'l "Mjghe/s

 
 The 
 
 Inevitable
 
 HOW WILL YOU HAVE YOL'R TEA?" 
 
 Page 123
 
 Inevitable 
 
 Philip Verrill Mighels 
 
 With a Frontispiece by John Wolcott Adams 
 
 Philadelphia Mdccccii 
 J. B. Lippincott Company
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1902 
 BY PHILIP VERRILL MIGHELS 
 
 Published October, 1901 
 
 Electrotyped and Printed by 
 J. B, Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A.
 
 Contents 
 
 I 
 
 ROGER 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. How Two MAY MEET 9 
 
 II. AN UNDERLYING MOTIF 16 
 
 III. To RIGHT A WRONG 22 
 
 IV. AN INQUISITION 30 
 
 V. IN THE SHADOWS 38 
 
 VI. ADJUSTING TERESA 44 
 
 VII. A CONTACT WITH THE WORLD 49 
 
 II 
 
 GENEVRA 
 
 I. A SOCIAL AMBITION 63 
 
 II. THE BLACK LION 69 
 
 III. A THEME FOR A COMPOSITION 78 
 
 IV. A FRIEND COMES HOME 86 
 
 V. A DAY OF LETTERS 94 
 
 VI. THE OPENING OF VISTAS 99 
 
 VII. A WIDENING BREACH 107 
 
 VIII. A FIRST VIOLIN 115 
 
 IX. THE DARK HOURS 119 
 
 X. A MAN'S TEMPTATION 126 
 
 XL ROGER'S RECITAL 132 
 
 XII. THE CLIMAX 139 
 
 XIII. AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 149 
 
 XIV. POSTPONING THE JUDGMENT 162 
 
 XV. ROGER'S HOUR 167 
 
 XVI. GENEVRA'S THEME 171 
 
 XVII. THE CHEER OF FELLOWSHIP 178 
 
 XVIII. THE FARCE COMMENCES 187 
 
 2229150
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XIX. A PARTIAL INTOXICATION 195 
 
 XX. COLOSSUS NO LONGER A JOKE 203 
 
 XXI. THE WAY OF A MAN 210 
 
 XXII. FOUND 219 
 
 XXIII. ROGER'S ADVOCATE 225 
 
 XXIV. THEIR DAY OF SUMMER 232 
 
 III 
 
 SUNSHINE 
 
 I. AN AFTERMATH 245 
 
 II. A FRIEND IN NEED 253 
 
 III. MR. CHICHESTER ACQUIESCES 266 
 
 IV. MRS. CHICHESTER ENLIGHTENED 272 
 
 V. ROGER'S NEWS 280 
 
 VI. A PILGRIM 288 
 
 VII. A STORY COMPLETED 298 
 
 VIII. A CONCEPTION OF DUTY . 302 
 
 IX. THE UNESCAPABLE 308 
 
 X. THE PROBLEM OF A RACE 313 
 
 XI. A BELATED DISCOVERY 318 
 
 XII. A LONG SEARCH 321 
 
 XIII. THE REWARD OF A SEARCH 327 
 
 XIV. CAUSE AND EFFECT COME FACE TO FACE 338 
 
 XV. NEWS FROM ENGLAND 343 
 
 XVI. THE RIGHT OF LOVE 348 
 
 XVII. THE INEVITABLE 359
 
 I 
 
 ROGER
 
 The 
 
 Inevitable 
 
 HOW TWO MAY MEET 
 
 IT was out in nature's lap of greenery that a snake 
 became the go-between of fate. All Missouri could 
 not have shown a scene more fair. The level meadow 
 was a firmament for flowers, in which the winding 
 brook made a willowy way. Southward and west- 
 ward the woods were thick, silent, and fragrant. Sun- 
 shine and clouds hung in the sky together. Every- 
 where the bees and locusts hummed of summer. The 
 warm breeze fanned slowly by, over grass and blos- 
 soms, with wanton June indolence. The calm, the 
 odor of moist new grass, the balminess, made the day 
 a perfect thing. 
 
 The sleepy little town was a mile away. There- 
 fore it appeared as if Genevra had all that theatre of 
 beauty to herself. She was only a slip of a girl, an 
 interesting, freckled child, with hair the color of nug- 
 get gold. Forbidden to wade in the brook, she was 
 nevertheless out in the centre of the stream, boldly 
 stepping from stone to stone, her dress held high 
 
 9
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 enough above her dainty boots to reveal something 
 more than merely her slender, symmetrical ankles. 
 
 Thus she was when Roger came trudging in boyish 
 haste along the path that led by the creek to the woods 
 beyond. He halted at once when he suddenly found 
 himself confronted by the sight of a bare-headed, 
 gray-eyed girl, looking at him steadily and frankly. 
 
 She brushed a wisp of hair from her cheek as she 
 dropped her skirt. Her face was warmly sun-colored ; 
 her lips were red and full. In her long-lashed, slum- 
 brous eyes lurked a light of interest. She was not 
 absolutely a pretty child, yet it seemed as if she were 
 to Roger. 
 
 A greater contrast than the boy presented to her 
 Saxon type would have been difficult to find. He was 
 dark as dark as an Indian or a Cuban. His hair was 
 glossy black. In his eyes, which were deep liquid 
 brown, an expression slightly wistful, alternating with 
 dancing lights, lent his countenance a singular interest. 
 His nose was straight and delicately cut. His chin was 
 strong. Tall as 'he was for a lad of sixteen years, he 
 appeared even taller, so Indianesque was his carriage. 
 
 Genevra thought him the son of some noble red man. 
 She hoped he would speak ; she almost smiled with her 
 slumbrous eyes, and then she became aware that so to 
 comport herself with a stranger would not be precisely 
 conventional. Her gaze therefore fell, resting on some 
 
 10
 
 HOW TWO MAY MEET 
 
 coils of cord he was holding in his hand, which she 
 vaguely conjectured argued fashing. 
 
 She liked to look upon him; he was handsome; his 
 face seemed so smooth, firm, and bronze-like in its 
 modelling. She was sure he was " nice," but she 
 turned and began a retreat back up the brook, towards 
 the bend where she had left her governess reading. 
 
 Roger had been rendered timid of contact with his 
 kind. He liked this interesting girl, who had looked 
 him straight in the eyes till his breath almost forgot to 
 come, but he was of far too reserved a nature to address 
 her, unencouraged. That she was not an ordinary girl 
 he felt certain, immediately. Reluctantly he started 
 along about his own affairs. However, he could not 
 forego turning 'his head as he went, for his eyes re- 
 fused readily to deliver up the treasure which they 
 had conceived the picture to contain. 
 
 He saw Genevra glance twice in his direction as he 
 walked on towards the near-by woods. Still gazing 
 backward, he was presently tripped by a root and down 
 he went suddenly, sprawling. 
 
 At this instant Genevra screamed shrilly in terror. 
 Roger scrambled actively to his feet, and, while she 
 continued to sound her cries, ran back to where she 
 stood apparently rigid with fear. 
 
 She had started to step ashore from her place in the 
 creek. A black-snake, of a size and aggressiveness
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 unusual had darted from the grass, resenting her intru- 
 sion. The reptile, undaunted by the babble of water, 
 which had for a moment seemed a barrier between it 
 and the girl, was coming at her savagely when Roger 
 arrived. 
 
 The boy hated snakes above anything he knew. 
 Nevertheless, he sprang swiftly into the water and 
 threw himself forward on the serpent at the very feet 
 of the frightened girl. He clutched the black body in 
 his hands, feeling it creep in his grip as he did so. In 
 a frenzy he beat the thing's head on the nearest rock, 
 three, four, five times, and then, with all his force, flung 
 off the writhing bracelets coiling about his wrist. He 
 saw the fatally wounded serpent strike in the grass. 
 It twisted there tortuously, as the belly squirmed up- 
 ward to the sun. With a shudder he dashed his hand 
 in the water for a quick rinsing, and turned about to 
 the frightened Genevra, who had hastened to gain the 
 bank. 
 
 " Oh !" she said, as she looked at him with her eyes 
 ablaze. " Oh, thank you thank you so much ! The 
 horrible thing ! I'm so glad you came. I didn't know 
 what I should do." 
 
 Roger's face became deeply red, under the bronze of 
 of his dark complexion. 
 
 " I'm sorry I didn't kill him before you came," he 
 said, confusedly. 
 
 12
 
 HOW TWO MAY MEET 
 
 " Did you know it was here ?" she cried. 
 
 " No," he admitted, and a twinkle brightly lighted 
 his eyes. 
 
 " Then you couldn't you couldn't have killed it," 
 she told him. " You were awfully good to come and 
 brave." 
 
 "He wouldn't have hurt me," said Roger. "But 
 I'm glad.'" He looked at her furtively, for his heart 
 was leaping, and this, he felt, she would be certain to 
 detect if she looked into his eyes like that. He was 
 silent for a moment, gazing upon her. He saw no 
 freckles. To him she was wondrously beautiful. " I 
 think there won't be any more," he presently added, 
 which was one way of saying that perhaps he had better 
 be starting along on his mission. 
 
 " There might be more," said Genevra, alarmed at 
 the bare possibility. " Oh, dear ! I wonder if you are 
 going up this way?" She indicated a point above, 
 beyond the bend of the stream. 
 
 " No," Roger confessed, honestly. " I was going 
 over there in the woods." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 There was another silence as they stood at the edge 
 of the brook. Then she said, as if in compliance with 
 any canons which might still be possible, ' My name 
 is Genevra Harberton." 
 
 " Mine is Roger Gordon," said the boy. The intro- 
 13
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 duction being thus made complete, they looked at each 
 other with the franker interest to which they felt they 
 were now entitled. 
 
 " I like it here," said Roger, looking straight into 
 her eyes. 
 
 " So do I," she responded. " Are you going fish- 
 
 ing?" 
 
 " Oh, no," he replied, more at ease. " I was going 
 to string my 'cello and see if the thing can be played." 
 
 " Your 'cello ?" she echoed. " Have you got a 'cello 
 in the woods ?" 
 
 " Not a regular 'cello," Roger admitted. " It's one 
 I made myself. But I think it ought to play." 
 
 " Are you going to play on it now ?" 
 
 " Yes, if it will play. I'm going to string it and try." 
 His eyes began to glow. He concluded, " I am sure 
 it will make some kind of music." 
 
 " I like music," said Genevra. " I like it very, very 
 much." 
 
 " Do you ? I am glad you do. I have to love it," he 
 told her, earnestly. In some eagerness he added, 
 " Would you like to see the 'cello and hear me play ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes !" replied Genevra, impulsively. " Take 
 my hand, there might be more horrid snakes." 
 
 She flushed as her hand so strangely tingled and 
 burned in his, but she liked it. She had never liked 
 anything in such a way as this before; it was all so
 
 HOW TWO MAY MEET 
 
 exciting. A new ecstasy raced in her veins as she and 
 Roger started together for the forest. 
 
 " We do not have such snakes in England, so that 
 is why I am not very brave about them," she said, in 
 deference to any needed explanations. 
 
 Roger wanted no explanations. His heart was 
 swinging tumultuously in his breast. He was almost 
 faint, so powerful was some surging emotion which 
 suddenly stirred a nature he had not known he pos- 
 sessed. He hardly dared to speak, lest this strange, 
 wild joy should escape. 
 
 Their knees whipped aside the flowers where they 
 walked. The snake, employed by fate for a go-be- 
 tween, had not been sent in vain.
 
 II 
 
 AN UNDERLYING MOTIF 
 
 ROGER led the way through the growth to a small, 
 shaded clearing in the forest. Near the centre of this 
 stood the trunk of a tree long dead. Decades before, 
 the wind had bent the tree backward, and then a fire 
 had eaten it off in such a manner that its broad, round 
 base still remained, though it was now but a hollow 
 shell, while above this the wood tapered off abruptly 
 to a straight piece not three inches wide nor two in 
 thickness. This spike that pointed upward like a 
 finger, was about two feet long. The stump was of 
 some hard wood. Scraped of its charred surface, it 
 was now a rusty dark red, seasoned by years of 
 weather. 
 
 Before this stump Roger came to a halt. Reluc- 
 tantly he released his hold of Genevra's hand. 
 
 " This is my 'cello," he said. " It won't take a min- 
 ute to string it.'" 
 
 Genevra looked at this fragment of a tree. She saw 
 that Roger had smoothed the wood, that he had cut 
 two S-shaped holes through the hollow body, that 
 already one string was secured across a rudely whit- 
 tled bridge, and that ample pegs for other strings had 
 
 16
 
 AN UNDERLYING MOTIF 
 
 been thrust into holes at the top of the instrument's 
 neck. But her wonder abandoned the 'cello soon. 
 She preferred to look at Roger. 
 
 Even as he tuned the strings, his head was moving 
 in quick little jerks, and joy and delight were dancing 
 in his eyes. Already the spirit of music possessed 
 him. Then his nostrils took on a fine-chiselled ap- 
 pearance, and his cheeks a look like metalic bronze, 
 till the refinement of power seemed written on his 
 countenance. 
 
 Genevra clasped her hands and pressed them hard 
 against her throbbing bosom, as Roger, with swift 
 movements, tightened the last of the cords with the 
 twisting pegs. Why this excitement so enthralled her 
 she could not have told. 
 
 She hardly knew where his bow had come from 
 when the boy deftly drew it from the hollow of the 
 tree. It was crude enough to advertise the fact that 
 Roger had made it. He struck with it sharply across 
 the strings, with a strong, eager movement. 
 
 The old tree shivered. The note was a hoarse, un- 
 steady utterance, as if from some unwilling forest- 
 spirit, who answered, while not yet awake, " I come." 
 
 A flush showed red beneath Roger's brown com- 
 plexion. His eyes blazed. He tightened two of the 
 strings anew and drew his bow again. 
 
 A thrill ran through the timber in the stump, down 
 2 17
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 to the very roots in the earth. The player trembled. 
 His fingers then began to dance upon the strings, 
 quietly, and the bow to glide with a swaying touch 
 upon the vibrant instrument. 
 
 The rich, low notes that issued forth were not appar- 
 ently made with any attempt at musical consequence. 
 Yet presently all became orderly, ranging themselves 
 in a weird bit of composition, suggesting rhythmical 
 coherence. In the midst of this the bow lost its hold. 
 Roger had forgotten his resin. He looked at Genevra, 
 standing rapt before him, with the green of the woods 
 behind her. A flame leaped up in his eyes, to answer 
 the light in hers. 
 
 " I'll play something, made up just for you !" he 
 cried to her, joyously. 
 
 With his bow in hand he sprang to a near-by pine- 
 tree, out of which the sap had oozed and hardened on 
 the bark. Upon these lumps he slashed his bow. With 
 strokes swung wide and strong, he cut, as with a 
 sword, at the pitch. 
 
 Then back to the 'cello he ran fiercely. Yet when 
 he laid that lusty bow upon the strings, a bird-note of 
 brightness chirruped forth from the contact. He 
 laughed aloud and threw back his head. Then tones 
 somewhat crudely adequate in the expression of his 
 newly born emotions came forth in the improvisation 
 that leaped from the heart of the tree. 
 
 18
 
 AN UNDERLYING MOTIF 
 
 It was hardly music; it was far from being mas- 
 terly or wonderful. But it was oddly original, pleas- 
 ant, engaging, for its youthful recklessness and dar- 
 ing. Roger's eyes were dancing to its measure. His 
 head and shoulders swayed to the rhythm. It was 
 the beat of the time, banjo-like, but sensuous and 
 dance-compelling as it stirred the pulse, that made the 
 playing magnetic. 
 
 Genevra, still gazing upon him, her hands clasped 
 and pressed against her bosom, was flushed with emo- 
 tion. Her parted lips caught swiftly at quick, hot 
 breaths. Her slumbrous eyes were afire. An all- 
 unreasoning passion overflowed her heart and bosom. 
 The music enthralled her immature fancy. Her 
 nature was abandoned to sudden-born love. 
 
 Roger looked in her eyes and played what his fever 
 commanded. The notes that flung from his bow con- 
 veyed youth's thoughtless, uncontainable delight. 
 
 In the midst of it all, away off towards the river, a 
 deep, melancholy note was sounded, where a hound 
 ran baying in the forest. 
 
 Yet the music, more stirring their hearts to dancing 
 than before, went on. In its unfinished way it was 
 voluptuous, intoxicating, irresistible. The two could 
 hear nothing but the notes that so voiced what their 
 hearts would have rung with their beating. Once 
 again, and yet again, however, that deep, depressing 
 
 19
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 note haunted the woods, where the hound came nearer 
 and nearer. 
 
 Gradually the bow was quieting, where it swung on 
 the strings. The playing presently ceased. Roger 
 permitted the bow to drop from his hand as he looked 
 in Genevra's eyes. He laughed boyishly. Genevra 
 had come so close. He could see not one of the 
 freckles gathered in a little colony on her nose and 
 cheeks. To him she was beautiful beyond belief. 
 
 " Genevra, I love to play for you," he whispered. 
 
 " I like it I love it so," she answered, with a 
 tremulous breath. Impulsively and childishly she put 
 her arms about his neck and rested on his heart, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 He held her close in his arms and kissed her burn- 
 ing lips. 
 
 The second of ecstasy was suddenly broken. With 
 an echoing bellow, a hound crashed through the under- 
 growth not ten rods away, and came loping heavily 
 up to the startled pair. 
 
 With a cry of dismay Genevra caught Roger by 
 the hand, and together they ran. The dog overtook 
 them swiftly. He plunged against the boy and nosed 
 him nearly off his legs. Apparently satisfied with 
 this, he let out a great note of melancholy and loped 
 away. But near at hand another hound, not yet to 
 be seen, bayed an answer. This was followed by a 
 
 20
 
 AN UNDERLYING MOTIF 
 
 note from a third great brute. Genevra cried to Roger 
 to hasten faster, and breathlessly they darted on be- 
 tween the trees. 
 
 As if already they had scented their quarry, the 
 hounds that had not yet seen the running pair now 
 came rapidly towards them. In her fright Genevra 
 tripped and partially fell. Roger was lifting her 
 again to her feet, trying to assist her forward, when 
 not only the two hounds, but also several men on 
 horseback, broke from cover and came galloping hotly 
 towards them. 
 
 With hoarse shouts the men greeted the sight of 
 Roger, as he strove, apparently, to drag his helpless 
 girl companion farther away towards the depths of 
 the forest. 
 
 21
 
 Ill 
 
 TO RIGHT A WRONG 
 
 WITH a curse and a cry of satisfaction, two of the 
 horsemen threw themselves from their saddles and, 
 running to Roger, seized him violently. One of them 
 swore again fiercely, and struck the boy a blow that 
 dazed him. The other, heedless of her cries, dragged 
 the frightened Genevra away to give her in charge of 
 a youth who rode with the party, while her boy com- 
 panion of a moment before was knocked down, pin- 
 ioned to the earth, and bound with his hands behind 
 his back. 
 
 " There's another the dogs have got another," said 
 one of the men, who heard, from afar, the note where 
 the hounds were baying. " Two of you rush him to 
 Jackson's. Hank, let her go by herself. Sissy, you're 
 safe to go home. George, Bill, come on, for the dogs !" 
 
 The whole proceeding had occupied less than two 
 minutes. Genevra heard the hounds again at their 
 terrible work. She saw Roger rudely lifted to his 
 feet and dragged away. Only when she found herself 
 presently left there alone, frightened, dumfounded, 
 did she comprehend that the leader of the horsemen 
 had meant herself when he said she was safe to go 
 home. 
 
 22
 
 TO RIGHT A WRONG 
 
 Roger, who had been too amazed and roughly han- 
 dled to find his voice, was now so choked that he 
 could no more than breathe. The man who held him 
 by the coat at the back of his neck was so angered 
 that nothing but curses arose to his tongue. He and 
 his fellow-horseman were not a pair of ruffians; they 
 were men of the town, a mile away. Now, however, 
 with their faces flushed with the wrath that was in 
 them, they were, in appearance, very fiends of ven- 
 geance. 
 
 As they hustled their captive angrily towards the 
 town the baying of the hounds came abruptly nearer. 
 The cries of the horsemen who had ridden away could 
 be heard distinctly. As if in answer, a chorus of 
 shouts, farther off in the other direction, announced 
 the approach of another party of angered citizens. 
 
 Then it seemed as if the woods were peopled with 
 men. A scream, where the dogs were sounding their 
 dreadful exultation, pierced through the air sugges- 
 tively. 
 
 " Got him ! Bit him !" said one of the men with 
 Roger. 
 
