Rosemary

by C. N. Williamson and A. M.
Williamson

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Rosemary A Christmas story
Author: C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson
Illustrator: William Hatherell
Release Date: February 10, 2006 [EBook #17743]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
ROSEMARY ***

Produced by Suzanne Shell, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

ROSEMARY: A CHRISTMAS STORY
[Illustration: Evelyn and Rosemary climbed hand in hand, while Hugh

carried the two huge baskets.
Frontispiece. --Rosemary.]

ROSEMARY A Christmas Story
By C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON
[Illustration]
With Eight Illustrations By WILLIAM HATHERELL
NEW YORK A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1906, by McClure, Phillips & Co.

To Minda

CONTENTS
[Illustration: Contents]
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE WHITE GIRL ON THE TERRACE: THE ROSE GIRL AT
THE CASINO 3
II. THE ROSE GIRL'S LITTLE STORY, AND GREAT EYES 21
III. WHEN THE CURTAIN WAS DOWN 40
IV. DOGS AND FATHERS 48
V. ROSEMARY IN SEARCH OF A FATHER 62

VI. FAIRY FATHERS MUST VANISH 78
VII. THE WHITE FIGURE AT THE DOOR 94
VIII. WHEN A MAN GOES SHOPPING 108
IX. THE LAST WORD OF MADEMOISELLE 128

ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration: Illustrations]
EVELYN AND ROSEMARY CLIMBED HAND IN HAND, WHILE
HUGH CARRIED TWO HUGE BASKETS Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
HE TOOK OFF HALF, AND WAS LEAVING THE REST TO RUN,
WHEN A VOICE CLOSE TO HIS SHOULDER, SAID, "OH, DO
TAKE IT ALL OFF" 12
WITH A CRASH OF MACHINERY HE BROUGHT THE BIG BLUE
CAR TO A STOP 70
HE CRUSHED THEM IN HIS, THEN BENT HIS HEAD AND
KISSED THEM 102
THEY CAME NEARER, NEAR ENOUGH FOR MADEMOISELLE
TO RECOGNISE THE MAN WITH THEM 124
THEIR FLUFFY LACES BURNT AND BLACKENED. CHIFFON
FICHUS TORN IN RIBBONS STREWED THE CARPET 138

[Illustration: CHAPTER ONE]
THE WHITE GIRL ON THE TERRACE: THE ROSE GIRL AT THE

CASINO
[Illustration: T]
There was a young man in Monte Carlo. He had come in a motor car,
and he had come a long way, but he hardly knew why he had come. He
hardly knew in these days why he did anything. But then, one must do
something.
It would be Christmas soon, and he thought that he would rather get it
over on the Riviera than anywhere else, because the blue and gold
weather would not remind him of other Christmases which were
gone--pure, white, cold Christmases, musical with joy-bells and sweet
with aromatic pine, the scent of trees born to be Christmas trees.
There had been a time when he had fancied it would be a wonderful
thing to see the Riviera. He had thought what it would be like to be a
rich man, and bring a certain girl here for a moon of honey and roses.
She was the most beautiful girl in the world, or he believed her so,
which is exactly the same thing; and he had imagined the joy of
walking with her on just such a terrace as this Casino terrace where he
was walking now, alone. She would be in white, with one of those long
ermine things that women call stoles; an ermine muff (the big, "granny"
kind that swallows girlish arms up to the dimples in their elbows) and a
hat which they would have bought together in Paris.
They would have bought jewels, too, in the same street where they
found the hat; the Rue de la Paix, which she had told him she longed to
see. And she would be wearing some of the jewels with the white
dress--just a few, not many, of course. A string of pearls (she loved
pearls) a swallow brooch (he had heard her say she admired those
swallow brooches, and he never forgot anything she said); with perhaps
a sapphire-studded buckle on her white suéde belt. Yes, that would be
all, except the rings, which would lie hidden under her gloves, on the
dear little hands whose nails were like enamelled rose leaves.
When she moved, walking beside him on the terrace, there would be a

mysterious silky whisper and rustle, something like that you hear in the
woods, in the spring, when the leaves are crisp with their pale green
youth, and you shut your eyes, listening to the breeze telling them the
secrets of life.
There would be a fragrance about the white dress and the laces, and
ermine, and the silk things that you could not see,--a fragrance as
mysterious as the rustling, for it would seem to belong to the girl,