Chapter 4

Rosemary opened a door on the fourth floor, and for a moment the twilight on the other side was shot for Hugh with red and purple spots. But the colours faded when the childish voice said, "Angel isn't here. If you'll come in, I'll go and see if she's in our room."

"Don't tell her--don't say--anything about a fairy father," he stammered.

"Oh no, that's to be the surprise," Rosemary reassured him, as she pattered away.

It was deep twilight in the room, and rather cold, for the eucalyptus and olive logs in the fireplace still awaited the match. Hugh could see the blurred outlines of a few pieces of cheap furniture; a sofa, three or four chairs, a table, and a clumsy writing desk. But the window was still a square of pale bluish light, cut out of the violet dusk, and as the young man's eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness, the room did not seem dark.

He was not left alone for long. In two or three minutes Rosemary appeared once more, without her hat and coat, to say that "Angel" had not yet come back. "But she'll soon be here now," went on the child. "Do you mind waiting in the twilight, fairy father? The electric light doesn't come on till after five, and I've just heard the clock downstairs strike five."

"I shall like it," answered Hugh, glad that his face should be hidden by the dusk, in these moments of waiting.

"Angel tells me stories in the twilight," said Rosemary, as he sat down on the sofa by the cold fireplace, and she let him lift her light little body to his knee. "Would you tell me one, about when you were lost?"

"I'll try," Hugh said. "Let me think, what story shall I tell?"

"I won't speak while you're remembering," Rosemary promised, leaning her head confidingly against his shoulder. "I always keep quiet, while Angel puts on her thinking cap."

Hugh laughed, and was silent. But his head was too hot to wear a thinking cap, and no story would come at his half-hearted call.

Rosemary waited in patience for him to begin. "One, two, three," she counted under her breath; for she had learned to count up to fifty, and it was good practice when one wished to make the time pass. She had just come to forty-nine, and was wondering if she might remind the fairy father of his duty, when the door opened.

It was Angel, of course; but Angel did not come in. She stopped on the threshold, talking to somebody, or rather somebody was talking to her. Rosemary could not see the person, but she recognised the voice. It was that of Mademoiselle de Lavalette.

"You are not to write my mother letters, and trouble us about that money, madame," said the voice, as shrill now as it could be sweet. "Once for all, I will not have it. I have followed you to tell you this. You will be paid soon; that is enough. I am engaged to be married to a rich man, an American. He will be glad to pay all our debts by and by; but meantime, madame, you are to let us alone."

"I have done nothing, except to write and say that I needed the money,--which you promised to return weeks ago, or I couldn't possibly have spared it," protested a voice which Hugh had heard in dreams three nights out of every six, in as many years.

"Well, if you write any more letters, we shall burn them unread, so it is no use to trouble us; and we will pay when we choose."

With the last words, the other voice died into distance. Mademoiselle 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.

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.

WHEN A MAN GOES SHOPPING

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.

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.