 A moment later they issued from the edge of the 
 growth of saplings. Two spectacles were noted 
 almost simultaneously. One was that of a mob of 
 frenzied men, strung out as they came, running madly 
 towards the trees. They were armed with guns, almost 
 
 23
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 to a man. They were bawling hoarsely. The other 
 scene comprised only three great hounds pouncing 
 upon and bearing to earth a negro man, who fought 
 them and ran, for the moment that passed before his 
 pursuers dashed from the woods, rode him down, and 
 plunged from their horses to secure him. 
 
 The mob which had come from the town beheld 
 with savage satisfaction the capture of the negro and 
 the sight of the group with Roger. The foremost of 
 these agitated citizens ran up to the captors who were 
 marching with the boy, and yelled thus to see him. 
 
 " Got two ?" cried one, who carried a rifle. " Poor 
 Mary's dead, never recovered." 
 
 He hastened on towards the horsemen. The mob 
 behind him came streaming swiftly on his track. 
 Nearly every man shouted, to express either his hatred 
 and fierce thirst for violence, or to make a frenzied 
 repetition of the news that some victim of violence 
 was dead. Roger and his captors were swept along 
 with the tide of brutalized beings towards the group 
 where the negro had now been captured and bound. 
 
 The ominous buzzing when the mob had surged 
 hotly into one compact mass about the two fellow- 
 beings thus dragged to their midst was terrible. 
 
 " Mary's dead ! Mary's dead !" leaped from lip to 
 lip. 
 
 " String him up ! Riddle him !" cried a blacksmith 
 24
 
 TO RIGHT A WRONG 
 
 in the throng. He had only so yelled a second in 
 advance of a score, who demanded the same summary 
 " justice." 
 
 One madman fired his pistol point-blank at the negro 
 captive. The bullet plowed along the terrified being's 
 cheek. The sight of blood roused the animal in every 
 man. 
 
 Without so much as a question, to symbolize a trial, 
 the doomed black man was dragged to the nearest 
 tree. The rope was about his neck and he was stran- 
 gled almost to falling before the natural gallows was 
 gained. 
 
 Something dark shot upward above the heads of 
 the yelling men. A fusilade of shots rang out sharply. 
 Then five, seven, desultory reports from shot-guns, 
 revolvers, and rifles seemed to express the dying away 
 of the greatest heat of the madness. But men still 
 cursed and shouted. 
 
 " Up with the other !" yelled a voice, and Roger 
 saw a wild-eyed being lurching towards him. " Jerk 
 him up! Damn all the niggers!" 
 
 " Wait ! It wasn't him," cried another, sickened 
 by what they had done. " There wasn't but one, and 
 we've paid the bill for Mary." 
 
 " This one we caught in the woods, dragging a 
 little girl away," answered one of the captors, whose 
 thirst for violent deeds had only been whetted. " By 
 
 25
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 God, he's a nigger ! He's like all the rest. We caught 
 him in the nick of time." 
 
 " Up with him ! Up with him ! Do the job up 
 clean!" 
 
 " Give us some more of that rope !" 
 
 " Wait a minute, boys ; it's young Gordon !" cried 
 a man, who alone of all that mad horde seemed to 
 know the frightened boy. 
 
 " Let me at him," said a hoarse-voiced ruffian. He 
 shouldered his way to Roger and flung a stiff, new 
 rope, crudely looped, over their youthful captive's 
 head. The mad impulse to slay could not be stayed 
 by argument nor reason. The smell and the sight of 
 blood wrought upon everything animal and ferocious 
 in the mob. 
 
 With a buzzing of approval that arose to fever heat 
 again, Roger was being dragged through the pack of 
 men to the gallows-tree, when another disturbance, on 
 the outside edge of the cluster of beings, divided the 
 crowd's attention. 
 
 "Here! Wait!" bawled a voice. " Here's the gal 
 herself!" 
 
 The ranks were opened. Through the press of men 
 Genevra came, impulsively pushing her way and 
 thrusting aside all who opposed her. The captors who 
 held Roger sternly by the shoulders suddenly found 
 themselves confronted by a flushed, excited girl, 
 
 26
 
 TO RIGHT A WRONG 
 
 scarcely more than a child, who, with blazing eyes 
 and open mouth, came hotly upon them and angrily 
 pushed their hands off from their captive. 
 
 " Let him go !" she cried. " Leave off directly, and 
 let him go!" 
 
 " Go on, you bloomin' little Britisher," snarled back 
 the ruffian with the rope. " What business you got 
 with the nigger?" 
 
 " He's not a negro ! He's an Indian !" she almost 
 screamed. " He was good to me. He saved me from 
 a horrid snake. He's done nothing to you. You leave 
 off, I say, directly!" 
 
 " Who is she ? What's the racket ?" went from one 
 to another. 
 
 " She's a friend of the kid." 
 
 " She's the one they found in the woods, and him 
 with her." 
 
 " She says he's an Injun." 
 
 " He ain't got no wool." 
 
 " He ain't so black." 
 
 " He's only a kid." 
 
 " By God, we've done hangin' enough for one after- 
 noon !" 
 
 "Let him go. He ain't done no harm, I reckon," 
 shouted one of the men, in a gruff command. 
 
 " Yes, let him go," said a number of the better class, 
 who began to dread the work already performed. 
 
 27
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " You've got to let him go !" cried Genevra, angrily 
 dashing the tears from her eyes and pushing the half- 
 ashamed men away from the silent Roger. " He's 
 not a negro. He's as good as he can be." 
 
 Roger was looking at her, stoutly laboring to hold 
 back his feelings. His eyes filled; his lip trembled. 
 He could not have spoken for the lump in his throat 
 and the surge of emotions within him. 
 
 Genevra, was claiming him undauntedly, when again 
 the mob, crowding closely in and now demanding 
 Roger's release, was parted as before. This time they 
 admitted to the centre a shaggy-haired, squint-eyed 
 man, who was obviously a gentleman of the older 
 school. He made way for himself and a very much 
 frightened woman. 
 
 " Roger, Roger," said the man, gently, " what's the 
 meaning of this ?" 
 
 " Oh, you naughty girl, you artful child !" cried the 
 woman beside him, the moment she saw Genevra. 
 " Whatever will your father say for this ?" 
 
 In the stress of the moment neither Roger nor 
 Genevra could speak. 
 
 "You'd better take these youngsters home," said 
 one. of the men who had led the mob. 
 
 Crying, protesting, looking vainly backward, Ge- 
 nevra was led from the place by her governess, whom 
 sights and events had rendered grim. 
 
 28
 
 TO RIGHT A WRONG 
 
 When Roger and the shaggy-haired old gentleman 
 had gone, the shadows of waning day were stretch- 
 ing eastward from the trees. The crowd vanished. 
 There was no man left in all that throng, so fevered 
 but an hour before, who cared to see the red sunset 
 behind that tree with its burden. 
 
 Then, when darkness had gathered, and truth could 
 venture forth and somewhat hide her shame, the 
 knowledge spread that the mob had caught and killed 
 an innocent man.
 
 IV 
 
 AN INQUISITION 
 
 ROGER was led away to a road that skirted the 
 woods. Here stood a dilapidated horse and a more 
 dilapidated cart, into the very composition of both of 
 which the dust had apparently entered for years. 
 Neither man nor boy had spoken during their walk. 
 Roger got in and sat down on the dusty cushion. The 
 man untied the horse and mounted to a seat beside his 
 charge. 
 
 He saw that Roger was pale, that his eyes were 
 downcast, that his lip trembled. He had never known 
 Roger to be afraid, not even of death; he did not 
 believe the boy was pale and unstrung from fear even 
 now. 
 
 " Get along, Jim," he said to the horse, and then in 
 a moment he asked, " How did it happen ?" 
 
 Roger made no answer. His body heaved with the 
 sobs which he could no longer repress, but which did 
 not force themselves from his heart in audible expres- 
 sion. He dashed hot tears from his face time after 
 time, but they could not be allayed. His agitation 
 seemed the more tremendous because he sobbed so 
 silently. Well as his older companion knew this pas- 
 sionate grief to which the boy at rare intervals suc- 
 
 30
 
 AN INQUISITION 
 
 cumbed, he had never known emotion so to possess 
 him nor to develop to such violence before. He asked 
 no more questions. He knew why Roger was crying. 
 
 " They called me a nigger !" said the boy at last, 
 brokenly. Such utter humiliation as his voice con- 
 veyed was painful to hear. The sobs which shook him 
 increased anew. He bit his lip ; he hid his face in his 
 sleeve. 
 
 The man said nothing. He had learned that Roger 
 was summarily dragged from the woods, where the 
 men had found him in company with Genevra, and, 
 knowing also the story of some negro's assault on a 
 half-witted girl, called " Simple Mary," he understood 
 so much that further questioning would have been 
 superfluous. Therefore he addressed the horse only, 
 and by dint of much gentle persuasion urged the ani- 
 mal over the mile of road that lay between them and 
 home. 
 
 Roger made no further statement of the frenzied 
 affair in which he had figured so saliently. He calmed 
 himself by making such an effort that his elderly friend 
 felt himself yearning over the boy with all his heart. 
 By the time they came to the tumble-down shed which 
 housed the horse, Roger had so far mastered his agi- 
 tation as to be apparently calm. He assisted in the 
 task of unharnessing " Jim," but a stolid silence had 
 then settled upon him out of which, as the man was
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 aware, 'he would not soon emerge. Moreover, he 
 knew, from past experience, that Roger would wish 
 to sit by himself, up in the attic, during this time, 
 before he could again be induced to speak. 
 
 As the boy went off, the man looked after him 
 tenderly and shook his head. Such a mood as this 
 had not come to Roger for nearly three years. On 
 the former occasion he had been but thirteen. Now that 
 he was older, 'he would not be satisfied so readily with 
 indefinite answers. How much he would presently 
 require his guardian to tell him of the little that he 
 absolutely knew, the man could hardly conjecture. 
 
 He was still undecided, sitting alone at the dinner- 
 table, where he was eating nothing, as he waited 
 patiently for Roger to come, when the boy at last 
 appeared. 
 
 " Just in time for dinner, lad," said the man, in the 
 kind, indulgent voice which Roger knew so well. " Sit 
 down, sit down." 
 
 Roger drew his chair to the table. But he pushed 
 his plate away and laid his shapely brown hand on the 
 cloth. 
 
 " Doctor Pingle," he said, calmly, " who was my 
 mother ?" 
 
 Doctor Pingle put down his knife and fork, took 
 his spectacles from his pocket, rubbed them smartly, 
 and then, adjusting them with precision, looked at 
 
 32
 
 AN INQUISITION 
 
 Roger over the tops of the rims. He was enormously 
 relieved to have Roger ask of his mother. He had 
 always heretofore pressed for information concerning 
 his father. 
 
 " Your mother was one of the most beautiful women 
 I ever knew," said the man. " She was rather small, 
 but she was dainty and lively and very beautiful to 
 look at." 
 
 " Was her hair light yellow?" 
 
 " Why, yes, golden, to be sure it was. But I don't 
 see how you knew it." 
 
 " Did she laugh a good deal, and show her pretty 
 teeth?" Roger's inquiries sounded coldly judicial. 
 
 " Well, yes, she was very pleasant," admitted the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Then she was the woman who came to see us in 
 San Francisco, before we moved." 
 
 " But, my dear lad, you couldn't remember San 
 Francisco. We came to Missouri when you were only 
 a child." 
 
 " I remember the pretty woman. She laughed a 
 kind of way without any laugh inside," Roger said, 
 reflectively. " She had a little girl with her, and she 
 was very fair." 
 
 Doctor Pingle took off his glasses, rubbed them with 
 his handkerchief, donned them again, and looked at 
 the boy as before, over the tops of the lenses. 
 3 33
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Of course, of course," confessed the man ; " she 
 did have a nice little girl along." 
 
 Roger looked at him searchingly and said, " Was 
 that little girl my sister?" 
 
 " Why I believe she was. She must have been. 
 By all means she was your sister." 
 
 "Not my half-sister?" 
 
 "Your half-sister?" The doctor paused and laid 
 aside his glasses, as he always did to think. " Well, 
 now, I don't know. Upon my word, I never asked. I 
 couldn't say. It might be so." 
 
 " I feel sure of it," Roger told him, with delibera- 
 tion. " She was so pretty, and white. I have decided 
 that my mother must have been divorced from my 
 father or maybe he died and she got married to 
 somebody else, and so she didn't want me ever 
 unless she came that time in San Francisco to get me 
 away from you. Did she come for that?" 
 
 He asked this last question eagerly. It was a possi- 
 bility on which he had never happened before, in all 
 his wondering as to his parenthood. Doctor Pingle 
 noted the boyish yearning for mother-love which had 
 burned up so quickly in the brown, half-melancholy 
 eyes. He rubbed his glasses hard, to gain a moment 
 of time. 
 
 " Well," he said, smiling gently," she didn't get 
 you, Roger. You didn't wish to leave me at the time, 
 
 34
 
 AN INQUISITION 
 
 little chap as you were. You don't regret that you 
 stayed with me?" 
 
 " Then she didn't want me bad enough to fight to 
 get me?" The boy's disappointment was not so very 
 great. He had too much else on his mind. 
 
 " She saw that she ought to be satisfied with your 
 sister," said the man. 
 
 " If she was only my half-sister," the boy went on, 
 " my own father might have been I want to know 
 if he was dark, as dark as I am ?" 
 
 " Dark ? Why, no. You're not very dark only 
 what they call a deep olive." 
 
 " Then he was not negro ?" The boy was evi- 
 dently excited to the last degree. The look from his 
 eyes searched the man's face most intently. 
 
 " Why, certainly not," said the doctor. " There, there, 
 eat your dinner, like a good sensible lad, and don't be 
 bothering your head with all this morbid worry." 
 
 " Was he an Indian I mean part Indian, or any- 
 thing like that?" 
 
 There was no escaping from this inquisition. Roger 
 was inexorable. 
 
 " Indian ? Why, perhaps he was partly. I never 
 asked him, but his grandfather, or his great-grand- 
 father, might very well have married the daughter 
 of a chief of some of those tribes of the Eastern 
 States." 
 
 35
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh, I am glad of that !" said the boy, passion- 
 ately. " I don't see why you never told me that before. 
 But there must be more about me there must be a 
 great deal I ought to know. There are secrets about 
 me. I knew it must be Indian in me! I knew I 
 wasn't anything else ! I want you to tell me all about 
 my father and mother." 
 
 " Lad, lad, eat your dinner," urged Doctor Pingle. 
 " We'll have some music when you've finished, and 
 forget all this unpleasant business." 
 
 " But I want to know about myself and my father. 
 You told me once that some day I should know all 
 about everything." 
 
 " So you shall, some day, Roger. Let it go at that. 
 I believe provision was made to inform you of all 
 you could wish to know; indeed, such provision was 
 made, but the matter was to rest till you should arrive 
 at your twenty-fourth year. There, now, I've told 
 you more than I had any business to tell, so let it go 
 at that and be patient and happy. Do !" 
 
 " I am sixteen now," said Roger, insistently. " If 
 you had been through everything to-day, you would 
 feel fifty years old." 
 
 " Yes, I dare say I should." 
 
 " Well, then, I'm old enough. I want to know 
 everything." 
 
 " The few notes I've got are not at hand," said the 
 36
 
 AN INQUISITION 
 
 doctor, somewhat helplessly. He had heretofore 
 encountered only indications of this masterful mood 
 which Roger was developing. 
 
 " I could get them. Where are they ?" Roger 
 replied. 
 
 " They are over to my lawyer has them, locked in 
 my box." 
 
 "Mr. Bixby? I'll go over and tell him you want 
 the box. I can bring it home in half an hour." 
 
 " Oh, don't go bothering about the thing to-night. 
 Come, come, let's have a little music, and think no 
 more about anything painful. I think I shall have to 
 manage to get you a 'cello. I think I can manage." 
 
 Roger had risen from the table to go back to the 
 rack for his hat. " I couldn't play to-night," he said. 
 " I couldn't. I would rather not try. Please let me 
 go for the box." 
 
 The mention of the coveted violincello 'having failed 
 to hold him, the doctor knew that further persuasion 
 would be wasted. 
 
 " Don't be gone long," he said. " I'm sorry you 
 can't wait till to-morrow. The moon will be up by 
 the time you are coming home." 
 
 Roger halted by the door for a second. " I wish 
 you had been my father," he said, and he went out 
 and started briskly across the near-lying fields. 
 
 37
 
 V 
 
 IN THE SHADOWS 
 
 THE moon was well up and laying her plating of 
 beauty and softened light upon woods, meadows, and 
 villages by the time the boy was heading homeward. 
 Of the two small towns, one of which had sprung 
 into being a mile from its sister, when the railroad 
 spanned the country, the one where lawyer Bixby 
 resided was the larger. It had grown around the spot 
 where a spring had made a water-tank convenient for 
 the railroad. Therefore it was quite in back of the 
 woods from the village to which Doctor Pingle had 
 remained loyally attached. 
 
 The road from one to the other of the towns skirted 
 the woods. Roger had come by the road, after clear- 
 ing the field that stretched from the doctor's house 
 towards the trees. Now, however, since the moon was 
 up, he was trudging home by one of the numerous 
 paths through the forest which pedestrians had made 
 in seeking a straighter route between the villages. 
 
 Beneath his arm he held a square tin box, provided 
 with a padlock so large that it might almost have held 
 the contents of the box itself. This ingenious piece of 
 mechanism was the weightiest thing about his burden. 
 
 38
 
 IN THE SHADOWS 
 
 The tin receptacle evidently harbored but a meagre 
 hoard of documents. Roger could shake them about 
 inside. To him they were ponderous enough, for 
 heaven only knew what weight of things fateful their 
 contents might reveal. In the core of his soul the boy 
 still felt the torturing flames of anger and utter humili- 
 ation which must burn, it seemed to him, for a time 
 indefinite. 
 
 Even as he walked he lived again and again those 
 terrible moments when the rope began its constriction 
 on his neck and fellow-beings bawled their demands 
 for his life. Hot, galling tears of shame and anger 
 arose to his eyes till he stumbled blindly where he 
 walked. 
 
 He took little notice, save in a general way, of the 
 path he was following. Of the cool sweetness of the 
 forest and the ineffable beauty of the night he felt, for 
 once, no consciousness. It had amazed Doctor Pingle 
 to see to what depths the boy's agitation had extended, 
 and yet the man had not begun to sound the feelings 
 which Roger was undergoing. 
 
 Changing his course, the sooner to emerge from the 
 shadows of the trees, which depressed him immeasur- 
 ably, the boy had come almost to the clearing when 
 he was suddenly halted by the sound of some one cry- 
 ing. Having paid no particular attention to the course 
 he was following, Roger did not realize exactly where 
 
 39
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 he was. Such sobbing as came to his ears, from some- 
 where near by, he had not heard till now. It was grief 
 that choked the half-audible sound grief which had 
 obviously been protracted, without remission. There 
 was also in its tone such expression of terror as one 
 might not hear and avoid a feeling of awe. 
 
 Without hesitation, when he had ascertained the 
 direction whence the sounds proceeded, Roger glided 
 through the shadows that lay between himself and the 
 open space beyond. He emerged from the trees into 
 the moonlight and halted. 
 
 While a feeling of dread crept up through his hair, 
 he stood there gazing at the gallows-tree of the after- 
 noon, with its dark burden swinging from a limb. 
 Then as the sobbing sounded more distinctly, he 
 looked down at the feet of that grim object, and beheld 
 a child, a little mulatto girl, sitting on the ground 
 beneath that form, clasping the two cold feet in her 
 arms and weeping as he had never known that any 
 one could weep. 
 
 He stood there regarding the scene uncertainly. It 
 was dreadful to hear that sobbing ; it was more dread- 
 ful to think what that lifeless form had been to this 
 child. He dreaded the thought of approaching the 
 thing, after his own appalling experience earlier in 
 the day. To leave the spot at once was the impulse 
 that came most strongly upon him. Having come in 
 
 40
 
 IN THE SHADOWS 
 
 silence, he started in silence to get away, back to the 
 shadows of the trees. 
 
 But he could not so depart. What he had suffered 
 from his humiliation sank into insignificance beside 
 the anguish of this lonely child. His sense of com- 
 passion bound him where he was. His own troubles 
 disappeared before those of the girl, whose object of 
 affection was so terrible. 
 
 Stepping out in the moonlight, he went slowly for- 
 ward. He knew when the child discovered his pres- 
 ence, for the catch in her crying and the note of alarm 
 were unmistakable. 
 
 " Don't cry," he said, coaxingly. " Don't cry. I'm 
 very sorry." He went up quite close to where the 
 little mulatto girl was cringing in affright on the 
 ground. 
 
 She could not repress the sobbing which had become 
 somewhat hysterical. The sounds that she made were 
 distressing, as she stared up at the 'half-lighted face 
 of her visitor and caught at her crying spasmodically. 
 
 " I wouldn't stay here," said Roger, in his sym- 
 pathy. " I'm very sorry, but I wouldn't stay and cry. 
 I'll go home with you now, if you want me to." 
 
 The child before him could make no answer. She 
 still clung to that dark object and looked at Roger and 
 sobbed. 
 
 " Don't you want to go home?" said the boy, gently. 
 41
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 She nodded the answer which she could not speak. 
 
 "All right," Roger added, "I'll take you home. 
 Don't you want to go now?" 
 
 " There ain't nobody there," said the child, speak- 
 ing brokenly and with much difficulty. 
 
 She had lifted her face so that the moonlight fell 
 upon it. Roger knew then who she was. It was little 
 Teresa Berry, whose parents, both mulattoes, had for 
 long enjoyed the respect of Doctor Pingle and several 
 other residents of the village, who had frequently given 
 employment both to Clem and to Clara, his wife. Clara 
 Berry had died a little less than a month before. 
 Roger, therefore, understood Teresa thoroughly when 
 she said there was no one at home. 
 
 " Then you had better come home with me," he said, 
 after a moment of reflection. " Do you want to do 
 that?" 
 
 Teresa was still shaken with sobs. She nodded as 
 before, but made no movement to leave the place 
 where she was sitting. 
 
 " I meant now, Teresa," the boy added. " I wouldn't 
 stay here any more." He held out his hand to assist 
 her to rise. 
 
 Teresa partially arose to her knees and put out her 
 hand, till Roger took it. Then she flung her other arm 
 about that grim form again and leaned against it, 
 burying her face and weeping anew 'heart-brokenly. 
 
 42
 
 IN THE SHADOWS 
 
 " Oh my honey papa ! she sobbed. " My 
 papa ! my papa !" 
 
 Roger waited in patience. The soft hand in his 
 clung to him desperately. " I'm awful sorry. Come 
 on home, Teresa," he said. 
 
 When she stood up at last her face was hidden in 
 her arm, as she cried afresh, more quietly, more in the 
 grief of affliction and bereavement. 
 
 The boy said nothing, as he led her gently away. 
 They walked but slowly, for Teresa stumbled often, 
 still bowing her head in her bended arm, and striving 
 to master her sobbing. What between a sense of shame 
 she felt, thus to be leaving her father alone in the 
 shadows, and the weakness occasioned by the touch of 
 sympathy, the child could neither speak nor lift her 
 eyes. 
 
 " Don't cry any more, Teresa," said Roger at last. 
 " We are almost home." 
 
 Teresa raised her head as bravely as she could, but 
 she made no attempt to answer. 
 
 Thus they came together to the entrance of Doctor 
 Pingle's house. He had heard the sound of footsteps 
 on his walk. Before Roger could knock, the man 
 opened the door and looked out upon them in wonder. 
 
 " To-day that was Teresa's father," said the boy. 
 " I have brought her home." 
 
 43
 
 VI 
 
 ADJUSTING TERESA 
 
 CONCERNING the freightage of information which 
 the papers in the iron box contained Roger still re- 
 mained in ignorance, even after several days had 
 passed, with the papers in the house. This was not 
 entirely due to the natural distraction which the advent 
 of Teresa had occasioned. Roger was not of a nature 
 to be distracted from an object for long. But Doctor 
 Pingle, having once more fingered the envelopes which 
 the box had held till now, and having read upon them 
 that they were only to be opened and read by Roger 
 Gordon himself, when his twenty-fourth birthday 
 should arrive, had refused to break his trust. There- 
 fore the box was again adorned with its cumbersome 
 padlock, and the doctor's lips were resolutely sealed. 
 
 Roger himself soon realized that Doctor Pingle was 
 sufficiently employed with the problem of what to do 
 with Teresa. Her father's body had been interred at 
 the expense of the county, but the doctor had not been 
 convinced that any care of the child which it might be 
 possible to exact from the State would prove a com- 
 fort to the somewhat lorn little figure. 
 
 She clung to Roger with all the affection and yearn- 
 ing of her nature. That her feelings should thus have 
 
 44
 
 ADJUSTING TERESA 
 
 been transferred to the boy was natural. Her love 
 developed swiftly, to something more than a filial or 
 even a sisterly regard. He had come to her in gentle- 
 ness and with courage, at her hour of bitterest shame 
 and bereavement. He had brothered her since. 
 
 Besides the compassion in his heart, and the courage 
 with which the boy had been born, Roger had a sense of 
 justice and right which were extraordinarily developed. 
 The hideous wrong which the mob had done demanded 
 retribution for Teresa. If this could not be secured, 
 then there was all the more reason why he and Doctor 
 Pingle should protect the child from further grief, and 
 afford her what compensation they could, as friends 
 and guardians. 
 
 That the boy could reciprocate the feeling which 
 had leaped into Teresa's heart towards him was impos- 
 sible. He was not even aware of the childish adora- 
 tion in which Teresa held him. His thoughts fled 
 back to that sweet, impulsive little companion of the 
 brook, who had gone with him hand in hand to where 
 he played his 'cello; who had saved his life, at a 
 moment most terrible; who had called upon his name 
 as her governess dragged her away. He thought of 
 his music the music that flowed through his soul 
 day and night, demanding expression, ready to leap 
 into audible sound, if only he could find Genevra 
 again. 
 
 45
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 How often soever he returned to the brook, where 
 he had found her first, he could find her no more. 
 And when, on these occasions, he went to the clearing 
 in the greenwood, where was his tree-'cello, he stood 
 silent before it, without the heart to play, and looked 
 at it yearningly, as if to conjure Genevra back to the 
 scene. He had played it first for Genevra; he would 
 never play it again till she should stand there beside 
 him to listen. 
 
 In the mean time Doctor Pingle was somewhat con- 
 cerned as to what was now to be done with Teresa. 
 To keep her there beneath his roof indefinitely was 
 out of the question. To place her in any of the State 
 institutions he had early decided he would not attempt 
 to do. He began to regret that his practice of medi- 
 cine had fallen into such entire neglect. His boyish 
 love for music, choked back, with all the flighty ambi- 
 tions of youth, at the instance of his parents, had 
 come creeping slyly upon him, in the man's more 
 peaceful years. He had courted it almost in secret, 
 in that spirit of concealment bequeathed him from his 
 youth. Though his practice had dwindled and been 
 permitted to slip him by, it had formerly earned him 
 enough to keep him from want for the rest of his 
 days. There was still a guilty feeling upon him, 
 nevertheless, as if his parents were always about to 
 reprove him for spending his time with idle music. 
 
 46
 
 ADJUSTING TERESA 
 
 He told himself now that had he kept up his practice 
 he would know of some one to whom he could take 
 the parentless child, with a confidence that she would 
 always be thoughtfully treated. 
 
 Harking back upon the days when he was a doctor 
 in performance as well as in name, he at length re- 
 membered another mulatto couple, whose baby-girl, 
 had it lived, would have been but a few months older 
 than Teresa. Therefore when he came trudging 
 home, one day, from a pilgrimage across the country 
 to the railroad village, he met Teresa at his own 
 little gate with the tidings that he had found her a 
 happy, comfortable home, where a good woman was 
 longing to expend her pent-up mother-love on a child 
 she could have for her own. 
 
 Teresa listened silently. She was a pretty little 
 thing. There was red beneath the tint of her chocolate 
 cheeks ; her face was round and smooth ; her eyes were 
 frank and trusting; her features were rather pleasing. 
 Now, as she learned she must not expect to remain 
 here in this haven, where Roger could be seen and 
 talked with every day, an expression of sadness came 
 upon her face, and the light of joy burned out in her 
 eyes. 
 
 She said nothing, however. The little thing had a 
 sense of dignity. She had not revealed her feeling 
 for Roger ; she accepted the doctor's decision. 
 
 47
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " When mus' I go ?" she asked. 
 
 " I told Mrs. Jackson you could come to-night," 
 said Doctor Pingle. " But perhaps you had better 
 have your dinner first, with us, and Roger can take 
 you over then before it's very dark." 
 
 The dinner did not, however, come to an end till 
 the darkness of night had settled on the country. 
 
 " Give me your hand, Teresa," said Roger, when 
 they started. " We'll cut off a little, across the fields, 
 and then we can take the road." 
 
 All unconscious of the fact that his fingers were 
 tingling Teresa's till they burned, and were to burn 
 for days, he led her to her newer home and quietly 
 bade her good-by.
 
 VII 
 
 A CONTACT WITH THE WORLD 
 
 AWARE, from the doctor's abstraction, that some- 
 thing important was weighing on his guardian's mind, 
 Roger spent two or three days in wondering what he 
 should prepare himself to expect. He thought at first 
 Doctor Pingle's long spell of meditation might mean 
 the 'cello, which had been nearly as good as promised. 
 He soon made up his mind, however, that a cogitation 
 extending over a day indicated something of far 
 greater moment than merely the purchase of an instru- 
 ment. In this he was right. 
 
 " Roger," said the man, when at length he had come 
 to his own conclusions, " have you thought at all about 
 what you wish to be in the years to come, what line 
 or profession you desire to follow?" 
 
 " Do you want me to be a doctor ?" said the boy. 
 
 " Well, I don't know. I don't wish you to be any- 
 thing against your own inclination. I wish to know 
 what you yourself prefer." 
 
 " Could I make any money I mean a decent living 
 out of music?" 
 
 " That's the point," the doctor replied, rubbing his 
 glasses, squinting his eyes as he did so, and then 
 regarding his youthful companion soberly, over the 
 4 49
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 tops of the lenses. " I must try so to equip you that 
 you can make even a little more than a living. And 
 yet if you love the music as I did at about your 
 
 age Well, is music what you positively want? 
 
 Are you willing to work hard, and perhaps suffer, and 
 undergo discouragement, for the sake of attaining 
 something at the last?" 
 
 " I would do almost anything, and work day and 
 night, if you told me I could expect to succeed some 
 day if it wouldn't be a silly thing to try to make a 
 living out of when the studying was over," said the 
 boy, earnestly. " Do you think I have got enough 
 talent?" 
 
 " More than half the talent in the world is simply 
 steadfast purpose, Roger. I think you have some 
 talent, enough to encourage, if you will put yourself 
 to the task of studying hard and working." 
 
 It was a kindly, wrinkled face he presented to the 
 boy, as he looked across the table at the youthful 
 countenance, so serious and handsome. Roger looked 
 at him affectionately, frankly admiring the great shock 
 of iron-gray hair, the deep-blue eyes, the homely, 
 intelligent countenance. As a matter of fact, Doctor 
 Pingle regarded Roger as a genius in music, possess- 
 ing far greater possibilities than ever he himself had 
 known, and capable of attaining an eminence of which 
 he could some day be proud. He had never, however,
 
 A CONTACT WITH THE WORLD 
 
 encouraged self-conceit nor over-confidence in his 
 young companion. 
 
 " Music could make me work myself to death," said 
 the boy, earnestly. 
 
 The doctor believed it. Indeed, his heart was set 
 on Roger's choice of music for his manhood's career. 
 He had simply desired this confirmation before he 
 should counsel anything calculated to make his charge 
 believe the road was to be easily won. All that had 
 formerly been denied himself, yea, more than this, he 
 had determined should fall to the lot of this tractable, 
 lovable boy, so far as in him lay the powers of be- 
 stowal, provided always Roger positively longed for 
 and merited the opportunities. 
 
 " Well," he said, gravely, " I have been thinking 
 and trying to plan the next best step. It is a long 
 time since I got you as far as my own poor knowledge 
 goes, yet I hope your years of study with me will 
 prove of some little value at the school." 
 
 "The school?" 
 
 " Yes, the conservatory. I think you had better go 
 to St. Louis, Roger, right away. There is no time to 
 waste, now that you have made up your mind." 
 
 " Oh, won't that be great !" cried the boy, joyfully. 
 
 " No, not great, lad, but it's the next good step. 
 New York would not be wise, just yet not till we've 
 tried something nearer first." 
 
 Si
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " When are we going ?" Roger asked him, eagerly. 
 
 " I think you can start at once, to-morrow. You 
 might as well take advantage of the summer course. 
 The class is not so large, but perhaps you will receive 
 even more attention for that reason. Yes, I think you 
 could manage to start to-morrow." 
 
 " But, aren't you going with me ?" 
 
 " Oh, no. No, no. I shall stay here and keep things 
 going. There is no one who would look after my few 
 little houses as I want it done. That's all right. You 
 go ahead. It isn't far. You can write often, and later 
 on we'll see." 
 
 Roger's enthusiasm somewhat fell. " I am sorry 
 we aren't going together," he said. 
 
 But youth and ambition are always self-centred. 
 Presently Roger was making his preparations, and 
 chatting of wonderful hopes, of life in the city, and of 
 coming home in vacations, and of working like a horse. 
 Therefore he missed the look of yearning in the doc- 
 tor's eyes, and failed to realize how all of his gladness 
 could make more sore a heart that was hurt at the 
 thought of this, the first parting between them. 
 
 In the morning, when he went, however, Roger was 
 saddened and loving and thoughtful enough, and the 
 man knew that none of his parent affections, none of 
 his worries, none of his cares or sacrifices, had been 
 in vain. 
 
 52
 
 A CONTACT WITH THE WORLD 
 
 " God bless you, lad," he said. " Keep me proud of 
 you always." 
 
 Then the long summer weeks began to slip away, 
 and there, in his lonely little home, Doctor Pingle lis- 
 tened and listened, when he waked in the night, as so 
 often he had done, as if to make himself sure that his 
 boy was breathing naturally, and that all was well. 
 
 Roger's letters came regularly, long ones at first, 
 that told much of the new life into which he had 
 plunged. There were boyish descriptions of classmates 
 and teachers, and outbursts of youthful impatience at 
 the rudimentary work at which they kept him so long. 
 Later the letters told less and less of school, acquaint- 
 ances, and work. They were all about the little home 
 he had left behind him. They were " made-up" letters, 
 that to Doctor Pingle revealed some state of unhappi- 
 ness which the boy would fain conceal. 
 
 Youth, the doctor well knew, is prone to disappoint- 
 ments. He told himself Roger had come at last in 
 contact with the toil and disheartening failures that 
 abound on the path of any serious journey towards 
 the far-away peaks of attainment. This was a stage 
 he had quite expected, but Roger would win through 
 it, for the mettle was in him. Yet with all his explana- 
 tions to himself he was not wholly satisfied, nor freed 
 from haunting worry. 
 
 The second month since Roger's departure had 
 53
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 gone, the third was well on its way, when one even- 
 ing Doctor Pingle observed a tall, dusty figure come 
 limping along the road, carrying something which 
 resembled the case of a violin. He squinted his 
 eyes and looked. Then he rubbed at his glasses, put 
 them on, and peered intently over the rims at the 
 figure. 
 
 "Why, Roger!" he said aloud, to himself. 
 
 He arose from his seat on the porch and hastened 
 down to the gate, in time to meet the boy as he halted 
 there to enter. 
 
 It was Roger, indeed, but such a Roger as the doc- 
 tor had never seen before. His face was wan. His 
 weariness showed in his eyes. He was altered, for 
 manhood had come upon him prematurely. His dark, 
 somewhat melancholy eyes seemed deeper set in his 
 head. Study had added to the intellectuality of his 
 face, and cares had obliterated the softness of boy- 
 hood. He smiled as the doctor came to meet him, 
 but it was not a bright nor a happy expression. 
 
 " I have come home," he said, as he limped into the 
 garden. 
 
 " Boy, boy," said the doctor, brokenly, " what's the 
 trouble? You haven't walked?" 
 
 " Yes, I've walked. It only took two days." 
 
 " Two days !" echoed the man, as he took the limp- 
 ing boy by the arm and helped him up to the porch. 
 
 54
 
 " Where did you sleep ? Where did you get anything 
 to eat?" 
 
 " I didn't want to sleep. I wanted to get home," 
 said Roger, blinking his eyes swiftly and biting his 
 lip. " I wouldn't ask the white people for anything 
 to eat, and I couldn't ask the negroes." 
 
 He sat down on the edge of the porch wearily. Doc- 
 tor Pingle stared at him in silence, his face twitching 
 as he looked upon the boy. He could not speak, for 
 the moment. 
 
 " I couldn't stand it any longer," Roger went on, 
 almost hotly. " They called me a nigger. The stu- 
 dents insulted me all the time. The teachers hated 
 to teach me all but one. He bore with me because 
 I played better than all the others. I did! I did! 
 he said so. He cared more for that than he did for 
 my color. I tried to stand it not to care ; but shame, 
 humiliation every day hurt so I couldn't. They 
 thought of new ways to insult me all the time. I knew 
 I would kill somebody soon. If I weren't an Indian 
 I wouldn't care. So I came home." He refused to 
 cry, but the lumps were in his throat. 
 
 " Come in, Roger, come in," said Doctor Pingle, 
 laying his hand on the boy's shoulder and gently 
 urging him to rise. " Come in and let me get you 
 something to eat." 
 
 " You don't know how they can torture a man by 
 55
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 calling him a nigger and treating him like a cur," 
 Roger went on, resolutely. " I read of a man who 
 had a disease that turned him black. And his wife 
 left him, because he was hounded so for a nigger. He 
 had to go and join the negroes to live in peace. It's 
 no use. I can't do it. I can't endure it. I can come 
 home to you, but where else could I go except to the 
 negroes? Some day I shall have to go with them. I 
 shall have to give up the music and everything 
 and go with them, unless I die. It's Indian that's in 
 me, that's why it hurts." 
 
 He suddenly put up his dusty sleeve against the 
 post of the porch, and hid his face in the folds at his 
 elbow. He made no sound, but his body was shaken 
 by convulsions before he could gain the mastery over 
 weariness and his anguish. 
 
 " Come in, come in, lad, and have something to eat," 
 the doctor repeated. " I'm glad to see you home." 
 
 Roger said nothing further. His outburst was fin- 
 ished. The doctor knew there was much more he could 
 have told, but he led him thoughtfully away from the 
 topic that plunged the boy in such utter depths of 
 humiliation. What Roger had said already had re- 
 vealed to him such possibilities of mental suffering 
 as he had never dreamed the lad possessed. 
 
 Therefore, as the boy was finally eating, in his 
 quiet, moderate manner, which belied his famished 
 
 56
 
 A CONTACT WITH THE WORLD 
 
 condition, Doctor Pingle rubbed and rubbed at his 
 glasses, looked at his silent companion intently, and 
 pondered over something which had come in his 
 thoughts as the boy's bitter sentence on himself and 
 the final outcome of his fate was being pronounced. 
 
 " Now, then, lad, take a bath and go to bed," he 
 said, when Roger had finished his meal. " Just pre- 
 tend you never went away from home at all. In the 
 morning we'll talk, if you wish, for there may be plans 
 that will make us happy yet." 
 
 " I was learning some. I can play a little better 
 than before I went," said Roger, limping over to the 
 case that held his violin. " I know I didn't waste my 
 time, nor any money." 
 
 The doctor would not have had the heart to ask 
 him to play to-night, but he saw with pleasure that 
 Roger wanted to take the instrument in his hands. 
 
 The young fellow tucked it .lovingly beneath his 
 chin, and drew his bow across the strings with the 
 touch of a master. He began to play. The instru- 
 ment was soon expressing something of ineffable sad- 
 ness, the purity of which was remarkable. It was a 
 mood of hopeless grief that sounded from the touch 
 of the bow. Its sweetness only made its depths of woe 
 the more poignant. 
 
 Doctor Pingle closed his eyes. His head sank on 
 his breast as he listened. What he heard was un- 
 
 57
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 familiar. He presently knew it was Roger's own crea- 
 tion; that, indeed, it told of his heart's despair and 
 sorrow. That it came straight from a soul that yearned 
 for achievement, that felt its own infinite power, but 
 which was crying out in the refinement of its pain, 
 was all too palpable. The man could not but suffer 
 with the boy. He was all unstrung. The music so 
 pleaded for its maker; it so convinced that he could 
 rise to greatness. And yet it was all so sad, so 
 patiently, hopelessly sad. 
 
 The end was never reached. Unable to go on with 
 it, weary and affected as he was, Roger put the instru- 
 ment down on the table and looked across at the man 
 who had been father, mother, and all to him that he 
 had ever had. The lisping of childhood arose to his 
 lips. 
 
 " Good-night, dosser," he said, and he limped off to 
 his room. 
 
 " Good-night, laddie, good-night," said the doctor, 
 and, staring at the door where the boy had gone, he 
 presently began to polish his glasses with all his 
 might. 
 
 He sat at the table till after twelve, figuring sums on 
 a bit of paper with his pencil. 
 
 In the morning he was brisk and filled with enthusi- 
 asm. 
 
 " Roger," he said, " in Germany nobody cares what 
 58
 
 A CONTACT WITH THE WORLD 
 
 a man may be, so long as he knows music, or wants 
 to know it. You would have to go there to finish off, 
 no matter where else we had you study. We can do 
 it do it quite comfortably. Off you go to Leipsic, 
 in a week." 
 
 The comfortable way in which he did it was to sell 
 nearly all of his houses.
 
 II 
 
 GENEVRA
 
 I 
 
 A SOCIAL AMBITION 
 
 INASMUCH as music is the voice of gladness, God 
 created the universe with one mighty anthem of joy. 
 
 There is warmth and breath and life itself in 
 melody. 
 
 It was music, at Leipsic, music that knitted new 
 gladness in his nature, music that rang in his soul, 
 that fashioned Roger Gordon in a mould of largeness 
 and manhood. He had spent his years of study with 
 infinite care and with infinite pleasure. He had known 
 a way to love his work for every new day in the 
 calendar. 
 
 Yet genuine growth is never achieved without its 
 pangs. Roger had suffered discouragements and sea- 
 sons of doubt as poignant as travails of motherhood. 
 Afraid at times of self-satisfaction, he had sounded the 
 depths of an earnest man's despair. Nevertheless, 
 professors and fellow-students had watched his 
 growth with a pride too great for envy, and, when 
 at length he had come to the end of conservatory days, 
 had seen him depart with mingled hopes and regrets. 
 
 Roger was glad, however, to have finished. No 
 man may gauge his strength until he shall try to make 
 his way alone. Not that Roger had neglected to stand 
 
 63
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 by himself at the school. He had, as a matter of fact, 
 completed not a little of a most ambitious composition 
 at Leipsic, but now he rejoiced to think he had come 
 to the end of the student's road and that henceforth 
 he should go forward as a musical frontiersman, seek- 
 ing empires untrammelled, where none but the gods 
 themselves might go before to blaze the way. 
 
 When he left the school he had come to London. 
 Not the greatness and opportunities of England's 
 capital alone had served to entice him from the Con- 
 tinent; he still fostered memories and hopes, caught 
 securely to his heart one sweet, tragic day, long be- 
 fore, in America. 
 
 At the time when he came, society had once more 
 donned the motley. The London season was at its 
 height. Lent had faded away, leaving naught but its 
 own little heap of ashes, so lightly scattered by the 
 breath of pleasure. The weather itself had shaken off 
 the " sackcloth" fog, and, as if it revelled in its free- 
 dom again, the sun blazed as warmly as a wanton. 
 
 In such a spring a woman's fancy seriously turns 
 to thoughts of prowess, for woman, even in the mere 
 pursuit of pleasure, is not entirely bereft of ambitions. 
 Of all the throng of self-coronated social queens of 
 London, there was none more eager for distinction 
 than the honest, generous, and clever Lady Minto- 
 Denby, at whose house all Knightsbridge felt at home. 
 
 64
 
 A SOCIAL AMBITION 
 
 She stated candidly that she sought for and patron- 
 ized brains. No wonder that with all the social set, 
 thus subtly flattered, her functions were extrava- 
 gantly popular. Sadly enough, with her house thus 
 successfully filled with persons, who were often con- 
 siderable personages, Lady Denby was afflicted with 
 a sense of disappointment. 
 
 She had one absorbing passion, to create a social 
 lion. The legends were legion of the " cubs" she had 
 captured, in the hope of seeing a roaring creature ma- 
 ture. Nevertheless, failure ruthlessly danced attend- 
 ance on her efforts, and here was a bright new season 
 racing towards its finish and not so much as a prom- 
 ising kitten on all her social horizon. 
 
 It was therefore with joy, not, however, uncom- 
 mingled with doubt, that she welcomed Algernon Len- 
 nox as the first arriving guest on her Wednesday night. 
 " Algy, the leo-maniac," as Lord Minto-Denby dubbed 
 him, was still an enthusiastic hunter, despite the fact 
 that no fewer than seven of his alleged lions, discov- 
 ered and brought to the gilded cage in Knightsbridge, 
 had proved to be but lambs in borrowed clothing. 
 
 " I say, I've got you some one at last," he said this 
 evening, with a cheerfulness undiminished by his 
 record. " He's a fine old chap I knew at Leipsic, 
 a ripping composer. He's the coming man. I say, 
 did you ever see a black tiger ?" 
 5 65
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 Lady Denby reclined unperturbed in her chair. " I 
 believe I once saw something of the sort, at Olympia," 
 she answered, amused at Algy's certainty. " Why do 
 you ask?" 
 
 " Did you ever see a black lion ?" her visitor inter- 
 rogated, by way of replying. 
 
 " No, I don't think I ever had the pleasure." 
 
 " Then you're going to see one here to-night." 
 
 " A black lion ?" she repeated. " Do you mean that 
 your new discovery is an African? I hope not that, 
 dear Algy." 
 
 " Certainly not," Lennox assured her, warmly. 
 " He's an American Indian, descendant from the 
 daughter of a chief, and all that sort of thing. He's 
 not black, you know, but dark. He's the man, you 
 may remember, who saved the life of a funny little 
 chap Fritz Bergen fetched him back to the top 
 when he fell and shot down on the Jungfrau snow, 
 last summer." 
 
 " Not the man who was lowered down with a rope 
 and was dragged up the ice with an almost ridiculous 
 little musician in his arms?" 
 
 " Same chap." 
 
 " I could easily have lionized him last autumn on 
 that alone," said Lady Denby, with interest. 
 
 " I think not," Lennox corrected. " He would not 
 have permitted you to try." 
 
 66
 
 A SOCIAL AMBITION 
 
 " Is he, then, so diffident ? He will never succeed 
 as a lion." 
 
 " Oh, he knows his power with music. He only 
 wants the opportunity, to prove himself a remarkable 
 man." 
 
 " Does he also play ?" 
 
 " Rather ! But his forte is composition. I took the 
 liberty of asking him to come here to-night." 
 
 " Why, thank you, Algy. I shall be delighted to see 
 him. I only hope your estimate will prove accurate 
 at last. Ah, here is Genevra." 
 
 The portieres parted and Lennox quickly turned, 
 as he rose from his chair, to greet a tall, superbly 
 gowned young woman, with nugget-gold hair, slum- 
 brous gray eyes, and shoulders and arms so white that 
 their beauty was dazzling. She flushed slightly at 
 the sight of Lennox, to whom she extended her hand 
 in a frank, girlish way that denoted her pleasure. 
 
 The man, for his part, became suddenly red and a 
 little confused. The gladness and light in his eyes, 
 however, spoke of his joy before his lips could frame 
 their greeting. 
 
 " Genevra, rejoice," said Lady Denby. " Algy has 
 bagged us a some one that he hopes is his lion at last. 
 A real, live, black social lion." 
 
 " Dear me, how sinister he sounds," said Genevra. 
 " I hope you will introduce him properly caged." 
 
 67
 
 " It seems he chafes behind bars of music," Lady 
 Denby informed her. " But, Algy, what is his precious 
 name?" 
 
 " Leo vulgaris, I should think," ventured Genevra, 
 who hated social celebrities and the process by which 
 they were developed. 
 
 " Not yet," said Lennox, loyal to the friend whose 
 way he was paving. " He's not that sort, I assure 
 you. His name is Herr Comanche." 
 
 " Still formidable," was Genevra's comment. " I 
 came to tell you, Ellen, that it's time to expect your 
 menagerie of guests." 
 
 " Let us go. I am almost excited," replied her lady- 
 ship. 
 
 Rising, she glanced for a second in the mirror over 
 the mantel, and, patting her hair indifferently, went 
 with her friends to receive the artificial people soon 
 thronging through the rooms. 
 
 68
 
 II 
 
 THE BLACK LION 
 
 EAGER to note what her ladyship's first impression 
 of Herr Comanche would be, Algernon Lennox re- 
 mained near at hand for an hour. Then, despite his 
 adroitness, the Marchioness of Rowley abducted him 
 playfully, with many a pat of her perfume-laden fan, 
 and took him away to the ices. 
 
 Lady Denby, as a matter of fact, was much con- 
 cerned lest her promised prize should fail to appear. 
 Genevra was bored. The two were not a little weary 
 of receiving. The crowds, the chatter, the changing 
 pictures of faces, bare shoulders, white fronts of the 
 gentlemen, the sparkle of gems, the parade of be- 
 dizened age, contrasted with and out-coloring youth 
 and beauty, all of this made the brain rebellious and 
 fretful. 
 
 Genevra was beating her soft little palm with her 
 fan, and wishing she dared to crack the inoffensive 
 bauble on the bald, shining heads so numerous about 
 her. Thus engaged she was presently aware that 
 Ellen was tugging at her gown. She turned about, 
 in time to catch the murmur of an introduction, and 
 the name: 
 
 " Herr Comanche." 
 
 69
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 Her bosom was suddenly heaving ; her breath came 
 in hot, quick catches. Mad little thrills ran riot in her 
 being. Bowing before herself and Lady Denby was a 
 tall man with deep-set, half-sad eyes, as brown as a 
 seal, and with a clean-cut face as dark as bronze. 
 
 She knew him instantly Roger ! 
 
 She swayed where she stood so great was the im- 
 pulse to cry out his name and to run to him, holding 
 out her two eager hands for him to take. But his 
 eyes, aside from a kindling of admiration excited by 
 her beauty, betrayed no sign of recognition. 
 
 A man alters little, unless he grow a beard. A girl, 
 full-blossomed as a rose, bears small resemblance to 
 what she was as a bud still maidenly folded. 
 
 Genevra caught her breath and her womanly con- 
 trol of herself with one impulse. She held forth her 
 hand, with at least a show of calm. 
 
 " I am pleased to meet you, Herr Comanche," she 
 murmured. 
 
 " Herr Comanche, your fame is here before you," 
 said Lady Denby, archly. " So often fame is a faith- 
 ful dog that runs before to bark the news of his 
 master's approach." 
 
 " I fear my fame would prove to be one of those 
 low-bridge dogs, those Dachshunds, that barely walk 
 with difficulty," Roger answered. 
 
 He looked towards Genevra, from whose face his 
 TO
 
 THE BLACK LION 
 
 eyes appeared unable long to swing away. She had 
 looked at him steadfastly, longingly, and, blushing 
 at her conduct, had glanced in another direction at 
 last, to bend every faculty to hear his voice. She 
 would not have believed, the moment before he came, 
 that he or any other man could have stirred her na- 
 ture to depths that had lain undisturbed since that 
 day when fate had crossed her path and Roger's. In 
 the crush she had now been surrounded by six or 
 seven men, of all ages, sizes, and mental equipments. 
 
 Lady Denby had found herself swiftly charmed. 
 
 " Seriously, Herr Comanche, I hope " she 
 
 started to say, but the sentence was never completed. 
 
 Lady Burton, with Harold Donegal, her previous 
 season's lion, this one from the literary jungle, 
 made her way to the hostess and introduced her 
 protege. They claimed Lady Denby 's attention for a 
 moment, at the time that Lennox came back upon the 
 scene with three fair ladies, two of whom desired to be 
 presented to his friend. 
 
 " I say, old chap," he said to Roger, " you're 
 deucedly late in coming. Allow me the pleasure of 
 presenting you to the Honorable Miss Melgand, Herr 
 Comanche, and Miss Effingham. You know Lady 
 Fitzhenry already." And he indicated the tallest and 
 most beautiful woman of the trio. 
 
 Roger had, indeed, met Lady Fitzhenry on the Con-
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 tinent, and on several recent occasions in London. 
 She appeared to feel, in fact, the comradeship of an 
 old-time friend. 
 
 " I hope you are going to sing something. We have 
 heard so much about you," said Miss Effingham, 
 laughing perfunctorily. " Singing is so sweet." 
 
 " Such a crush to-night ! isn't it quite a bore ?" 
 said the Honorable Miss Melgand. 
 
 Lady Fitzhenry looked at Roger with ready com- 
 passion. " Herr Comanche, I know the heat must 
 have made you thirsty," she said, with ingenuous 
 charm. " Won't you take me to get an ice ?" 
 
 " With pleasure," said Comanche. 
 
 Lady Fitzhenry a Brunhild in beauty and splen- 
 did physique passed her hand beneath his arm and 
 skilfully guided him clear of further entanglements. 
 
 And yet, as they went, Genevra heard the lady's 
 most caressful tones : " Dear sir, it is strange how 
 happy I dare to be with you. But beware of bring- 
 ing too many besides me to your feet." 
 
 What the answer was Genevra could not hear. 
 
 " Shall I also beware of bringing myself to the feet 
 of too many?" said Roger, who had always found 
 himself amused by this unconventional young widow. 
 " I give you my word, I have more hearts than senses. 
 There is one heart here in my eye, which beats when 
 I look upon beauty. Here in my ear is another, that 
 
 72
 
 THE BLACK LION 
 
 leaps at the sound of an exquisite voice. A third in my 
 brain responds to cleverness. Pray what is a man 
 to do?" 
 
 " Have another in your pocket-book," advised the 
 lady. " Be sure you feel it throbbing at the clink of 
 gold, before you quite give way to the silly flutterings 
 of sentiment." 
 
 " I shall certainly get a heart responsive to wit," 
 he assured her, gayly. 
 
 " Get me an ice, please, first," she suggested. 
 
 Vaguely stirred as to some indefinable emotion, 
 Genevra watched where Lady Fitzhenry led Gordon 
 away. To herself she repeated the bright young 
 widow's words, and felt a flush rising to her face. 
 It could hardly be possible that even a premonition 
 of jealousy was coming thus promptly upon her. But 
 what did it mean, that speech of her ladyship's ? Was 
 Roger pleased? He was smiling; he was chatting 
 with her gayly. 
 
 Genevra's first impulse had been one of pure girlish- 
 ness. She had felt herself starving to run to Roger 
 and give him both her hands, to speak his name, to 
 tell him in one of love's own impulses not only who 
 she was, but also of all the gladness suddenly come 
 upon her thus to find him once again. She fettered 
 her nature, however, and strove to crush the insidious 
 fore-presence of suspicion she felt creeping in her 
 
 73
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 bosom against Lady Fitzhenry. To the men about 
 her she turned a face all smiles, but the soul had 
 stolen forth from her eyes to rove on the errand of 
 wilful love. 
 
 " Such beautiful weather we're having," said one 
 of the men. 
 
 " So I believe," answered Genevra, vacantly. 
 
 " Beautiful weather for golf," said a fiercely whis- 
 kered lord. 
 
 Roger and his fair companion had disappeared in 
 the farther room. Despite herself, Genevra burned 
 with impatience. To her great relief she presently 
 saw that Lennox was making his way towards her 
 through the groups of visitors. Excusing herself 
 from her numerous attendants, she advanced towards 
 Algy, whose pleasure at this bit of kindness was 
 plainly reflected on his face. 
 
 " Were you coming for me ?" she said. " I should 
 like an ice very much." 
 
 " I was hoping you might be thirsty," confessed 
 Lennox. " How do you like him ? or don't you 
 know, as yet?" 
 
 Her cheeks became suffused with color. She glanced 
 away. 
 
 " Like whom ?" she asked, faintly. 
 
 He had noted the blush, but her answer disarmed 
 him, watchful as he was of her every mood. 
 
 74
 
 THE BLACK LION 
 
 " I mean Herr Comanche. Women like him almost 
 invariably." 
 
 " Where did you meet him first ?" she inquired. 
 
 " At the Leipsic conservatory," said Lennox. " The 
 hopes of the school are centred in his future. In 
 composition they have had no such man for years. 
 We were all of us jealous and envious of him at first, 
 but he made us like him, respect him, and hope for 
 his fame, before he went." 
 
 She replied, with assumed indifference, " You seem 
 to like him a great deal." 
 
 " Ah, you have never heard him draw a bow." 
 
 " On what instrument does he play ?" she ventured 
 to ask. " Has he a favorite instrument ?" 
 
 " Oh, he plays on anything, violin, piano, 'cello, 
 and never the same thing twice always something 
 composed on the spur of the moment. He doesn't 
 pretend to play, but he can make a 'cello live." 
 
 Her heart was beating its wings in her breast. 
 
 " There he is now with Lady Fitzhenry," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 The sudden agitation of her bosom, the leap of 
 color to her cheeks, the rapid fanning of her breath, 
 were not altogether lost on Lennox. He chided him- 
 self, however, for his ever too ready conclusions. He 
 found himself absurd. She had known Comanche 
 less than fifteen minutes. The heat of the rooms had 
 
 75
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 brought the red to her face. She was not even look- 
 ing at Comanche now. 
 
 Lennox glanced again where Roger was sitting. A 
 high-browed poet was foisting himself upon Lady 
 Fitzhenry's attentions, even as she chatted with 
 Gordon. 
 
 " They met on the Continent," Algy imparted. 
 " She likes him she always has, and says so frankly. 
 They make a handsome couple, don't they? She 
 threatened once that she would marry him yet." 
 
 " Marry whom ?" Genevra asked him, faintly. 
 
 " Comanche, of course. That rhymster there is a 
 silly ass." 
 
 " Please get me an ice," his companion answered, 
 with apparent unconcern. As a matter of fact, she 
 felt she could not for a moment longer endure Algy's 
 gaze, while her heart was beating so wildly and her 
 nature was all so rebellious, so bearing her whither 
 it listed. 
 
 Half angered at her wholly ungovernable emotions, 
 joyous, nevertheless, in all her being, thus to see him 
 in his splendid manhood, she hardly dared to look 
 where Roger sat, when Lennox had left her standing 
 by the door of the palm-cove alone. 
 
 She felt that all her secret was advertised upon her 
 cheeks, her lips, her very bosom. The light was 
 unendurable. Slipping swiftly out of sight, in the 
 
 7.6
 
 THE BLACK LION 
 
 tiny cove of palms, she sat upon a bench and pressed 
 her hands upon her breast with all her strength. 
 
 From her hidden seat she could see not only Lady 
 Fitzhenry, in all her bold, compelling beauty, but 
 Roger as well, and without herself being seen. 
 Therefore she gave herself over to the luxury of a 
 long, satisfying look. So intent was her gaze, in- 
 deed, that it seemed as if she must have drawn Gor- 
 don's answering glance. He turned his eyes upon her 
 bower as if to penetrate the foliage. She sank back, 
 abashed, blushing, catching her breath in a tiny gasp 
 of confusion. 
 
 Roger had seen her, in truth, as she glided behind 
 the palms. His gaze was baffled now, however, by 
 the shadows in which she was sitting. Indeed, so 
 completely was she hidden that Lennox, returning 
 with the ices, failed absolutely to discover where she 
 was. As he looked the company over he found him- 
 self abruptly made a captive once again by the Mar- 
 chioness of Rowley. 
 
 " Ah, you tempter," she laughed at him, engagingly. 
 " You knew of my weakness for ices. So good of 
 you, really. Come and talk to me here in the corner." 
 
 She took his arm and piloted man and ices to the 
 corner in question, where she held him prisoner with 
 many pretty pranks of antiquity. 
 
 77
 
 Ill 
 
 A THEME FOR A COMPOSITION 
 
 THERE were not a few gentlemen at this evening 
 party who felt that they could worship at the shrine 
 of mammon and beauty in one transaction by idolizing 
 Lady Fitzhenry. At the advent of a group of these 
 worshippers Gordon managed to stroll away. 
 
 With apparent unconcern he approached the green 
 retreat where Genevra was seated. Obviously by 
 accident, when he halted to examine the foliage, he 
 suddenly discovered Miss Harberton, whose dilated 
 eyes were turned upon him in all their glory. 
 
 " What a calm retreat," he said. " May I not come 
 in?" 
 
 " If you wish," answered Genevra. 
 
 She moved along on her bench as he stepped in 
 beside her. A faintness crept in her veins, so ex- 
 citedly fluttered her heart. 
 
 " This is almost a little handful of forest," he said, 
 as he took his place upon the bench. Then he added, 
 frankly, " I dared to hope I should see you again this 
 evening." 
 
 Genevra had no impulses ready now with prompt- 
 ings. She was happy, ecstatically happy, thus to have 
 him at her side, but by the very force of the love 
 
 78
 
 A THEME FOR A COMPOSITION 
 
 which could make her so swiftly forget Lady Fitz- 
 henry, she was overwhelmed to find him so near. 
 
 " Oh, you are very kind to say so/' she murmured. 
 
 He looked at her fairly. Their eyes met for a 
 second. Confused, they both looked down. Roger, 
 however, was instantly gazing on her face, he hardly 
 knew why. He thought he had never beheld a woman 
 so entirely beautiful. Yet beauty had not so enthralled 
 him before. In tKe stress of some wonderful awaken- 
 ing, he failed to analyze the meaning of all that was 
 happening. 
 
 Long as he had hoped that by chance he might one 
 day discover the little Genevra of his happiest dreams, 
 he failed to know her now, when at last her presence 
 was stirring once more all those chords of love and 
 music in his soul. A thousand times he had asked him- 
 self why should not the spirit of constancy guide him 
 yet to the side of Genevra. But inconsistently the man 
 was looking for a graceful child, with a sun-burned, 
 slightly freckled face, eyes fond and fearless, and a 
 maidenly witchery of impulsiveness which would 
 bring her running to greet him. To-night, however, 
 despite the years and all, this beautiful girl beside 
 him, with her lips so red, eyes so honest, with hair so 
 richly golden, and with arms and shoulders so white 
 and softly rounded, this girl made him at last forget- 
 ful of the vision of Genevra, so treasured in his mind. 
 
 79
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " It seems to me I must have met you somewhere 
 before," he said to her after a moment. " May we 
 not have met at Lady Fitzhenry's ?" 
 
 Excitement rose swiftly in her bosom, but the name 
 of Lady Fitzhenry somewhat chilled it all. 
 
 " I hardly think it likely," she answered. 
 
 Why did he not know, by the prompting of his 
 heart, where it was they had met? She added, 
 
 "Have you been in England long?" 
 
 " Several weeks," he told her. Again he said, " I 
 am almost positive we have met somewhere." Her 
 heart rocked like a tiny boat as he looked in her eyes. 
 But he added, " Never mind. I only know I feel that 
 we are quite acquainted. Tell me, do you think a 
 youthful impression could be so sound, so substantial, 
 that a person when grown would confirm it?" 
 
 " I don't feel sure that I understand your question," 
 she replied. Yet some intuition of her heart had 
 darted swiftly to a partial comprehension of what he 
 was thinking. 
 
 Roger was himself amazed that he should ever 
 arrive at his present state of mind. A fear had come 
 upon him suddenly, in the presence of Genevra, that 
 his judgment of to-day might not sustain his boyhood 
 opinions in any degree whatsoever. 
 
 " I mean," he explained, " to ask for your opinion 
 on a question that perhaps I could illustrate thus : Just 
 
 80
 
 A THEME FOR A COMPOSITION 
 
 suppose that a young fellow met a little companion 
 when both were scarcely more than children. Sup- 
 pose that he liked this comrade intensely, and then 
 they were parted. For years he entertains the 
 fondest dreams of that childhood meeting. He 
 becomes a man, and still cleaves to his dreams. 
 The question now is, Would his estimate of to-day 
 sustain that intense liking of the past, or would he 
 be wiser not to put those youthful impressions to the 
 test?" 
 
 He had never confronted himself with this problem 
 before. He had never wished for anything but the 
 realization of that boyhood dream of Genevra. He 
 marvelled at the witchery of this girl who could bring 
 such a question to his lips. He felt himself a traitor, 
 yet recklessly happy and thrilling with a madness of 
 heart and brain that he dared not name. 
 
 Genevra knew what he meant. She feared he must 
 hear the wild beating of her heart. But she looked 
 away and answered, 
 
 " If you had ever had such a dream, Herr Comanche, 
 would you fear to test your your constancy?" 
 
 " I might," he confessed. " A dream may be so 
 much sweeter than waking. A dream may be too 
 precious to shatter. On the other hand, it is only a 
 dream perhaps a delusion. We make fools of our- 
 selves so readily, all through life." 
 6 81
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 A cruel comprehension that he loved Lady Fitz- 
 henry, while still he cherished a little of the memory 
 of their childhood meeting, and so feared to meet 
 herself, lest he find her changed, crept remorselessly 
 to Genevra's heart. 
 
 She said, " You mean that a man or a woman 
 would be a fool to remain constant to a fancy of child- 
 hood, a fancy of liking some one met in childhood?" 
 
 She was pale. In the shadows this escaped his 
 notice. 
 
 " It might be so, and it might not," was his answer. 
 " It would all so much depend upon " 
 
 " On what he found her to be afterwards." 
 
 " Or what she found him to be, equally as much." 
 
 " If one is afraid " she started to say, but he 
 
 interrupted. 
 
 " Not afraid, not so much that. If any one had a 
 beautiful thing, as fragile as a bubble, which was safe 
 in the dark, and which might instantly break in the 
 full light of day, would he not keep it jealously away 
 from all the light ? I only asked you if a test would be 
 wise?" 
 
 " If a man so worshipped a thing in the dark," she 
 said, with suppressed emotion, " if he feared to face 
 the light of day with his judgment of its worth, by 
 all means he would do well to hold to his fancy, 
 making a fool of himself possibly."
 
 A THEME FOR A COMPOSITION 
 
 She had spoken with intensity. 
 
 " A verdict is always harsh," he said. " But what 
 if one who has dreamed, as we say, is now awake 
 has found something else so beautiful that he fears to 
 compare his dream to test his dream under condi- 
 tions which, by comparisons, would render the test 
 so crucial?" 
 
 Genevra knew what he meant by this. She looked 
 up abruptly and beheld Lady Fitzhenry, boldly beau- 
 tiful, superb, magnetic, coming towards the palm. She 
 was looking for Roger, and Roger had glanced ex- 
 citedly, at once, in her ladyship's direction. 
 
 " What a beautiful woman she is," said Genevra, 
 as if spontaneously. " Have you known her long?" 
 
 " I knew her quite well on the Continent," Roger 
 replied. " She is exceptionally kind. Yes, I have 
 known her some time." He paused for a moment and 
 then resumed: "But our subject is being neglected. 
 You have not yet replied to my question. Would a 
 man, awake, as I said, be wise to test his boyhood's 
 dream by a new perhaps a dangerous standard?" 
 
 " If a man has found a woman more beautiful than 
 his dream," she answered, coldly, " advice would be 
 wasted upon him. I trust I have served to amuse 
 you, Herr Comanche." She hesitated a moment, and 
 then added, " Do you know, I have always wished 
 to give a musician a theme for a great composition." 
 
 83
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " What is it ?" he asked, at a loss to answer her 
 otherwise. 
 
 " I must go and find Ellen Lady Denby," she said. 
 
 "But your theme?" 
 
 As she moved away she said, coldly, " Your 
 dream might have suggested the theme, by chance, 
 Constancy." 
 
 He looked at her with half-sad eyes. " My dream 
 did suggest a theme, but not that one, quite." 
 
 " Indeed ? May I ask you what ?" 
 
 He still looked in her eyes as he told her, gravely, 
 
 " It is Paradise Lost." 
 
 They were swept apart on emerging from behind 
 their sheltered nook, for a score of women, old and 
 young, with a hint in their ears that Herr Comanche 
 was a coming man, were lion-hunting all about the 
 house. 
 
 Yet once again, as he found her leaving, Roger 
 came to the side of Genevra. 
 
 " I dare to hope I shall see you again," he said. " I 
 must ask your pardon for having failed to catch your 
 name when I was first presented." 
 
 " Perhaps we may meet again," she said. " My 
 name is Miss Harberton." 
 
 " Miss Harberton ?" he echoed, looking upon her 
 face with glad and eagerly searching eyes. " Not 
 Genevra not Miss Genevra Harberton at last?" 
 
 84
 
 A THEME FOR A COMPOSITION 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Gordon, Genevra," she said, in a strange 
 calm. " Good-night." And, bowing ever so slightly, 
 she was gone. 
 
 " Oh, Herr Comanche, not going ?" cried the voice 
 of Lady Denby. She was close at his side, and smiling, 
 in her genuine friendship. " You will come again, 
 soon? You will come and play, when the house isn't 
 full of people? You will do that, please? Come 
 to-morrow, at three. I have something to suggest 
 that I hope you will like."
 
 IV 
 
 A FRIEND COMES HOME 
 
 AMAZED thus to have found her, baffled when he 
 tried to interpret her words and her attitude, Roger 
 walked away from Lady Minto-Denby's with one 
 burning thought in his brain, Genevra. 
 
 What had he said of that dream of the past ? What 
 'had she answered, half tauntingly, of his fear to test 
 his constancy? Ay, constancy indeed! She had used 
 that word with such significance. He could not, for 
 all his cudgelling, make his memory give up his own 
 speech, that something he had said of a man making 
 a fool of himself, in some way or other, by clinging 
 to a childish fancy. 
 
 Genevra! How she had blossomed! How beauti- 
 ful she was ! It was really Genevra ! No wonder he 
 had thought they must have met before ! 
 
 But he should have known his heart should have 
 told him who she was! What a moment he had 
 missed ! Her loveliness had blinded his eyes and over- 
 wrought the beating of his heart. She had caused 
 his nature so to out-thrill itself that what he felt he 
 had scarcely recognized for the new-sprung love it 
 was. She had looked in his eyes and stormed the cita- 
 del where so long Genevra his little Genevra had 
 
 86
 
 A FRIEND COMES HOME 
 
 ruled alone. Inconstancy? Yes, forgetfulness and 
 almost a reckless new rapture had claimed him, even 
 while he fought to be constant to a dream. But God 
 of joy! it was she! She! Genevra herself! This 
 was constancy gilded with maturer love! 
 
 He thought of this suddenly, and then he thought 
 of one thing more: She knew nothing at all of his 
 state of mind. Therefore, what did she think? At 
 this he felt he must rush incontinently back to Lady 
 Denby's house, secure the direction to Genevra's 
 home, seek her out and tell her swiftly, unmistak- 
 ably that it was she she who had tempted him, 
 tested his constancy won him away in one fleeting 
 moment from his boyhood's love to this, his man- 
 hood's passion ! 
 
 But would she care to hear such a story? Was she 
 loyal herself to that childish fervor that kiss in the 
 forest? He had found her beautiful a target for 
 love and glances of endless desire. As he knew how 
 many roses grow beside the road, hotly blushing to 
 be plucked, so he knew of the throng of eager gar- 
 nerers, hastening headlong forever to gather the fair- 
 est of the blossoms. Surrounded as she was, by scores 
 of men, some of them worthy and as noble as men 
 are moulded, how should she cleave to that dream of 
 an hour, that love of a fleet, mocking moment? 
 
 But he had found her. His heart leaped at that 
 87
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 exultantly, heedless of the doubts, the worries, in his 
 brain. He would see her again. He must see her, 
 speak to her, tell her of what she had done, and what 
 she had been to him year after year. All of his 
 flippancies with Lady Fitzhenry were forgotten. He 
 had no thought for those many hearts he had men- 
 tioned, responsive to beauty, to caressful voices, to 
 wit. The real heart within him, pealing like the bell 
 of his very soul, responded to Genevra, whatsoever 
 she was. He was filled with the vast music of love, 
 so rushing, so world-filling that the motif of doubt 
 and anxiety struggled but faintly through the chords 
 of the great jubilation. 
 
 How he reached his rooms Roger never stopped to 
 think. He lived in a quaint old street, in a quainter 
 old house, the address of which was Mayfair, West. 
 But Mayfair the haughty had drawn itself a little 
 aloof, to a quarter more restricted, though much hum- 
 ble neighborhood thereabouts alluded to itself as part 
 and parcel of this favored portion of London town. 
 
 At the top of the half flight of stairs leading from 
 the hall was a bijou conservatory, containing a foun- 
 tain, a seat, and benches for potted plants. As he 
 mounted the stairs, Roger was waked from his revery 
 by the sight of a strange figure, rising at his approach 
 from the seat near the fountain. It was a man, who 
 had waited his coming. He was as weird a little cari-
 
 A FRIEND COMES HOME 
 
 cature on the human architectural plan as one could 
 well conceive. His legs were amazingly long and thin 
 for a man so small. He seemed to be bifurcated nearly 
 to his chest. Then his body rounded out like a fat 
 little pod, to which long slender arms were attached 
 loosely. To complete his oddities, his neck was long, 
 his head was almost perfectly round, and he had no 
 hair. Not only did he arise the moment Roger ap- 
 peared, but he smile'd till his flat little nose seemed 
 threatened with elimination altogether, so tight down 
 to his face was it drawn by this look of pleasure. 
 
 He ran down the steps to meet his friend, with an 
 enthusiasm akin to that so frequently exhibited in a 
 faithful animal. He gripped Gordon gladly by the 
 hand, running back up to the landing. Down he came 
 again, and up he hastened as before, laughing all the 
 while almost hysterically, almost without sound, but 
 yet so heartily as not to be able to speak a word. 
 
 "Well, well, Fritz, how do you come to be here?" 
 said Roger. " I thought you were comfortably fixed 
 with Seidle." 
 
 Fritz still ran up and down the stairs, panting with 
 gladness, till the top was reached and Roger fumbled 
 in his pocket for the keys to His rooms. 
 
 " Oh, have I found you at last once more ?" said the 
 visitor, in German. " It is you ; it is you !" 
 
 " But I thought you were settled, you Colossus," 
 89
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 said Roger, affectionately. " Why did you come away 
 from Seidle?" 
 
 " Shall I go away ?" asked Fritz, inclining his head 
 to one side and looking at his friend with wistful 
 eyes. " I have no home. You are my home. I have 
 no other home than you." 
 
 " You're a humbug," Roger told him, gently. 
 " Wouldn't Seidle keep you, at his garden ?" 
 
 " When they see me, they laugh," said Fritz, with 
 woe upon his face. " I am such a joke at Seidle's I 
 don't like it so much, and when I don't like it, I don't 
 play so good. When I don't play so good, they tell 
 me, ' Fritz, go home and learn the clarionet.' So I 
 have come home." 
 
 He began to cry, even as he laughed and capered 
 about to show his joy. Roger pushed open the door 
 and bade him enter. 
 
 " Where is your clarionet ?" he said. 
 
 Fritz ran down again to the small conservatory and 
 bounded back up the stairs with the bag which held 
 his worldly possessions. It was not a large recepta- 
 cle. He opened it eagerly and brought forth the vari- 
 ous sections of the instrument in question, as pleased 
 as a child to think Roger had asked him where it was 
 
 " Don't blow it now, Colossus," Gordon cautioned 
 " Perhaps I can get you a place in one of the music- 
 hall orchestras." 
 
 90
 
 A FRIEND COMES HOME 
 
 Fritz appeared not to have heard. He stood with 
 his clarionet in his hand as he stared about the room 
 hungrily. His eyes expanded at the sight of a 'cello, 
 a violin, a piano, and sheets upon sheets of music, not 
 printed, but scored in pencil dots and dashes, in strokes 
 that denoted the frenzy of a hand which had raced to 
 keep pace with a brain through which very comets of 
 musical thought had scorched their way. 
 
 " Not finished?" he said. " Not yet?" 
 
 Roger stood with his hand on a chair. He was so 
 completely absorbed, as his half-sad eyes gazed blankly 
 into space, for the moment, that nothing of what his 
 companion had said had made itself heard. 
 
 " Fritz," he presently inquired, " are you tired ? 
 Can you write a little to-night ?" 
 
 " In my grave I could write for you," said Fritz, 
 dropping his instrument back in the bag precipitately. 
 " Oh, the great labor ! I have come home where is 
 the great labor." 
 
 He went by instinct to the blank score sheets and 
 pencils, even as Roger threw aside his hat and took 
 up his violin. He laid the bow upon the strings with- 
 out so much as a preliminary touch to test their tune- 
 fulness. But for fully a minute he stood motionless. 
 Fritz sat at the table, his eyes intent on Gordon's face. 
 
 Then the theme commenced. It was played so low 
 that an ear outside the door would have failed to 
 
 91
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 catch the notes in continuity. But Fritz caught them, 
 every one, and his hand travelled twitchingly across 
 the paper, as the pencil sped and left its track of fairy 
 footsteps behind it. 
 
 Now slow, now swift, was the measure of the 
 thought which the violin was voicing, but on it went, 
 and the clock in a neighboring steeple tolled for one, 
 and then for two. 
 
 When at length he halted, to think and to plan, 
 Roger stood there still with the instrument held be- 
 neath his chin. The light fell full upon his dark, 
 earnest face, and darker still was its changed reflec- 
 tion from the polished red surface of the violin. He 
 remained thus silent minute after minute. Then his 
 gaze wandered slowly to Fritz. Wearied as he was, 
 beyond endurance, the comical little fellow's head had 
 fallen forward upon the sheets. Fritz was asleep. 
 Faithfully recording, up to the last note, he had dotted 
 the last unfinished phrase on the paper with that skill 
 which had made Roger to marvel so often, but nature 
 had claimed him when the spell was broken. 
 
 Roger laid aside his instrument. He looked at 
 Fritz fondly. Now that the face was calm, it revealed 
 the lines of care and age. That Colossus was old 
 had never before occurred to Roger. While class after 
 class of students had graduated as " Bachelors" and 
 " Masters" of music, Fritz had still remained, a spe- 
 
 92
 
 A FRIEND COMES HOME 
 
 cies of " Janitor of Music," at the Leipsic conserva- 
 tory where Roger had studied. At the death of that 
 kindly Heir Professor who had harbored him for 
 years, Fritz had found himself indeed forlorn. Then 
 Roger had come, not only with a lovable nature and 
 a spirit of companionship and sympathy, but also as 
 one to whom Fritz owed his life. Since that terrible 
 hour on the Alpine glacier, no gratitude, no faithful- 
 ness could be sufficient to satisfy the little German's 
 sense of debt. All the eager affection of his nature 
 was concentrated on Roger. The parting at Leipsic 
 had afflicted Fritz with an almost fatal melancholy, 
 which nothing could dissipate save this coming 
 "home." 
 
 Gordon was tall and powerful. Fritz was small 
 and light. Roger took him up in his arms as if he had 
 been but a child and carried him off to his own narrow 
 bed, where he took off the dusty shoes and covered 
 his guest for what remained of the night. 
 
 For himself, there was still something urgent de- 
 manding thought, a theme in his long composition 
 so subtly fragrant of his love for Genevra, and of 
 doubts and hopes, that to grasp it in musical telling 
 seemed almost beyond him. 
 
 He sat in a chair and closed his eyes. The theme 
 eluded, haunted, soothed, disturbed, till he slept, and 
 smiled at what he dreamed. 
 
 93
 
 V 
 
 A DAY OF LETTERS 
 
 THE morning brought the customary budget of 
 letters and papers from America. Mondays and 
 Thursdays are scored in the memories of all self- 
 exiled wanderers in Britain who hail from " the 
 States." The double knock of the postman sent 
 Roger down-stairs like the boy that he was. Two 
 letters had come for him, one from Doctor Pingle, the 
 other from " little" Teresa Berry, whose writing was 
 never twice the same, since he heard from her at 
 intervals so long between that the improvement re- 
 sulting from her regular attendance at school had 
 time to become decided between these epistles. 
 
 He read Teresa's letter first, for by habit he re- 
 served the best for the last in whatsoever he did. He 
 was always interested in what Teresa wrote. There 
 was genuine sincerity in every line. Invariably, how- 
 ever, she told of the gratitude she felt for what he 
 had done on that terrible night when he found her at 
 the edge of the wood. He would much have pre- 
 ferred an omission of such expressions. Yet he knew 
 it was kind of Teresa always to hope she might yet 
 be so favored by the fates as to be able to perform 
 some service to him or to his. 
 
 94
 
 A DAY OF LETTERS 
 
 He opened his letter from Doctor Pingle with a 
 sense of one partaking of a treat. And the closely 
 written lines did afford him this to an extent unusual, 
 which was saying much. There was always the hearty 
 clap upon the back, the confidence in his powers and 
 genius, which the doctor had gradually confessed; 
 there was always such assurance that he was doing 
 right ; but to-day there was more. 
 
 " Don't think of coming home to me yet, my lad," he 
 read. " Stay till victory perches on your banner. You 
 need not give yourself this worry as to the funds. By 
 all means, if it will quiet your morbid sensitiveness, 
 consider that some day you will win so much that you 
 can pay it back, but let me tell you something, lad. 
 We have had such a boom in our lands throughout 
 the country that I was enabled to sell my two hundred 
 acres, out back of the village, for a sum that seems to 
 me a fortune. Dear Roger, I have more money than 
 I shall ever be bold enough to spend. Let me have a 
 little joy of my fortune. Are you not more to me 
 than a son? Lad, lad, give an old man, a fond old 
 man, this little joy. 
 
 " Deny yourself nothing, if you would please me 
 most. You don't know how much I wish you to 
 succeed. I want you to be a gentleman of whom not 
 only I, but the whole State if not the whole coun- 
 try may be proud. I want you to write that great 
 
 95
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 new composition of yours under conditions of mental 
 ease and bodily health. Ride out often. Walk about 
 in the parks, since you find them of such beauty. Meet 
 nice people, for without, you will under-aim when you 
 touch on emotions, virtues, and weaknesses. Perhaps 
 I should have spoiled you with indulgence earlier. 
 But when I think of the poor little sums on which 
 you have lived and studied, up to a mere six months 
 ago, I yearn over my lad like a silly old woman. Use 
 what I send you, Roger, and make me a glad old 
 man. 
 
