In the garden of a house that was inscribed "To Let" there grew a sad
and solitary Christmas Rose, that lifted up pathetic complaint to the
leaden sky.
Night heard her, and went to comfort her. He was enchanted with her
beauty, and she lifted her face to receive his soft caresses.
[Illustration]
"Sweet flower," he murmured, "have you forgotten that it is still
winter? Why do you bloom in this dreary garden while the snow yet covers
the ground?"
"I am a Christmas Rose, and I blossom on the eve of Jesus' birthday. I
was planted a year ago by the people who dwelt here; they left soon
afterwards. No human eyes have ever gazed on my face, and yet my heart
is full of love for them. A Christmas Rose, I long to help them, to give
my life in their service, as did my Infant Master," she said, as a
melted drop of snow ran down the white petals into her heart.
"Do not grieve," whispered Night, rocking her in his arms; "but learn to
rest all through the winter and be a Summer Rose."
"Ah! my only charm is that I bloom when June's flowers are sleeping;
besides, I should lose my birthright, my dedication to the Child Jesus,
if I did as you advise."
"Remain then as you are, sweet one. It is midnight. I must proclaim the
gracious news of the coming of Christ. When His birthday wanes I will
visit you again."
He kissed her tenderly, and there was a lull in his song as he gathered
his strength, spread his mighty wings, and took flight.
The flower was lonelier than before, now that her friend had departed.
Daylight came. The bells rang out their old story of peace and gladness.
Children passed, some with sprigs of holly in their coats.
There was a summons at the gate in the garden of the next house; a voice
said, "A Merry Christmas," and another answered, "God bless you to-day
and always!"
"Ah, if human lips would say that to me!" thought the flower. "If I
could only bring a little joy into a human life!" Her heart ached, for
she knew that she would die when the clocks tolled midnight, announcing
that Christ's birthday had passed away.
What was that? Are stars visible in the daytime? A little brown face was
pressed against the railings, and two brilliant eyes gazed at her. It
was a boy dressed in ragged velveteen breeches, and thin discoloured
shirt. Curls of black hair surrounded his face. He climbed over the
railings, knelt down on the sodden grass, and gazed at the Christmas
Rose.
"Ah!" thought Rica, "at last, here is something to remind Marietta of
Italy, although this fair blossom breathing here in a London garden is
far sweeter than Italy's flowers. It must be the Infant Jesus' rose
which blooms on His birthday." His brown fingers closed round the stalk,
and the flower felt a thrill of joy as he plucked her; but all the
leaves bowed to the ground, and rent the air with sad moans.
Rica carried the Christmas Rose far away from her birthplace, past the
Park, through the slushy streets, on--on--until the character of the
houses changed. Everything grew gradually sordid. Drunken men reeled
against each other, and ill-clad children played about at the mouths of
foul alleys.
The Christmas Rose clung tighter to the little brown hand, and drew
comfort from the tender grasp. As Rica turned the corner of the street
which led to his wretched home he ran against an artist who was
sketching some crazy old houses.
"Mind where you are going, my boy! Why! What a beautiful Christmas Rose!
How much do you want for it?" he asked, looking at the flower, and not
noticing Rica's handsome face.
"I cannot part with it, sir. It is for my sister. She only came from
Italy in November, and she has been fretting so because we are in
trouble. I think that this beautiful flower may comfort her."
Edward Thornhill was touched, and as he looked into the boy's face he
was almost startled by its beauty. It belonged to the sunny skies of
Italy, with its brilliant eyes, olive skin, luxuriant hair, and red
lips. As he scanned the little Italian's countenance, he also remarked
his poverty, and placing his hand on Rica's shoulder he asked,--
"Are you very poor, my child?"
"Oh, sir, we are starving! I don't care for myself, but for my sister.
She is beautiful; and she can't stand misery. I am sure God did not mean
her to suffer; it's all a mistake," cried the boy, breaking down under
the kind glance and the sympathetic words.
"I seem to know your face," said the artist. "Why, of course I do; you
were poor Godfrey's model?"
"Yes, sir, I had been in his studio a year when he died. I served him
entirely, and now that he is gone I am quite friendless."
"Does your sister sit?"
"Not hitherto, sir. She has not thought of it. Nor have I told her how
she might perhaps obtain employment, even easier than I, because I
somehow felt that the nuns to whom she owes everything might not like
it."
"Did they say they would object?"
"Not in words; but, you see, Marietta has promised to return in May. She
came to London to say good-bye to me. I was able to send her money for
her passage, being well provided by Mr. Godfrey. She is to take the veil
soon after her return, and then, you know, I lose her altogether."
