Rosemary in their new dresses and new hats.
It was all he could do to keep from crying "Thank Heaven," and to say a
mere "Merry Christmas" instead.
"Wicked, extravagant Boy," exclaimed Evelyn. "Do you know, we are most
unsuitably dressed? But we _had_ to put the things on, hadn't we? It was
wrong of you to buy them, but--don't look so terrified--it was sweet,
too; and I know just the feeling that prompted you to do it. What a
dream-Christmas this is going to be."
And then she and Rosemary thanked him separately, for each individual
thing he had given. It took some time, and they were nearly late for
Church, but not quite.
If Mademoiselle de Lavalette had been looking out of her window at a
certain moment she would have been exceedingly surprised, not only by
the transformation of Madame Clifford and _la petite bête_ from church
mice into visions, but still more by the sight of their companion.
But hot rage and cold disappointment had given her a bad night.
She had expected a guest for dinner. She had put on her prettiest frock,
and had forbidden her mother the Comtesse to paint. She had ordered
champagne, an extra entrée, and a bunch of flowers for the table. Yet
the guest had neither come nor sent an excuse. She had stopped in the
house all the evening, thinking that he might have been detained by an
accident to his automobile; but the hours had dragged on emptily.
Nothing happened except a bad headache, and a quarrel with her mother,
who was ungratefully inclined to be sarcastic at her expense.
Half the night Mademoiselle had lain awake, wondering why the bird had
not come hopping into the trap; and through the other half she had
wondered anxiously if the bird would come to-morrow, with excuses which
she might graciously accept. At last she had fallen asleep and dreamed
ecstatic dreams about diamond necklaces and thousand franc notes. When
the procession of three left the Beau Soliel on its way to the English
Church, strings of diamonds were still being drawn through
Mademoiselle's head, charming though wreathed with patent curling pins.
It was half past eleven when she was waked by the Comtesse ringing for
_petits pains_ and chocolate. A toilette was hastily made, without too
much time being wasted on water; and Mademoiselle,--all in black and
white this morning, like a _jeune fille_ in second mourning,--hurried
out to walk on the terrace at the fashionable hour. If she did not find
the truant there, she said to herself, she would go into the Casino; for
he was sure to be in one place or the other at this time of day, even
though it was Christmas.
She walked a little, but not much; for her high-heeled shoes were tight,
and made her feel even more annoyed with the world and everyone in
it--except herself--than she had been before she started. Presently she
sat down on one of the green benches, and arranged a "peace on earth,
goodwill to men" expression which pinched her lips almost as painfully
as her shoes pinched her toes. She wore it unremittingly, nevertheless,
even though many of the women who passed her, walking on the terrace,
were prettier and younger and better dressed than she, and--more
grievous still--were accompanied by agreeable looking men, while she sat
alone scarcely glanced at by the promenaders.
She had just begun to think that she had better try the Casino, when
down the steps from the upper terrace came three figures. There was
something familiar about them all, but to see them together made them
more than strange. Besides, the two she knew best were strange in
another way. Their habit was to be shabby, though neat; now, there was
no one on the terrace as beautifully dressed as this tall young woman
and the slim little girl. No, it couldn't be Madame Clifford and her
_petit choux_; and yet--and yet--as they came nearer, near enough for
Mademoiselle to recognise the man with them, she felt a horrid sensation
as if something which she called her heart were dropping out of her
bosom from sheer heaviness, leaving a vacuum.
[Illustration: They came nearer, near enough for Mademoiselle to
recognize the man with them. Page 124.
--_Rosemary._]
Hardly knowing what she did, she sprang up from her bench while they
were still far off, and began walking towards them. There was a queer,
singing noise in her head, and a feeling as if the skin were too tightly
stretched across her forehead. Still, she smiled, and winked her long
lashes to keep her eyes moist and soft.