 "Dear me, how the time, though it has dragged 
 since your going, has flowed from beneath our feet! 
 Yes, you will, as you say, be twenty-four in a month. 
 But it seems to me your mind is filled enough with your 
 work. Therefore, why not permit the papers, which 
 have waited so long, to remain where they are till 
 you come again home? We could look them over 
 together then, and rejoice if they give you pleasure 
 through the information left for this time by your 
 father." 
 
 Roger had never been certain before that the docu- 
 ments left in the doctor's possession, to be opened on 
 his twenty-fourth birthday, had been supplied by his 
 father. During all these years of close application 
 to his work he had given less thought to the matter 
 than he had as a boy. He was not willing now, how- 
 
 96
 
 A DAY OF LETTERS 
 
 ever, to have the information as to who and what he 
 was deferred in the manner which the doctor had so 
 carefully planned. 
 
 He answered the letter after breakfasting with 
 Fritz. Many pages he filled with accounts of all he 
 was doing, all of which he wrote in his boyish, affec- 
 tionate way. But he also covered a sheet with assur- 
 ances to Doctor Pingle that he would feel the keenest 
 disappointment if he failed to receive that certain 
 envelope, intended for his breaking on the birthday 
 now so near at hand. " The course of my life might 
 depend on what it was meant I should learn at this 
 time," he wrote. " I know that your sense of things 
 sacred in promises will prompt you to place all those 
 papers in my hands as my father desired." 
 
 His writing finished, he completed negotiations 
 securing a room in the house for Fritz, and board at 
 the family table. This arrangement was the more 
 readily affected as the young lady of the house, whose 
 sojourn on earth for a matter of forty-seven summers 
 entitled her to a sense of discrimination, conceived 
 a fascination in the little bifurcated German such as 
 no other man had ever had the honor to engender in 
 her bosom. 
 
 With the faithful Colossus following him dog-like 
 about the place, Roger finally went at the work of 
 composition again and accomplished much. He was 
 7 97
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 greatly pleased that Fritz had come, partially because 
 of the cleverness with which he facilitated the work, 
 but more because of the lingering affection which he 
 felt for the otherwise forlorn little being. 
 
 Engrossed absolutely in the labor that filled all his 
 nature with emotion, he remembered abruptly that he 
 was due at Lady Denby's house at three. He looked 
 at his watch and found it was two o'clock already. 
 There was barely time to dress and run. 
 
 When he sped down the stairs he found that three 
 more letters had come since the post of the morning. 
 He took them all and, tearing them open, read their 
 contents as he went. 
 
 The first was an invitation from Lady Fitzhenry, 
 who hoped he would come to a small dinner-party 
 she was giving on Saturday evening at eight. The 
 second was an invitation to a rose-bud tea, from the 
 Marchioness of Rowley and the Honorable Miss Mel- 
 gand, at five that afternoon. The third was a second 
 thought from Lady Fitzhenry, who would be at home 
 that evening to a few artistic and literary friends 
 whom he might take pleasure in meeting. 
 
 Because he saw in these invitations the possibility 
 of finding Genevra once again, Roger was excited 
 thus to receive them. His heart was beating un- 
 wontedly, as it was, for the hour of three was so near 
 at hand, with all that fate might do, if she would. 
 
 -98
 
 VI 
 
 THE OPENING OF VISTAS 
 
 THE fairest rose in all her beautiful garden was 
 Lady Minto-Denby herself. The gentlemen said so, 
 one after another, as fast as they came. 
 
 There were not very many present this afternoon. 
 It was a perfect day. The chairs and settees on the 
 lawn were most inviting. The house, wide open to 
 the wantoning breeze, was deserted. 
 
 Lady Denby herself, in a great black hat of the 
 Gainsborough school of millinery, sat at ease, chat- 
 ting gayly with an author who had once upon a time 
 made a dramatization of the " Scarlet Letter," which 
 had come within an ace of being played. She moved 
 but little, for the clever Jule Arthur, sometime wizard 
 with a pencil, was making her portrait, against the 
 garden background of color. 
 
 The only actor in London who was rich, and knew 
 enough to remain so, was strolling up and down the 
 grass with a slip of a youth, who had " done" a poem 
 which had titivated all Paris for a week. As he added 
 himself to the number, in the place of delights, Roger 
 looked about him, quite at his ease, yet not entirely 
 without a sense of intruding. His hostess was his 
 
 99
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 only acquaintance there. He walked forward and 
 lifted his hat. 
 
 " How do you do, Herr Comanche ? I am charmed 
 to see you," said her ladyship, extending her hand 
 without otherwise moving. " I am so glad you came. 
 I wish to speak to you of something on my mind. 
 Ned," she added, to the author whose work had ap- 
 proached so perilously near to production, " give your 
 chair to Herr Comanche. He must sit here and tell 
 me many things." 
 
 The author arose and bowed. " With pleasure," 
 he said, and retired gracefully. 
 
 Somewhat embarrassed, Roger bowed in return and 
 took the seat to which his hostess waved him with 
 her fan. 
 
 " What a charming place you have," he said. 
 
 " It's good of you to like it," she answered. " Do 
 you like England? Have you been here long, from 
 Leipsic ?" 
 
 " Not quite six weeks," he told her. " I like it, 
 yes, very much." 
 
 "And you are really composing a wonderful piece 
 of music?" 
 
 " I should hardly dare to estimate its worth," he 
 answered her, laughingly. " The limits of the human 
 brain are so narrow that no man, I think, can both do 
 his work and see it critically at the same time. The 
 
 100
 
 THE OPENING OF VISTAS 
 
 theme is great enough, but that is none of my crea- 
 ting." 
 
 " Mr. Lennox has told me your theme is Paradise 
 Lost. Have you taken the Miltonic conception?" 
 
 Roger nodded. " It is so easy in this world to lose 
 a paradise that a a dream first suggested the possi- 
 bilities of such a composition, and then the poem, so 
 world-felt and so sublimated, lifted my poor weak 
 thought into heights supernal if only I can reach 
 them !" 
 
 Three ladies were coming towards them from the 
 gate. He glanced at them quickly, hopefully. Ge- 
 nevra was not of the number. She had not yet come. 
 His hostess could not have divined his thoughts, and 
 yet she said, 
 
 " Miss Harberton you remember, you met her last 
 night promised to come this afternoon. I told her 
 perhaps you would play for us. I don't know why 
 she isn't here." 
 
 Something sank in Gordon's heart. If Genevra 
 knew he was coming, and chose to remain away, 
 could it be that she did so to avoid him? The pang 
 of the thought was poignant. He smiled, however, 
 and murmured something about his pleasure, when 
 presented to the ladies who had come to where their 
 hostess was seated. 
 
 " Sit down again, Herr Comanche," said her lady- 
 101
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 ship when she had welcomed the ladies and seen them 
 gravitating nearer to the men. " I want you to tell 
 me how nearly finished your composition is." 
 
 " In the rough it is nearly completed," said Roger. 
 " But I could work at it for years, reducing its crudi- 
 ties and making it better." 
 
 " Couldn't you get it ready for public production 
 in three or four weeks ?" 
 
 "Public production?" he echoed, in honest sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Yes. You must. I want you to do so. You see 
 I have taken an interest in your work at once. I 
 think you will do something something highly credit- 
 able. I want you to promise to have your ' Paradise 
 Lost' ready for a great production soon, at the Royal 
 Albert Hall. Will you do it? I asked you to come 
 here to-day to get you to promise." 
 
 Roger was instantly thinking of Fritz, the eager 
 little Fritz, who alone, of all the men he knew, could 
 lend him the aid which the labor of hastening his 
 work to completion for a public recital demanded. 
 
 " Why it would be wonderful !" he said, boy- 
 ishly. " I am willing to work hard, but I don't see 
 how I could manage " 
 
 " Oh, you can leave the management to me," Lady 
 Denby interrupted. " I have a bit of influence. I 
 shall use it. I can get you the hall the opportunity, 
 
 1 02
 
 THE OPENING OF VISTAS 
 
 if only you will complete your composition and make 
 it ready soon." 
 
 It seemed to Roger he was dreaming. He knew 
 nothing of her ladyship's anxiety to create a lion, nor 
 that such a creation must be hastened, if her social 
 set were to enjoy her zoological triumph before the 
 season should end with the hotter weather. He was 
 dazed by the brilliancy of the promise which the thing 
 contained. It was so utterly incredible so much 
 more wild than the wildest of his dreams. 
 
 " But perhaps what I have done would not be 
 good enough," he faltered. " You have not even heard 
 a bar of my music." 
 
 " But I have heard from Mr. Lennox that you have 
 done something superlative," she insisted. " I wanted 
 Genevra to hear you to-day. She is a far better judge 
 than I am. In fact I know very little about music. 
 But I will use the influence, if you will promise to get 
 your work prepared. What do you say?" 
 
 " I should be but a sorry boor to refuse to do my 
 best," he said. " But what shall I do, and how will 
 you feel, if at the end I disappoint you utterly?" 
 
 " You are not afraid of such a finality ?" 
 
 " No. It seems to me the work cannot be wholly 
 bad. It has come from I don't know where. There 
 are some of its moods that I think I could never write 
 again were I to lose the score. But I should be sorry 
 
 103
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 to over-estimate myself, or to be over-estimated by 
 a friend." 
 
 The earnestness with which he spoke marked him 
 for a class far removed from that in which her male 
 acquaintances had their orbit. She felt for a moment 
 the contact of the physical magnetism which emanated 
 from him always. 
 
 " You are good to agree to my proposal," she told 
 him. " It is settled, then, that I may go ahead, and 
 you will make yourself ready for an early production. 
 Now, when will you play for Genevra Miss Harber- 
 ton?" 
 
 She failed to observe the flush of color that rose 
 to the surface, beneath the dark bronze of his face. 
 
 " I shall be pleased to play whenever she shall re- 
 quest me," he answered. 
 
 " Very good. Jule, I am bored with this posing." 
 She arose in her sprightly manner and struck a little 
 gong. " Herr Comanche, are you un-American enough 
 as yet to take tea?" 
 
 " To compromise between extremes, I take a small 
 cup one time and then decline it the next. To-day I 
 indulge, or I do not indulge I have really forgotten 
 which. To be quite impartial I must take half tea and 
 half water." 
 
 He wished to remain. He hoped Genevra would yet 
 appear. But the tiny spoons tinkled like silver clappers 
 
 104
 
 THE OPENING OF VISTAS 
 
 in the dainty bells of Dresden china, the quip and com- 
 pliment of insincerity assumed their many fashions, 
 the afternoon sped away with a fragrance of crushed 
 grass and roses and Genevra failed to come. 
 
 Wild with delight as his flights of hope and ambition 
 were, as he went to his home, Gordon was far from 
 being happy. Genevra knew he would be at Lady 
 Denby's, and she had chosen not to come. He felt the 
 rebuke, or the slight, or whatsoever it was, she had 
 planned to inflict. It all but cancelled the gratification 
 he felt at the sudden, incredible opening of the portals 
 of that musical Valhalla, of the approach to which he 
 had hardly dared to dream. 
 
 For the hundredth time he thought back upon their 
 meeting and of what she had said. He saw that her 
 words had but drawn him out. He had nearly con- 
 fessed that his life had been lived for that dream of 
 the day when he met her, and played for her there 
 in the forest, on the stump of the tree his first 
 'cello. She had laughed at him. This he could see. 
 All she had said of constancy and of meeting again 
 had been but to mock him. 
 
 By what right had he hoped that in womanhood 
 she would still be clinging to the thought of that 
 moment of childish impulsiveness and folly? Doubt- 
 less she now felt ashamed of that mood of weakness, 
 all but forgotten till he came again across her path 
 
 105
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 in this, her sphere of pride and triumph. There had 
 been no compact between them. There had never 
 been a reason why either should remember that mere 
 silly prank of a boy and a girl. That he had so treas- 
 ured the memory argued nothing, save that a man may 
 be a sentimental fool. 
 
 His sensitive nature was hurt, deeply. His pride 
 became perforce his armor. His schooling, harsh and 
 severe, had produced its foil of iron in his soul. He 
 went home with sentiment apparently dragging at the 
 wheel of disdain, but his soul was more than ever in 
 the work of concluding his " Paradise Lost." 
 
 1 06
 
 VII 
 
 A WIDENING BREACH 
 
 GENEVRA could have slapped the face of Madam 
 Fate with rare satisfaction, for fate it was that pre- 
 vented her from taking taking tea at Lady Denby's on 
 the afternoon of Roger's visit. Her father, having 
 undergone one of his inopportune recurrences of 
 memory, had left his books and his microscope long 
 enough to keep an engagement to spend a day with his 
 sister, at Datchet. On occasions like this, Genevra, 
 together with his night apparel and a novel which 
 he never read was indispensable. He might, indeed, 
 have dispensed with the novel on a pinch, but to move 
 about away from home without his child would have 
 been as quaint as to walk without his shoes. 
 
 Never, since that day when she had come so near to 
 seeing Roger Gordon hanged on a tree, had Genevra 
 been so excited as the meeting at Lady Minto-Denby's 
 had made her. Her slumbrous eyes were alight with 
 a new, strange fire. Her full red lips were parted 
 still, as if she could not otherwise get the breath that 
 the leaping of her heart required. Her nature de- 
 manded that she see him again. She loved him, do 
 what she might. She must therefore know, before 
 
 107
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 she could make herself believe him false to that first 
 sweet day of their meeting, know all that he was, 
 and all he had meant by his half-confessions. 
 
 Every word he had said at Lady Denby's she re- 
 hearsed a hundred times over. His speeches brought 
 her hopes, despairs, and needs for seeing him soon. 
 If only some of his words had been left unsaid, how 
 sweet many others would have sounded! He had no 
 right, she told herself, impetuously, so to rob her 
 again of the love of her heart, unless his own gave 
 back again a passion as deep as he took. 
 
 He had been at a disadvantage, it was true. She 
 had known him at once, and he had failed to recognize 
 her. That was more than half his fault. He should 
 have known. But part of the fault was her own. She 
 might so easily have let him know. And what a differ- 
 ence that might have made ! 
 
 She clung tenaciously to what he had said he was 
 writing in his music. She had felt what it meant to 
 his better self by the way he had looked when he told 
 her his theme was of Paradise Lost. Oh, if his memory 
 of that childhood love had lasted so long and meant 
 so much, how deeply indeed his dream had entered 
 his life! If she had been so much as that to him, 
 really, it could never be possible he would fling it all 
 away in lightness. It would certainly have marked his 
 heart as hers had been marked, with a mark to last 
 
 108
 
 A WIDENING BREACH 
 
 forever, in that one brief hour of theirs, years before. 
 This was her hope her all. 
 
 She was sorry now she had left him so abruptly, the 
 second he knew who she was at last. This was one 
 of the whys she must meet him again without delay. 
 She felt she had been unfair, almost mean. What was 
 he thinking, all these hours since then? 
 
 In one starving moment she thought of all those 
 things he had said, and demanded that she be the one 
 the some one at present dispelling his dream of the 
 past. Those words should not have meant any one 
 else they shouldn't! But, if they did her heart 
 would break! 
 
 And yet when she and her father came back to town, 
 on Saturday morning, the first letter she found among 
 the many on the table was one sealed with the crest of 
 Lady Fitzhenry. It was merely an invitation to the 
 dinner-party to be given that evening, but it brought 
 back that moment in which she had felt that Roger 
 had fallen a victim to this ravishing beauty's charms. 
 A fierce little hatred for Lady Fitzhenry burned up in 
 her breast. Perhaps she had also invited Roger. 
 Indeed, this was more than likely. It was almost a 
 certainty. If she had, what would it mean? 
 
 Genevra stamped her little foot at this. She hated 
 Lady Fitzhenry! Roger wouldn't go! But why 
 why shouldn't he go ? He would, of course he would. 
 
 109
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " I won't go !" said Genevra. " I won't I won't !" 
 
 But Genevra was a woman. Promptly at the hour 
 of eight the guests arrived, nearly together. All had 
 come, with the single exception of Herr Comanche. 
 Genevra was glad so exultantly glad. Algy Lennox 
 was there, and she smiled at him, out of her pleasure 
 at the absence of Gordon. The appointed time for 
 commencing the dinner passed, however, and still their 
 hostess waited. Genevra, all alertness, watched to see 
 what this delay might signify. 
 
 The door-bell rang. A faint smile passed over the 
 face of Lady Fitzhenry. 
 
 " Mr. Lennox, will you take Miss Harberton, if you 
 please?" she said, and moving swiftly among her 
 guests, she paired them off adroitly, and fluttered back 
 to the door to head the procession to the dining-room 
 beyond. Almost at the threshold she met the delin- 
 quent for whom she had waited, Roger. 
 
 Genevra beheld him, tall, dark, handsome, perhaps 
 a trifle tired about his deep-set eyes, and her heart 
 nearly fainted. With a smile of welcome their hostess 
 took his arm and gently turned him about. 
 
 "Will you take me?" she said. "You are just in 
 time." 
 
 A trifle confused by the formal array of guests, to 
 none of whom he was presented, Roger had not so 
 much as an opportunity to glance the company over, 
 
 JIO
 
 A WIDENING BREACH 
 
 till he found himself at the table beside her ladyship. 
 When he took his seat with the others, he at last dis- 
 covered Genevra, far down the table, talking and 
 laughing gayly with Lennox. A bright spot of color 
 made her cheeks glorious. Her slumbrous eyes, thus 
 seen in profile, were so lustrously beautiful that it 
 seemed as if he could never look anywhere else. 
 
 But she scorned to flash an answer to his yearning 
 gaze. She had looked at him, pleadingly, longingly, 
 for a time that seemed to her an age, but not so much 
 as a glance had he deigned to give in response. He 
 was false! He loved that creature beside him! 
 Humiliated, angered, ready to sob, Genevra had turned 
 her eyes away and would look no more where he 
 was. 
 
 Remembering all that Lennox had told her of Gor- 
 don and Lady Fitzhenry, she hated them both. If he 
 could be so happy, so could she. Algy Lennox was 
 willing to help. She checked an impulse to laugh 
 aloud, hysterically. Instead she smiled at Lennox, who 
 had not the penetration to see how distraught she was. 
 Nothing should tempt her or bribe her now to look 
 where Roger was sitting. 
 
 And Gordon, beholding her gay with Lennox, point- 
 edly avoiding the courtesy of even a nod, read the con- 
 firmation of his fears and doubts already gnawing at 
 his heart. He could have groaned for the anguish of 
 
 in
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 that moment. He had hoped even since that Thurs- 
 day afternoon at Lady Denby's garden tea hoped that 
 her absence had not been intentional that something 
 would yet explain it away and leave them at least 
 where they stood when last they parted. He had 
 worked since then in a fever of alternating doubt and 
 hope. He had sounded the depths of despair, he had 
 scaled the pinnacles of a joy sublime, and in such a 
 mood as this he had roughly finished his composi- 
 tion. 
 
 The chatter of conversation from many different 
 centres began at once. 
 
 " Herr Comanche, you were naughty not to come on 
 Thursday evening," said the hostess in her sweetest 
 mood. 
 
 " I thought your friends would forgive me," said 
 Roger. 
 
 " Yes, but what of me ? Did you think I should do 
 the same?" 
 
 " Why not ? There was one less to divide yourself 
 among." 
 
 " On the contrary," she assured him, " had you come 
 I should have devoted myself to one only. As it was, 
 I was bored with such a division as you speak about." 
 
 Gordon was not a little amazed at her candor. He 
 had not yet recovered from his first surprise at finding 
 himself her honored guest. He looked at her half 
 
 112
 
 A WIDENING BREACH 
 
 inquiringly, and met such a kindling glance from her 
 eyes that he felt the color rising to his face. 
 
 " Then your escape was providential," he mur- 
 mured. " When a fit of work is on me, I am worse 
 than indifferent company. Therefore I look for your 
 pardon." He laid his finger across the mouth of his 
 glass, at the downward dip of a bottle's head. 
 
 " Don't look in an empty glass," she said. " Have 
 a little of the wine." 
 
 " It is wine enough to be here," he answered. " A 
 drink would dull the fragrant exhilaration." 
 
 Lady Fitzhenry knew better. With fumes gone to 
 his head she always found it easier to go to a man's 
 imagination, or his heart. But she could not insist. 
 
 " I had thought you were not an idle flatterer, Herr 
 Comanche," she told him. 
 
