black browed children of Éze followed the Christmas visitors from
crooked street to crooked street, up to the castle ruins and back again.
They did not shout as they took their gifts; but still the murmur ran
from mouth to mouth: "Bella Madonna, bella Madonna."
At the end of an enchanted hour, when there was not a child in Éze who
had not both hands full, the benefactors turned to go, with empty
baskets. Massed on the plateau above the mule-path, the whole population
of the village stood to watch them down the steep descent. As they went,
the church bells of Éze boomed out, calling all pious souls, young and
old, to vespers; and as if the loosened tongues of the bells loosened
also the tongues of the children, at last there arose a cry.
"Come again, Bella Madonna and little angel, come again. We shall pray
to see you next Christmas Day, Bella Madonna and little angel. Don't
forget, next Christmas Day."
* * * * *
"I'm perfectly happy, dearest," said Rosemary, when once more they sat
in the car, spinning back from the shaded eyrie to the fair world where
the sunshine lay.
The others did not speak, but the same thought was in their hearts.
When you are positively bursting with happiness the best outlet for the
surplus quantity is to benefit somebody else; and there is no time like
Christmas for a successful experiment.
"What else can we do for somebody?" asked Hugh.
"There's Jane," suggested Rosemary. "I told her this morning how I went
out and found a father, and she said Pooh, he was all in my eye; and
besides she'd never heard of fathers growing on blackberry bushes. But
if we bought her a present, and you gave it to her yourself, she'd have
to believe in you."
"I shan't feel I have a sure hold on existence until she does," said
Hugh. "Let's buy her something without the loss of a moment."
So they bought Jane a ring, which Rosemary chose herself after mature
deliberation, and with due regard to the recipient's somewhat pronounced
taste in colours.
"She admires red and green together more than anything," said the child,
"and I want her to have what she really likes, because if it hadn't been
for her I shouldn't have known Christmas Eve was the time to search for
fathers. Just supposing somebody else had gone out and snapped him up
instead of me!"
As a matter of fact somebody else had gone out, and had come very near
indeed to snapping him up; but there are things which do not bear
thinking of. It was Hugh's firm conviction that Destiny and not Jane,
had flung Rosemary in front of his motor; but Destiny could not be
rewarded and Jane could.
Rosemary would be satisfied with nothing less than a formal
presentation; and that the ceremony might be gone through without delay,
the car was directed towards the Condamine. As they neared the street of
the Hotel Pension Beau Soleil, a cab came jingling round the corner.
It was occupied by two ladies who sat half buried in travelling bags,
rugs, baskets, and shawl straps, such as women who are not of the Anglo
Saxon races love. A tiny motorphobe in the shape of a black Pomeranian
yapped viciously at the automobile as the vehicles passed each other;
and though the ladies--one stout, the other slim--were thickly veiled,
Rosemary cried out, "Oh, it's the Comtesse and Mademoiselle. They must
be going away."
Hugh said nothing, but his silence was eloquent to Evelyn, who knew now
the whole story of the girl with the soft eyes. Both were pleased that
this was the last of her; but neither quite knew Mademoiselle de
Lavalette. She had been busy with other matters besides her packing,
while la bella Madonna and her suite were collecting adorers on the
heights of Éze.
Evelyn and Rosemary disappeared to take off their hats before the grand
presentation ceremony should begin, and Hugh had begun to occupy the
time of their absence by lighting the fire with pine cones, when a cry
from the beloved voice called him to the room adjoining.
The door was open, and the woman and the child stood dumbfounded and
overwhelmed in a scene of incredible desolation.
The air was acrid with the smell of burning. Blouses, pink and green,
and cream, and blue, were stirred into a seething mass in the fireplace,
as in a witch's cauldron, their fluffy laces burnt and blackened.
Chiffon fichus torn in ribbons strewed the carpet. An ivory fan had been
trampled into fragments on the hearth-rug, and a snow-storm of feathers
from a white boa had drifted over the furniture. On the wash-stand a
spangled white tulle hat lay drowning in a basin half full of water.
[Illustration: Their fluffy laces burnt and blackened. Chiffon fichus
torn in ribbons strewed the carpet. Page 138.
--_Rosemary._]
It was a sight to turn the brain of Madame in the magasin of smart
"confections," nor would the presiding genius of the toy shop have gone
scathless, for Rosemary's possessions had not been spared by the
cyclone.
Dolls had lost their wigs, their arms, their legs; and beautiful blue
eyes had been poked into far recesses of porcelain heads, with ruthless
scissors. Little dresses of silk and satin had been flung to feed the
flames which devoured ill-starred blouses; picture books had made fine
kindlings; and that proud and stately mansion which might have afforded
shelter to many dolls had collapsed as if shattered by a cyclone.
"Oh, Angel, is it some dreadful dream?" wailed Rosemary; and Evelyn
found no answer. But Hugh had pounced upon a card pinned on the window
curtain; and as he held it out, in eloquent silence, she read aloud over
his shoulder; "Compliments of Mademoiselle de Lavalette."
At the end of the first shocked instant, they both laughed wildly,
desperately. It was the only thing to do.
"After all," gasped Evelyn, "she has paid me back--what she owed
me,--and Rosemary."
"She's given me the pleasure of making Christmas come all over again,
to-morrow, that's all," said Hugh. "Women are strange. Thank heaven,
_she_ has vanished."
"But nothing matters--at least not much," said Rosemary, smiling through
her tears, "since you're not going to vanish, fairy father."
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Punctuation normalized.
Page 117, Eze changed to Éze to match rest of text (Éze children).
Page 122, bêt changed to bête (la petite bête).
End of Project Gutenberg's Rosemary, by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson