Home > Authors Index > Browse all available works of Bessie Hatton > Text of Christmas-Rose
A short story by Bessie Hatton |
||
A Christmas-Rose |
||
|
________________________________________________
Title: A Christmas-Rose Author: Bessie Hatton [More Titles by Hatton] "Small service is true service while it lasts
It was in a desolate London lodging-house that Marietta's courage gave way. In Italy she could live and be merry on the most frugal fare. A little polenta, a handful of grapes, and a piece of bread sufficed for a good meal. Not so in London; nor were there grapes or polenta even if she desired nothing else. The poor little heart needed nourishment against the gloom and harass of the great dull city. So she laid her head upon her brother's breast in a fit of despair and wept bitterly. Marietta was seventeen. She had only arrived in England at the end of November. It was now nigh upon Christmas. Her brother Rica had lived in London over a year. He had been engaged by a great artist to sit to him as a model, and to no other. Rica had saved every penny, being content with the bare necessities of life, so that Marietta might go and stay with him for a few months before she commenced her novitiate, prior to taking the veil at the convent where she had been educated. The nuns had adopted her when the children became orphans, and as time passed she had grown to long for the day which should make her one of the black-robed sisters of the Visitation. Unfortunately, a little time after Marietta's arrival in England, Rica's master had suddenly died, and the two children were left friendless and almost penniless in the great city. It was Christmas Eve. The snow lay thick upon the ground. There was neither fire on the hearth nor bread in the cupboard, and the night was bitterly cold. Rica smoothed away the dark hair from his sister's face and tried to comfort her. He could endure want and misery much better than she could. The beautiful face had become delicately spirituelle through the rigour of privation. "Dearest Marietta, I will go and beg some food for you; don't cry any more." "Oh, I shall die in this gloomy place! Take me back to the kind sisters!" she moaned, giving way to hysterical sobs. "Have patience, we shall return to Italy some day; but believe me, when once winter goes, England is not such a dreadful country. In summer it is beautiful, and the flowers compare well with those at home." "Flowers! I don't believe there are any here, not at least in this cruel city, with its yellow fogs and its sunless abodes." Rica sighed deeply as he kissed her, and turned to go out into the snowy night. It grieved him to see Marietta utterly broken down. She had failed in her first trial. But then, she was so beautiful, she ought to have been a princess instead of the daughter of a poor fisherman. It was all a mistake.
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. "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. 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." She did not answer, and he continued talking,-- "You must remember that the city is not always as gloomy as it looks to-night. We have picture galleries, parks and squares, and the country is beautiful at all seasons. Do you not think you could be content to stay a little?" "Perhaps a little." "I will get you some needlework to do, and Rica shall find in me as good a master as the one he has just lost. "You are very kind," she said, looking up at him with tearful eyes. "The nuns won't be angry with you for staying a little while with your brother; they will consent to receive you later, will they not?" "Yes, sir." "And will you sit for my picture?" "Yes, as soon as you wish." Before Marietta left she kissed the Christmas Rose, and whispered, "Dear Infant Jesus, guard the flower which has saved us." And it murmured:-- "I am happy. My Master is pleased that I have followed in His footsteps, and His reward is beyond all price." But Marietta did not hear. Before Angel went to rest he placed the Christmas Rose in a goblet of water, and it lifted up its innocent face and breathed a sweet, faint perfume. The hours flew by, and towards midnight a curious pink hue stole over its white petals, the fragrance died away, the luxuriant stem withered up, and it breathed its last as Christ's birthday passed away. The star of Bethlehem was alone in the heavens when Night visited the garden to greet the beauteous flower of the morning, but it had vanished. In its place was a tear which sparkled like a diamond, the tear it had shed when yearning to help suffering humanity.
Four months afterwards Marietta received a letter from the superior of her convent. She sat reading it in a clean and comfortably furnished room. Though to all appearances perfectly happy, her face wore an expression of sadness, and tears fell on the missive in her hand. At length she rose, placed the letter in the pocket of her gown, and after packing up a costume she had just finished making for Edward Thornhill, made her way to his studio. He praised her work. He had never found anybody so clever at carrying out suggestions as Marietta; but to-day his commendation brought no pleasure into her face, and the artist was quick to notice her changed manner. "You are sad, Marietta?" "No," she answered hastily, turning to leave the studio. "Why no, when you mean yes?" he asked, following her. She did not reply, but the tears gathered in her eyes and fell upon her dress. "Tell me what grieves you. I helped you once, and may be able to do so again." She took the Reverend Mother's letter from her pocket and placed it in his hand. It contained a few lines, saying that they would expect their child back in a fortnight's time. "Then you are going to leave us after all?" "It is better so." "But it makes you sad the thought of going?" "Yes," she said, with downcast face. "The sisters would not wish you to take the veil if you or they doubted your vocation for such a surrender?" "I don't understand." "Your heart must be in this sacrament, your whole heart, you must have no longings after the world. Is it not so?" "Oh yes," she said, her voice trembling, tears in her eyes. "Have you any longings that might be a shadow on your nun's life, my child? Have you? Nay, don't be afraid to speak." "Oh, don't ask me," she said, repressing her sobs. "You do not think your life here involves a sin? You have enabled me to paint a heavenly image that might, so far as the pure spirit of it goes, decorate the fairest church. I do not say the work, Marietta, but the intention, the inspiration." She found this question too subtle for her comprehension, but there was something in the artist's tone and manner that thrilled her, something that was like the influence of the Magnificat in the great choir of the cathedral. She turned her wondering eyes towards him, and he took her hands in his. "You have been happy here?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Yes, very." "Then why leave me? Put up with the gloom and fog for my sake, Marietta. Be the artist's little wife as well as his model." The sun came streaming into the studio as he bent over her fair hands and kissed them. "It is not all gloom and fog," she replied. "To-day the London sun is as bright and warm as it was in Italy when I was a child." It was not alone the London sun, it was the sunshine of the heart; and it lasted all through the remainder of Marietta's life. [The end] GO TO TOP OF SCREEN |