 " Can one be called idle when employed at anything 
 even flattery?" he parried skilfully. 
 
 " Your reluctance for parting with a compliment 
 would make me prize even a small one," she said, 
 smiling upon him bewitchingly. " Are you not aware 
 that to poor weak woman compliments are the nectar 
 of life?" 
 
 " I had always believed that goddesses live on am- 
 brosia," Roger said, with gravity. " I fear my wit 
 would furnish less than the bread and butter of com- 
 pliments." 
 
 8 113
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " I never knew a man who could rightly appraise 
 such commodities. You should bring me a few of 
 your samples." 
 
 " If I parted with my samples I should make myself 
 insolvent," said Roger. 
 
 " You mean, plainly, that you will give me no compli- 
 ments," she said, archly. " You are honest, if cruel. 
 You are also unique ; therefore I must like you whether 
 I will or no. But I ask you, is this coercion fair ?" 
 
 " As fair as I am," he answered, " and fairer than 
 many deductions." 
 
 "You are so outrageously discreet," she told him, 
 and, turning to a much bewhiskered lord who sat at 
 her left, she said, " I beg your pardon/ 
 
 His lordship repeated, " I was saying, it is quite the 
 season for golf." 
 
 The glance that Roger sent to where Genevra was 
 sitting found her even more animated, bright, and kind 
 to Lennox than before. Her own little half-hopeful 
 look in his direction, a minute earlier, had destroyed 
 all possibility of a truce between them. It was posi- 
 tively indecent, Genevra told herself in anger, for 
 Roger and Lady Fitzhenry to look such unbridled 
 admiration for each other in company. 
 
 "4
 
 VIII 
 
 A FIRST VIOLIN 
 
 THE dinner, by a stroke of fortune, Gordon thought, 
 came to an end at last. The ladies arose with one 
 accord and left the room, while the men accepted 
 cigars from the butler, shifted their chairs to postures 
 of ease, assembled in pairs and groups, and commenced 
 to smoke, and to drink in earnest. 
 
 " I fancy I met you at the Minto-Denby's," said the 
 whiskered lord to Gordon. "Do you golf?" 
 
 " Not often," said Roger, who had never known the 
 difference between a caddy and a bunker. 
 
 " Huh ! I can recommend Surrey. Fine country 
 for golf." He nodded affably and made his way to 
 the whiskey and soda. 
 
 Roger left the end of the table and went to where 
 Lennox was lighting a flat cigarette. 
 
 " How are you, old chap ?" said Lennox. " Deuced 
 rapid strides you're making into the graces of her 
 ladyship." 
 
 " Your introduction is the badge that wins me any 
 favor," Roger assured him. " I want you to do some- 
 thing more. I need your help." 
 
 " So Gulliver may have said to the pigmies," Lennox 
 replied. 
 
 us
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " This is a very humble Gulliver addressing the 
 Brobdignagians," Gordon said, with a smile. " I want 
 you not only to give me an orchestra, but to play first 
 violin yourself." 
 
 " I say ! Sit down and say that again. An orches- 
 tra? Whatever for, old chap?" 
 
 " Lady Denby has asked me to give that composi- 
 tion, you know, my ' Paradise Lost,' in the Royal Albert 
 Hall, and I want you to play first violin, and get me, 
 or help me to get, an orchestra together at once, all 
 save one clarionet." 
 
 " My word !" said Lennox, staring at his friend in 
 amazement. 
 
 " Yes, it is a wonderful piece of luck a miracle, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 " Rather ! You are a wonderful chap. Awfully 
 good of you to ask me to play." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Roger. " There is no one I ever 
 knew that I'd rather have to help me get the effect I'm 
 after. I have wished a thousand times I could play as 
 you do, Algernon." 
 
 " Thanks, old man, but your music will still go on 
 after I'm dead and forgotten a hundred years." 
 
 "Oh, never! I know better. But you will do it? 
 You'll play?" said Gordon, eagerly. 
 
 " I will, Comanche. To be sure I will and honored 
 to do it." 
 
 116
 
 A FIRST VIOLIN 
 
 " And you'll help me to get the others ? I want 
 everything the more in the orchestra the better. Do 
 you know of a good lot of men ?" 
 
 " I know a selected organization. They've gone in 
 for art for art's sake, and that sort of rot; they can 
 do the work, they do want a lot of beating. They 
 are half of them German, some Hungarians, and some 
 bally good Britishers, like myself." 
 
 " Good. I knew you would know what to do and 
 how to help me out. When can we get them ? I want 
 the first rehearsal soon." 
 
 " Next week. Say Wednesday afternoon. Would 
 that answer?" 
 
 " For trials, yes. I may want to make a few changes, 
 but maybe not. I hope not. I should like to have 
 them arrange a date for the first rehearsal as soon as 
 they can." 
 
 " Right you are. I shall see their manager to- 
 morrow no, Monday." He added, in a moment, " I 
 say, old fellow, I'm jolly well glad you've got such a 
 chance. Your fortune's as good as made." 
 
 "Gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?" said a man 
 who had assumed the duties of spokesman, and, turn- 
 ing to the bewhiskered lord, as they started away, he 
 added, " Rare good sort, that lady you took in to 
 dinner." 
 
 His lordship's eye almost lighted. " Grand woman 
 117
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 at golf," he said, and they passed from the apartment 
 which they had hung with their banners of smoke. 
 
 The ladies were found to be amusing themselves 
 with a dog that " stood on guard," " saluted her Maj- 
 esty," and " died for the Queen." These tricks the 
 beast continued to perform by himself, even after all 
 had ceased to pay attention to his antics. At length, 
 in disgust, the creature crawled off and sulked beneath 
 the lounge. 
 
 Cleverly avoiding a movement on the part of Lady 
 Fitzhenry to corner him, Gordon presently found him- 
 self confronted by Lennox and Genevra, come upon 
 him while they too were unaware of his near presence. 
 
 He would still have managed to pass, with a smile 
 at Lennox, but the latter halted, intent upon a little 
 test which the lurking jealousy within him chanced to 
 prompt. 
 
 " I say, you two must remember you met only 
 Wednesday night," he said. " Miss Harberton, you 
 know Herr Comanche?" 
 
 "Great pleasure," Gordon murmured, in confusion, 
 as he bowed. 
 
 " We know each other quite well," said Genevra, 
 coldly. " Really, Mr. Lennox, I must be saying good- 
 night to Lady Fitzhenry." 
 
 She bowed as they passed, and Roger was left there 
 chilled to the core of his heart. 
 
 lift
 
 IX 
 
 THE DARK HOURS 
 
 THE hour of Gordon's recital was nearly at hand, 
 and Roger and Genevra had not met since the night 
 at Lady Fitzhenry's party. She was the first to see 
 him as he came across the lawn at Lady Denby's on 
 the last afternoon before the production of his work. 
 
 He was wan, rather than pale, and his eyes appeared 
 more than usually sad and deeply set. The weariness 
 expressed in his face and walk advertised itself to 
 Genevra till her heart yearned over him maternally. 
 She knew that close application to his labors had ex- 
 hausted much of his vital force, but she was not aware 
 it was his heart-soreness that had robbed him of his 
 spirit. 
 
 He and Fritz had toiled unceasingly with orchestra- 
 tions and changes in the composition. Roger had also 
 expended hours drilling the numerous musicians, 
 already in training under his masterful guidance, to 
 interpret his musical creation. He had tried to forget 
 that this Genevra of the present was the same Genevra 
 he had known so long before. There was sweetness 
 left in memory, of which the present was so barren. 
 There was bitterness in the cup of to-day such as his 
 dream, even without a promise of realization, had 
 
 119
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 never known. But he found it impossible to divide 
 that little Genevra of his boyhood from this proud, 
 regal young woman he had found at the end of his 
 search. And the bitter and sweet of reality and dream 
 mingled, till neither the one nor the other could be 
 wholly definite. He loved her still more than he had 
 loved her as a boy, or throughout his long years of 
 waiting. Therefore he clung to this present, harsh as 
 he found it, and had no peace. 
 
 Lady Denby hastened forward to meet him as he 
 came from the gate. She was confident of success at 
 last. Merely to give a recital at Albert Hall, where 
 all England's elite would applaud his effort, no matter 
 how far from great it might prove, would do the work. 
 She thought, however, she saw more than a negative 
 success promised in Herr Comanche's earnestness and 
 modesty. The recifal had been advertised with an 
 effectiveness far exceeding anything possible with 
 printer's ink; the house was sold out at preposterous 
 prices ; the world of society, culture, and music would 
 sit at the feet of her protege, where he could keep 
 them, if he had but the power and the genius. 
 
 Nevertheless, her ladyship was excited. A down- 
 right fiasco would be disastrous, terrible. She knew 
 she risked much, thus to present a bronze-complex- 
 ioned Red-Indian from the wilds of the States. If he 
 failed signally, she would go to the Continent for a 
 
 120
 
 year. But if only he could win success what a 
 triumph, what a fad, her Red-Indian would instantly 
 become ! 
 
 " I am so glad to see you, Herr Comanche," she 
 said, in all sincerity. " Ana how is the work ? Are 
 you not a bit tired? Does your orchestra satisfy you 
 now? Quite? I have been dying to hear just one 
 rehearsal, but I haven't. I have kept away bravely 
 for a woman. I do hope everything will go smoothly 
 and just as you want it! You must come and sit down 
 and have a cup of tea. It will do you good, really. 
 Indeed, you need it!" 
 
 " You are far too kind," said Gordon, quietly. " I 
 came to report that everything seems to be heading as 
 well as one could expect. It all depends now on the 
 worth of what I have written. If it fails," he hesi- 
 tated and a faint smile passed across his face "if it 
 fails, it and I and my hour will soon be forgotten. The 
 failures consigned to oblivion must find themselves in 
 a large company." 
 
 " That sounds so pessimistic. You are not discour- 
 aged, Herr Comanche ? You are only tired, I hope. It 
 does take it out of one to work so hard and constantly. 
 You are a bit worn, that's all, of course?" 
 
 " That's all," he echoed. He had seen Genevra hesi- 
 tate and turn away, to talk with the Honorable Miss 
 Melgand, who had come to sip a cup of tea. He had
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 not been further hurt she had made him already 
 numb to woundings ; his weariness and mental fatigue 
 had completed the dulling of his feelings. He added, 
 in a moment, " The ego within me is too hopeful to 
 contemplate defeat for to-morrow evening, but we 
 never know. A man may fail in more ways than one." 
 
 " I feel so glad of that ego," Lady Denby told him, 
 earnestly. " I cannot see failure anywhere within your 
 sphere. Have I not, indeed, shown you my trust?" 
 
 " In a manner so generous that I shall never forget 
 it never fail in my sense of gratitude," he said. 
 
 " Oh, dear me, don't spoil me like that," she said, 
 with a pretty smile. " Now, how will you have your 
 cup of tea to-day ?" 
 
 " I will have you drink it, to the success of the work 
 made possible by a kind and modest woman." 
 
 " Now, what nonsense," she said. " You must drink 
 it yourself. You need it, I know. Genevra," she called 
 to the girl, who was passing near by with Miss Mel- 
 gand, " come here and induce Herr Comanche to drink 
 some tea." 
 
 Genevra could not refuse to stop. 
 
 " But I really, I would rather not interfere with 
 Herr Comanche's tastes, or inclinations," she said. " A 
 man always knows what he wants, so much better than 
 we." 
 
 " You mean they think they know, my dear. I want 
 122
 
 THE DARK HOURS 
 
 you to sit here and tempt him. He's tired, with all of 
 his working. Miss Melgand, I'll give you those tickets 
 now, if you'll please come to the house for a moment." 
 
 She arose at once. Her sprightly manner was per- 
 suasive. She always had her way. She walked Miss 
 Melgand off, and Genevra could do nothing but obey. 
 She sat down, her heart like a bird suddenly caught 
 and held in the hand. 
 
 " How will you have your tea?" she managed to 
 say, without looking up. 
 
 " Any way the easiest way to mix it," he answered, 
 a little hoarsely. 
 
 The easiest way the quickest way to mix it. He 
 wanted to finish an unpleasant bit of business. She 
 knew it. Oh, if only she could hate him! She did 
 hate him. He had done every possible thing to wound 
 her. She bit her lip, which would have trembled. She 
 could be as cold and disdainful as he and as hateful ! 
 She poured a cup of the brew, without either cream or 
 sugar. 
 
 " I couldn't do it more quickly," she said, as she 
 placed it where he could take it. Then without real- 
 izing how it would sound she added, " I hope it won't 
 detain you long." 
 
 He forgot what his own remark had been, which 
 partially induced this speech. Therefore the poignancy 
 of her words was the more complete. For a moment, 
 
 123
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 however, he could not believe she had actually dis- 
 missed him. But there was nothing else it could mean. 
 
 " It shall not, since you wish it," he said, in his 
 calm, low voice, and rising, he bowed. " I shall go at 
 once. Good-day." 
 
 She looked up, startled, and saw him turn away. 
 His profile only was towards her. How classical 
 how beautiful it was! It fascinated, held her en- 
 thralled. Yet she noted the look of sadness about his 
 eyes and the weariness written on his face. 
 
 A cry arose to her lips the cry of her heart, but 
 she choked it back. He had wanted to go; he had 
 gone. She had said what did she say? 
 
 A light of beseeching blazed in her eyes for a 
 moment, and then it died away. He was cruel. He 
 was brutal, to treat her thus. The cup of tea she had 
 poured for him stood there untouched refused. 
 
 She was unaware that Lennox, who had come in 
 time to witness the scene between herself and Roger, 
 was watching her narrowly now. As through a haze 
 she saw that Gordon met Lady Denby, who was now 
 returning to the garden, and that he bade her good-by 
 and was going. Unable to bear the thought of being 
 spoken to by any one, she left the table at once and 
 walked quickly away to the farther side of the pear- 
 trees back of the hedge. 
 
 Lennox, when he strolled around to come upon her 
 124
 
 THE DARK HOURS 
 
 accidentally, found her weeping, in anger, and yet as 
 if her heart would break. He knitted his brows, but he 
 prudently withdrew. 
 
 It stood revealed the whole situation. She loved 
 Comanche. He had felt it earlier; he knew it now. 
 His jealousy had made itself ready before. It leaped 
 upon friendship promptly. This thing was wholly 
 unworthy of Comanche. He would not have believed 
 the man would step in to rob him thus. 
 
 But perhaps, since Genevra it was who was vexed 
 to the point of tears, Comanche was not so much to 
 blame, at least not a deliberate robber. She cared for 
 him, and apparently her feelings met with no response. 
 It lay all with Genevra. Still, if Comanche had not 
 come where she was, she would never have been so 
 foolish. And Comanche had asked him to help in 
 making the " Paradise Lost" a triumph and himself 
 a lion of genius ! 
 
 125
 
 X 
 
 A MAN'S TEMPTATION 
 
 HAVING pounced upon friendship, jealousy clung 
 to its prey. When Lennox went home he was no 
 longer able to think coherently or justly of Gordon's 
 attitude towards Genevra. If she loved Comanche 
 now, she would doubtless, in the way of all sentimen- 
 tal and impressionable women, idolize him when he 
 should stand upon the pinnacle of such a success that 
 all society would turn to do him homage. 
 
 That his work was great Lennox believed, nay, felt 
 and knew. He had rejoiced in its power, up to this 
 moment, for was not Comanche, in a manner, his own 
 discovery? Had he not espoused his cause and intro- 
 duced him to Lady Denby? This made the present 
 situation all the more galling. 
 
 A faithful, generous friend, under normal condi- 
 tions, Lennox had given to Gordon as sound an affec- 
 tion and as honest an admiration as one man may well 
 extend to another. On the other hand, he had loved 
 Genevra in this straightforward, honest manner of his 
 for more than a year. That she liked him he had long 
 believed. That she loved him sufficiently well to be- 
 come his wife he had never dared as yet to imagine. 
 But she would learn she must some day respond to 
 
 126
 
 A MAN'S TEMPTATION 
 
 his never-failing thoughtfulness and desire to make 
 her happy, if this silly business with Comanche should 
 not ruin everything. 
 
 He had no desire to drag Comanche down, to belittle 
 his coming achievement, but thus to have Genevra re- 
 garding the man, and now possibly to have her still 
 further wrought upon by what he would win on the 
 following night, was quite too much for a man to 
 endure with complacency. 
 
 Lennox was returning home early even now, in 
 response to a promise he had made himself that he 
 would practice once again for an hour on some of the 
 passages in Comanche's " Paradise Lost" intrusted to 
 his care as first violin. With many conflicting emo- 
 tions he came to his rooms, and mechanically turned 
 to the sheets of music. He looked at them vaguely. 
 Impatiently he walked across the room. Before the 
 window he halted, and with hands thrust in pockets 
 stared out in the street, but with a vacant gaze. He 
 had half a mind to refuse to play at Comanche's recital. 
 To beg off suddenly to contract a headache would 
 not be a difficult matter. It would be a wretched trick, 
 he knew, but his place could be filled. 
 
 Across his mental vision then came the look he could 
 see on Comanche's face in his eyes as he learned 
 of the dastardly desertion at this, the eleventh hour. 
 No! He could not turn traitor like that. Comanche 
 
 127
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 was such a trusting, lovable fellow. Damn it ! a man 
 would feel himself such a brute ! Moreover, Comanche 
 would fill the vacancy, if he did desert. Indeed, one 
 violin would hardly be missed. There were scores of 
 men who could play his part. The large success of the 
 composition did not depend on so insignificant a matter 
 as the absence or presence of one trained musician. 
 
 Returning to the sheets of the score again, he took 
 up his violin, turned a laggard string, and went swiftly 
 through the parts with which he felt familiar. 
 
 Thus running through the sheets, fingering, more 
 than actually playing, he came to the passage which 
 concerned him most. Original and daring to the last 
 degree, Comanche had employed every possible means 
 to acquire his effects. Not infrequently he had left 
 the whole expression to a single instrument, at various 
 points throughout his composition. It was one of these 
 with which Lennox was working. 
 
 Short though the passage was, a mere trio of 
 phrases, its importance was complete. It was a slen- 
 der thread on which the composer had dared to hang 
 the whole fabric of his work. How vital it was Lennox 
 fully comprehended. He had even arisen in the night 
 to try it again and again, after having spent an hour 
 upon it before retiring, so much did the notes convey, 
 so eager had he been that the utmost of their power 
 should fall without blemish from his instrument. 
 
 128
 
 A MAN'S TEMPTATION 
 
 He played this now. He worked with it, felt for its 
 subtleties. Filled as his mind had been with the con- 
 flict between his loyalty and his jealousy, his thoughts 
 this evening were uncontrollable. He saw the notes 
 which Roger had written, but there was mockery be- 
 tween them. The mood of the theme ceased to be 
 Gordon's; it was his. 
 
 Even as he played, some devil of rebellion raced 
 through his brain. He sawed at his violin with a 
 savage bow, and whipping the phrase he was playing 
 from the strings, he suddenly fingered a few mad notes 
 which the jealousy on him provoked. The notes were 
 frivolous, flippant, yet they fitted what had gone before 
 as if in natural sequence. There was something dia- 
 bolical in the ease with which he had foisted in these 
 spurious notes, and in the sickening force which they 
 had to pervert the whole motif of the composition 
 and to bring it all suddenly down to the cap-and-bells 
 of music. 
 
 Lennox stood amazed at himself, as he made this 
 discovery. So well did he know the arts of composi- 
 tion that he realized, as no layman could possibly have 
 done, the power for havoc which this accident had 
 placed in his grasp. So near did sublimity hang to the 
 ludicrous that just the trifling alteration of a bar could 
 topple the whole great temple of beauty from its place. 
 Moreover such bathos as this would render of the 
 9 129
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 entire thing would so crash upon Comanche's head 
 that he would never be able to rebuild his structure in 
 its majesty. He would stand appalled. He would lose 
 control of his orchestra. He would go to pieces and 
 fail, in the very midst of his triumph. 
 
 The thought was terrible to Lennox. It was wild, 
 absurd impossible. Yet he played the passage again 
 as he had before, and it sounded more fatally flippant 
 than he had thought at first. The sweat broke out 
 on his temples ; his heart knocked within him violently. 
 He went to the window on his tiptoes, guiltily, and 
 looked out as if to assure himself that Comanche was 
 not in the street below, listening. Then he went to 
 his door, opened it, looked out in the hall, and closed 
 it again without a sound. 
 
 He was alone. There was no one to hear him do 
 this deed. He was trembling ; his mouth grew parched 
 as he came to where the sheet of music lay. He could 
 see where those devil's own notes would spot the lines, 
 if he wrote them in. There was no need so to jot them 
 down. He could play them without such a guidance. 
 An accident, a moment of mental aberation, would 
 explain the act. It was such a trifling matter such 
 an easy way to render Comanche less god-like in 
 Genevra's eyes. 
 