"You don't like that?"
"She will be taken care of," the boy replied, "and she desires to
dedicate her life to God, so you see I must be content."
"Poor little chap! But I can help you in your present need. Let the
Christmas Rose be a harbinger of joy to both of you. Give it to your
sister, and bring her to this address within an hour. You shall have
food and warmth, anyhow, and I will help you further."
Rica sped up the court to their miserable quarters. Marietta was
watching anxiously for him at the window. He had been out all night, and
she was almost in despair.
"Look, dearest, isn't it lovely?" he cried, as he rushed into the room
and held up the Christmas Rose for her to see.
She took it in her thin fingers, and her eyes dwelt on its beauty until
they filled with tears, which dropped on the rose's face and sank into
her grateful heart.
"How exquisite, Rica! The Infant Jesus must have brought it from
heaven."
Then her face gradually lost its transient glow, and in a fit of despair
she threw the flower on the ground, and cried,--
"But it cannot help us; of what good is it? I thought you went out to
beg bread."
"Ah, Marietta! don't scorn it; be grateful all your life that I found
the Christmas Rose. It has saved us!"
On hearing her brother's story she was overjoyed. She picked up the
trembling flower, and hastily covering her head with a shawl, prepared
to accompany Rica.
On the presentation of Thornhill's card they were shown into his studio.
The Christmas Rose thought she was in Fairyland. The room was decorated
with festoons of evergreens, wreaths of holly, and bunches of mistletoe.
On the platform was a small Christmas tree hung with sweets, crackers,
silver ornaments, and coloured beads, surmounted by a fairy doll dressed
in white and studded with silver stars. Marietta stood gazing round the
studio, holding the trembling Rose in her hand. But what was this? The
Fairy Prince off the tree come to life? They had never seen anything so
fair before. A boy had risen from a seat by the stove, where he had been
amusing himself with a picture book. A slim little fellow, with dreamy,
hazel eyes set in a pale spiritual face, and what wonderful hair. It was
like golden sunbeams. Angel was the artist's son. His mother had died
two years ago. He was just six years old, a sweet, delicate child.
Often he was very lonely, for his father was frequently away, and he was
not strong enough to go to school.
[Illustration]
How much he missed his mother, and how the memory of her dwelt in his
young soul, even his father scarcely guessed. At night he cried himself
to sleep thinking of her, and wondering where she was. It had occurred
to the child that she had not been very happy, and that his father did
not love her as he did.
"I have been watching for you," said Angel, putting out his small hand.
"Oh, what a pretty flower! I have never seen one like it before."
"It is a Christmas Rose, dear," said Thornhill, who had entered as the
boy spoke.
Marietta placed it in his hair. He looked at her gravely, and then held
up his face to be kissed.
The Christmas Rose nearly swooned with joy, for she thought that Angel
was the Infant Jesus; and as she was set in the place of honour amongst
that golden glory, her heart throbbed with gratitude.
Edward Thornhill had been accustomed to the society of pretty women all
his life; but in the presence of this convent girl he was absolutely
nervous. Her beauty fascinated him. He longed to take his brush, to
portray that face on canvas.
Marietta was shy to a fault, and it was a long time before he could get
anything excepting monosyllables from her in conversation.
Christmas dinner was served in another part of the studio. It was not a
very grand one. The absence of a woman's hand in the household
arrangements had been keenly felt by the artist since his wife's death.
But there was a piece of roast beef and a plum-pudding, with dates,
apples, and oranges to follow. The two Italians had eaten nothing but a
little bread for two days, so to them it was a feast for the Gods.
Later the tree was stripped of its ornaments. Angel pressed nearly all
the presents on Rica. He was a kind-hearted little fellow, and very
unselfish.
"And so you are going to be a nun, my child?" said the artist, when by
sympathetic questioning he had elicited Marietta's story.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think you will be happy?"
"Yes, sir."
There was a slight hesitation in her manner. And yet, when she had
entered the studio only two hours ago, she had resolved to ask Edward
Thornhill to lend her enough money to pay her fare back to the convent,
so that she could begin her novitiate at once.
"Your mind is quite made up, nothing could change it?"
"I think not."
How quickly her listener detected the little tremor in her voice, which
told him much more than the uncertainty implied in her words.
"And yet I believe you might be happy here. I can help you both; you
shall not want for work. Your brother tells me that you have never been
a model, but perhaps you would be kind enough to favour me by sitting
for my Academy picture. The subject is to be the Annunciation."