The sun was on Evelyn Clifford's hair, burnishing it to a halo of gold
under the white hat. She looked radiantly beautiful, and as happy as if
her soul were singing a Christmas Carol. On the face of Hugh Egerton was
a look which no woman could mistake, least of all such a woman as Julie
de Lavalette; and it was not for her, never would be for her.
Now she knew why her expected guest had not come last night, or
remembered to send an excuse. Sick with jealousy and spite, she bowed as
she passed, trying to look eighteen, and tenderly reproachful.
Her bow was returned, indifferently by Evelyn, but by Hugh with eyes of
steel, and a mouth of bronze. If he had cut her, he would have shown
less contempt than in that stiff raising of the hat.
Julie turned and walked straight down to the Condamine, forgetting that
her shoes were tight.
[Illustration: CHAPTER NINE]
THE LAST WORD OF MADEMOISELLE
[Illustration: R]
Rosemary chose the toys for the children of the rock village, and then
the "picnic" began.
The car whizzed them up the zigzag road to La Turbie, while the noon
sunshine still gilded Caesar's Trophy. They lunched in the Moorish
restaurant, and then sped on along the Upper Corniche, with a white sea
of snow mountains billowing away to the right, and a sea of sapphire
spreading to the horizon, on their left.
Out from orange groves and olives they saw the hill of Éze rising like a
horn; while on its almost pointed apex, the old town hung like some
carved fetish, to keep away the witches.
The car swooped down, and up again; but half way up the rocky horn the
wide white road turned into a stone paved mule path, old as the Romans.
Evelyn and Rosemary climbed hand in hand, singing a Christmas carol,
while Hugh carried the two huge baskets filled with toys, and sweets in
little packets.
Some small sentinel perched on high (perhaps hidden among the ruins of
that fortress-castle where once the temple of Isis stood) must have
spied the odd procession; for as the tall white girl and the little blue
one, with the brown young man, reached the last step of the steep mule
path, a tidal wave of children swept down upon them, out from the
mystery of dark tunnelled streets.
Such eyes were never seen as those that gleamed at the new comers, great
with surprise and wonder; eyes of brown velvet with diamonds shining
through; eyes like black wells, with mirrored stars in their unfathomed
depths; eyes of wild deer; eyes of fierce Saracens; eyes of baby saints,
all set in small bronze faces clear-cut as the profiles on ancient Roman
coins.
"Bella Madonna, bella Madonna!" piped a tiny voice, and forty other
voices caught up the adoring cry.
The brown children of the old rock village had poured down from their
high eyrie to bombard the strangers from the world below; to stare, to
beg, to laugh, to lisp out strange epithets in their crude _patois_; but
at sight of the wonderful white lady and her gold-haired child they
crowded back upon each other, hushed after their first cry into awed
admiration for visitants from another world.
Few tourists climbed to their dark fastness, and of those who came none
had ever shone with such blinding radiance of white and gold.
It was certain that the lovely lady was none other than the Madonna
herself, and the child she had brought was some baby angel. The man
alone was mortal. He had perhaps been bidden to show la bella Madonna
the way to Éze.
Rosemary, shy but happy, began giving out the toys, diving with both
hands at once into the baskets which the fairy father held. Trumpets,
bags of marbles, tops and furry animals for the boys, according to their
age; (oh, Rosemary was a good judge, and never hesitated once!) Dolls
for the girls, dolls by the dozen, dolls by the legion; and sweets for
all.
As the amazed children received their gifts, they fell respectfully
back, as if they had received an order to give place to their
companions, and others came forward, open mouthed, large eyed, ready to
fall upon their knees if but one of their number should set an example.
Still there were toys left, toys in abundance; the wondrous benefactors
passed slowly on, always going up, up into the huddled village
streets--tunnelled in rock or arched with stone, where eager, astonished
faces peered from the mystery of shadowed doorways, and the hum of joy
and admiration swelled to a sound like the murmur of the sea.
Of grown folk there were not many. A few mothers with brown babies in
their arms; a few mumbling crones, and bent old men with faces like
strange masks; but the flow of children never ceased.