 With his violin beneath his chin Lennox tried to play 
 the passage as Roger had scored it on the paper. He 
 
 130
 
 A MAN'S TEMPTATION 
 
 shook; his fingers were nerveless, wet with perspira- 
 tion. Once more he played those interlarded notes. 
 He placed the instrument quickly on the table and 
 leaned against the mantel. 
 
 It was all Comanche's fault his own doing. Why 
 had he dared to trust his whole great theme to a single 
 violin? It was a musical sword of Damocles, swung 
 from a filament of sound. He had made the tempta- 
 tion too strong to be resisted. A man could conquer 
 himself to some extent. He, Lennox, might have 
 abandoned the whole obligation to play at the very 
 last minute. He had resisted that but this was so 
 different. This was fair. There was love and war to 
 make it fair. Every man must take care of himself! 
 Lennox knew in his heart that the injury he now con- 
 templated to the composition would prove irreparable, 
 fatal in the blow it would strike. He could not abso- 
 lutely resolve to do this dastardly thing which lay in 
 his power; that is to say, he did not admit or state to 
 himself that he would commit this murder on Co- 
 manche's music, but he knew that he would not be 
 able to play that passage correctly. 
 
 For the last time he took up his instrument. Those 
 notes of fiendish ridicule like so much negro patter- 
 music danced mockingly from the strings. 
 
 131
 
 XI 
 
 ROGER'S RECITAL 
 
 LIKE the inside of the large round end of a most 
 prodigious egg, the Royal Albert Hall's interior arched 
 upward to a vault wherein a cluster of stars would not 
 have seemed inappropriate. Its vastness was the more 
 impressive for the throngs upon throngs of men and 
 women so held and belittled in its spaciousness. What 
 a dark, breathing mass those human beings made ! 
 
 The floor of the hall was a firmament of faces in a 
 setting of black, only partially broken by the white or 
 vari-colored gowns of the ladies. Above them the 
 tiers on tiers rose upward towards the vault itself, all 
 of them so crowded that the brain refused to take in 
 the numbers. 
 
 As their wealth descended, the people in the hall 
 had ascended. But even the topmost gallery was filled. 
 Many persons stood behind the more fortunate holders 
 of seats. It is amazing what thousands of Londoners 
 deny themselves necessities to satisfy their craving for 
 music. From the beggar to the throne they are a 
 music-loving people. 
 
 From his place of vantage behind the platform Gor- 
 don looked out upon the scene presented to his view. 
 For the first time in his life he felt that sense of awe 
 
 132
 
 ROGER'S RECITAL 
 
 which the presence of thousands of one's fellow-beings, 
 concentrating their whole attention upon himself, must 
 bring inevitably to any man. He was pale, but his face 
 was resolutely calm. His features had taken on that 
 re-chiselled appearance, so refining to his already 
 classical features, which great emotion always pro- 
 duced upon his countenance. He was faultlessly 
 dressed and gloved. Among the men of his orchestra 
 he was not only tall, but he was obviously masterful. 
 His deep-set eyes were burning with the suppressed 
 fire of his nature. His black masses of hair, crowned 
 him as with an emblem of power. 
 
 When the first excitement of beholding the place 
 so filled had passed, he scanned the great, confusing 
 area for one face, Genevra's. She was not to be 
 seen. Search as he would, he could see neither 
 herself nor Lady Denby. They would doubtless 
 arrive presently, he thought. If she failed to 
 come, ah, well, there was little left for bitterness 
 to accomplish now. 
 
 When he turned about he found Algernon Lennox, 
 just arrived. The man was pale; his gaze faltered 
 when it met the friendly smile in Gordon's eye. Roger 
 put out his hand and Lennox took it guiltily. 
 
 " I am glad to see you here in such good time," said 
 Roger. " But don't be nervous ; everything looks 
 propitious. We ought to make a success." 
 
 133
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Grand house," Lennox stammered. " Your for- 
 tune's made." 
 
 He went his way to hang up his hat and remove his 
 violin from its case. 
 
 The nervousness of waiting was more or less devel- 
 oped in all the men behind the curtain. They walked 
 about uneasily. Over against the wall stood a comical, 
 bifurcated figure, all match-legs and rounded little 
 body. It was Fritz. With his round, hairless head 
 inclined to one side he was eying Roger so wistfully, 
 that presently Gordon was attracted by his gaze. He 
 went over and smiling at him affectionately laid his 
 hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 " All right ?" said he. " Feeling up to the mark ?" 
 
 " I am so happy it makes me knock my knees," said 
 Fritz. He held up his clarionet, to show that he was 
 ready to commence forthwith. " When are we at it ?" 
 he inquired. 
 
 " Soon," said Roger. " There is the lady who will 
 sing to start the programme along. I think the organ- 
 ist is just about ready to lead you all to the platform." 
 
 Presently, indeed, the word was passed and his many 
 musicians filed out and assumed their places, where- 
 upon there ensued that sawing and tuning at many 
 strings which sets the heart to faster beating and the 
 senses all at attention. 
 
 Then came silence. The great organ pealed, as it 
 i34
 
 ROGER'S RECITAL 
 
 voiced a thought made immortal by Beethoven, and 
 the evening's tension had commenced. 
 
 In a generous mood and with appetites whetted, the 
 audience responded heartily, when the opening per- 
 former bowed. They welcomed the singer who had 
 kindly lent her services to making the entertainment 
 more complete, and later they permitted her departure 
 with reluctance. A hush then fell upon the vast assem- 
 blage, and Herr Comanche stepped forth, with his 
 active, graceful stride. 
 
 A second of stillness, as they looked upon his dark, 
 intellectual face, held his beholders. Their burst of 
 welcoming applause was the more spontaneous and 
 electrifying for this brief delay. 
 
 Gordon bowed. He bowed again, many times. He 
 felt that he had his sea of humanity receptive already. 
 But he could see nothing, the lights so blinded his eyes. 
 Genevra, for whom he had no time to search again, 
 was sitting so close that he had glanced beyond her. 
 
 What litheness his movements expressed as he 
 stepped to his stand ! The silence became as far 
 extending as the farthest limits of the hall. He raised 
 his baton and stood for a second immovable. 
 
 Slowly, so slowly that its downward course seemed 
 at first an illusion, the wand of power descended. 
 
 Far away, on the strings of a harp, a faint, ethereal 
 strain of music arose. It came; it went. Intangible 
 
 135
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 as perfume of sound it stole on the senses with subtle 
 beauty that stilled the very heart, so eager became the 
 ear to catch the strains. 
 
 The wand of enchantment, apparently drawing forth 
 the music from a source unseen, now summoned a 
 second, a third, and yet a fourth distant harp to waft 
 its melody hither. A low, softened note, as of a bugle 
 sounding from the very empyrean, made a glad con- 
 tribution to the theme. The violins now faintly caught 
 the strangely sweet refrain and mingled their pean of 
 rejoicing to what had gone before, even as the organ 
 added bugle after bugle, faintly and amazingly inter- 
 weaving that same indefinable motif. The 'cellos, the 
 reeds, and the brass, aroused so faintly that the en- 
 trance of their tones could scarcely have been detected, 
 came as if nearer and nearer with the motif, till the 
 great hall thrilled with the exquisite beauty of the 
 fugue so unmistakably interpreting the heavenly choir, 
 in all its sublimity of joy and purity immortal. 
 
 The gates of Paradise itself swung wide to let the 
 music through. The rustle of wings, the voices of 
 angels, the touch divine on the strings of harps, all 
 came upon the breathless world and lifted men to 
 aspiration. 
 
 Kindly, encircling, ennobling, the chorus of angels 
 swept downward and upward and all about, in a vol- 
 ume sufficient for the universe, and yet with a melody 
 
 136
 
 ROGER'S RECITAL. 
 
 so soft, so intricately enticing, that the soul came forth 
 and yearned to partake of this happiness ineffable. 
 
 Then back of the melody, harsh, yet harmonious 
 with all the instruments, came a fiendish laugh, a 
 chuckle of jealousy, Satan's malevolence. Bolder, 
 louder this laughter grew, and the harps shivered fear- 
 fully and fled to where their expression was fainter. 
 The wondrous beneficence diminished. The laughter, 
 the taunting, the defiance of Satan assumed the ascend- 
 ancy. He mocked with the combined voices of a score 
 of instruments. 
 
 A note as of wonder, so deep as to be unfathomable, 
 sounded through even Satan's devilish cogency of 
 utterance. It came again, more near, more stern, and 
 yet as if in patience still. But the laughter sounded 
 such an arrogance that suddenly all the thunders of the 
 firmament seemed gathering from far and near, in one 
 great voice. The last faint notes of the motif of the 
 heavenly choir were still to be heard, as they hastened 
 away from the scene of where Satan, the great accuser, 
 would fain usurp the power of the All Jehovah and 
 fling defiance at his Master. 
 
 Then swift and terrible were the diabolical concen- 
 trations of his power where this Lucifer made ready 
 for his battle. But more thunderous, more awful were 
 the slow-born angers of the Mighty One. 
 
 Sounding its piercing flames of sound, that hurtled 
 137
 
 ROGER'S RECITAL 
 
 madly through the air, the potency of evil commenced 
 its struggle for supremacy. 
 
 In the utterance of all created space, arrayed against 
 disturbers of the laws immutable, the answering shock 
 of Omnipotence presently answered. 
 
 With shrieks, with screams of rage and hatred, with 
 fierce, stubborn clinging to his confidence, great Satan 
 fought. 
 
 But in crashes of doom, so weighty that it seemed 
 the stars themselves fell crushingly down, the sentence 
 of banishment pealed from the fearful realms of 
 Majesty. 
 
 Then with a mort-cry shivering through eternity, 
 was Satan beaten backward and downward, till crash 
 on crash drowned out his terrible laughter and a 
 mighty roar and rush of air went with him as he 
 plunged to the bottomless depths. 
 
 There came a hush, a note of sorrow, in the voice 
 of the All Pitiful, and heaven had closed its gates. 
 
 This was the end of the introduction. Breathlessly 
 the auditors sank back in their seats. Then, when a 
 moment had somewhat cleared the spell, they paid 
 their tribute to a master. 
 
 138
 
 XII 
 
 THE CLIMAX 
 
 THE pause was but brief till the opening bars of the 
 first part of " Paradise Lost" broke the stillness of 
 the hall, yet as he faced his auditors, Herr Comanche 
 beheld Genevra's face at last. It was white, eager, 
 tense with emotions. His heart leaped in his breast 
 as he found her there so near. 
 
 He was nervous no longer. He was rapt in the 
 execution of his theme. How the audience was receiv- 
 ing the work he knew not, nor did he care. He feared 
 the work was not so great as he had heretofore sup- 
 posed, or hoped. Therefore he gave the full sum of 
 his energy, his very vitality, to bring forth the utmost 
 feeling and art in every man about him. 
 
 As the baton fell it touched into life a scene of Eden, 
 second only in beauty to his music-pictured heaven 
 itself. From an earthly point of view it was almost 
 more replete with loveliness. Its hum of bees, its 
 susurrus of leaves all rustling in a warm, summer 
 zephyr, its songs of birds and tinkle of rills, conveyed 
 a more sensuous beauty than that of heaven. And 
 with this permeating all its scene, the faint, far echo 
 of the motif of the heavenly choir seemed as a perfume 
 of the flowers that grew in the garden. This motif, as it 
 
 139
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 hovered over all the place of delights, seemed also 
 to represent the breath of divinity, symbolizing the 
 guardian spirit which made the place the Paradise it 
 was. 
 
 The beauties now became manifest in runes that 
 crept one upon another, as if the heaven-blessed mor- 
 tals who dwelt therein were wandering hand in hand 
 from one surpassing feature to the next. The blos- 
 soms from the trees clashed like soft, pink cymbals. 
 The trees were lyres whereon the breeze made melody. 
 The grass, as it grew upward, struck lightly every note 
 in Eden's diapason. The drops of water fell in caves, 
 on bells of agate till they faintly chimed. 
 
 The spell of peace and beauty grew till all that was 
 sensuous in human veins yearned gaspingly for yet 
 new senses to be played upon. 
 
 No more had this thirst of an appetite created by 
 indulgence so increased, than the evil chuckle of Satan 
 returned to underly the symphony. Winding and coil- 
 ing in and out, this motif came, till something of 
 beauty supernal retired, to give its place to the visitor, 
 come like a snake to enter the realm of wholesome 
 pleasures. 
 
 Afraid, yet curious, the musical themes retreated, 
 approached and lingered at last where Lucifer laughed 
 his temptations. He held them enthralled by the won- 
 der of his story; he swayed them, urged them to a 
 
 140
 
 THE CLIMAX 
 
 recklessness of sensuous indulgence. He taunted, de- 
 rided, scorned their fears, and mocked their Creator. 
 
 With shame at first, and then more boldly, the voices 
 in Eden laughed at last with the tempter. During a 
 pause, as if in the final second of hesitation, the motif 
 of the heavenly choir was heard once more, as it died 
 away in the distance and left a wail of despair to con- 
 tend alone against all that soulless laughter. 
 
 Most sinuously winding in once more, the Lucifer 
 motif led the way to the fruit forbidden. In the hush 
 of Satan's laughter, a shiver of new, strange ecstasies 
 commenced. A woman's coaxing and tempting slipped 
 forth from the violins to join with the voices of the 
 'cellos, where Satan laughed more loudly with his 
 promises of power. 
 
 The thrill that shot through Adam then was won- 
 derful. Strong, animal, aggressive, it carried all be- 
 fore it, till something akin to a fear was commingled 
 with the far more timid, yet persistent appetite of the 
 senses awakened in his temptress. Under and over 
 all a theme of growing passion swelled and rose and 
 fanned the air with the heat that coursed with the fire 
 of youth unbridled in its lust of life. 
 
 Voluptuous, inflaming to the brain and blood, the 
 music blended every force, every beauty at command, 
 in the nuptials of abandonment to joy. The bird- 
 songs partook of the wanton indulgence in pleasure. 
 
 141
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 The bees were all humming of passion that turned to 
 scarlet the petals where they touched. The wind was 
 a hot, quick breath that carried the pollen of love from 
 blossom to blossom. 
 
 But, breaking through the mad expression of the 
 earthly transports, came the motif, half anger, half 
 sorrow, where the gates of heaven above had opened 
 once again, to let out the angel of vengeance, sent so 
 reluctantly downward by the voice that commanded all 
 power. 
 
 The culmination of Eden's bliss broke like a rush of 
 white-hot floods, where music thrilled and trembled, 
 rose to a height unthinkable, sank into ecstasy un- 
 speakable, and ended. 
 
 The breaths that were held escaped from a thousand 
 pairs of lips in that spell-bound audience. The mad- 
 ness calmed, the cheeks that had flushed so red slowly 
 paled. A storm of applause swept upward till the hall 
 was thundering at the end of part one of the music. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Not for long did Gordon permit the ardor in his 
 auditors to cool. He had labored unremittingly him- 
 self, he was now unsparing of audience and orchestra 
 as well. 
 
 His baton reproduced, for the opening of part two, 
 the last breathless trembling, where forbidden joy in 
 Eden found itself sated, and Lucifer, laughing at his 
 
 142
 
 THE CLIMAX 
 
 deed accomplished, glided tortuously away. His re- 
 treat was taken step by step before the approach of a 
 stern, yet sorrowing Presence, where the level tones of 
 the angel of retribution descended on the mad delights 
 of the Garden. 
 
 The twitter of birds ceased in awe. The bees no 
 longer hummed. In the trees the zephyr stirred not a 
 leaf. The calm was one in which the wantons of the 
 garden whispered in fear, as the stern, cold voice bade 
 them, once, twice, thrice, stand forth for judgment. 
 
 A moan of dread, a chattered utterance of guilt, 
 expressed the tangible dread which had come upon the 
 place of beauties. 
 
 The summons of that all-compelling voice, where 
 the minister of heaven's dreadful power commanded 
 all things living in that garden to be gone, was sub- 
 limely calm, simple, and comprehensible. It awed; it 
 enthralled the senses. 
 
 Strangely in contrast came again that motif of coax- 
 ing, coquetting, as if a very siren would bribe the 
 avenging angel with a kiss, to leave them where they 
 were. 
 
 The end of this theme, of the wanton ashamed, was 
 thrice more terrible than even that awful voice that 
 again repeated, " Go !" 
 
 A wail for mercy, a shiver of the chill they could 
 feel approaching, arose, as if to drown that dread
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 injunction of banishment. Contrition, repentance, the 
 first hysterical promises of the human race, never, 
 never again to commit a deed of folly, contended 
 against that utterance of doom. But like the tolling 
 of the bell of finality, that motif from heaven, half 
 sorrowful, but always implacable, assumed such di- 
 mensions that nothing could rise above it to be 
 heard. 
 
 A note of anguish sounded where the fallen, in fear 
 and absolute humiliation, sped out through the gates, 
 with heads hung low in shame. Then Eve shrilly 
 screamed as she darted back once more, still in the 
 hope of pardon, only to hear the clangor of the barriers 
 that closed, and the sudden cutting off of all those 
 faint songs of Eden's beauty. 
 
 Above the storm that suddenly swept upon the pair, 
 thus outcast in the wilds, the angel's voice drove them 
 farther and farther from the Paradise they had sacri- 
 ficed forever. The wails of the wind, the swaying of 
 branches, the slash of the rain upon their naked bodies, 
 made the theme a wild and vivid thing. The breath- 
 lessness of the two that ran and ran, never able to 
 escape either from the voice of condemnation or the 
 laughter of Lucifer, was conveyed powerfully. The 
 imagination pictured the darksome woods, the bram- 
 bles, the lurid sky, and the dens of prowling beasts, 
 where the sinners were lost in the wilderness. 
 
 144
 
 THE CLIMAX 
 
 It was when they were weary, torn, and suffering 
 hunger, that despair came inevitably upon the two. 
 And as if the woman were the first to realize the 
 boundless beauties of that heritage from heaven, 
 lost beyond all human power of redemption, a single 
 violin wailed forth her unutterable woe, when the 
 storm had left them stark and abandoned of their 
 Maker. 
 
 This was the passage left to Lennox alone. He 
 knew the opportunity he had waited for had come. 
 This woe was the heart-cry in which all that had gone 
 before had its termination its significance. 
 
 Comanche had hushed every instrument there, as 
 if he played upon them all himself. His power had 
 been tremendous. His orchestra had bent to him, 
 risen to his beckoning, swayed with his every emotion. 
 He leaned far out towards Lennox now. The agony 
 of the suffering two from Eden was on his face. In 
 his eyes burned a hopelessness unfathomable. 
 
 " Now now !" he seemed to be urging, as he looked 
 upon the first violin. 
 
 Something gave way in Lennox's brain. He played 
 with a passion, a power he had never before attained. 
 His treacherous purpose, his jealousy, everything fled 
 from him, leaving his heart almost still, in his re- 
 kindled love for his friend. He played what he saw, 
 he forgot there could be a note of frivolity substi- 
 10 145
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 tuted. He was lifted out of himself, to a something 
 sublime, as he sounded that anguish wrung from a 
 soul that had lost its paradise. 
 
 He sank in his chair, undone, when the motif was 
 caught by string after string to be woven into all of 
 the tale that revealed those wanderers from the Gar- 
 den tracking mindlessly onward, in their agony, on 
 their ever-mocking search for the gates that led to what 
 they had lost. 
 
 And so the motif continued, with the music's story 
 of those days on days of despair. It clung to the 
 voice of the woman through all her travail, when the 
 first-born son was given in her keeping. It was when 
 she beheld this child, in all its innocence, that her 
 greatest heart-sorrow broke from her lips. 
 
 Once again the composer had voiced her emotion 
 with a single instrument. To the faithful Fritz, in 
 whose clarionet he had measureless confidence, Roger 
 had intrusted the maternal woe of Eve. Roger was 
 trembling with emotion himself, as the voices of all 
 the instruments ceased and slowly he motioned for 
 this, her moaning cry. 
 
 There came a pause. Fritz was looking at him out 
 of eyes that streamed. He tried to play; he tried to 
 choke back all that he felt ; then a note like a great sob 
 broke from his instrument. 
 
 It was terribly poignant. A sound of weeping from 
 146
 
 THE CLIMAX 
 
 someone in the hall seemed an echo of the woe of 
 Eve, come down through the ages. 
 
 The 'cellos, the violins, the harps took up the theme 
 again, and on it went with the tale of the earth's 
 supremest anguish. 
 
 A ceaseless prayer for the forgiveness of her sons; 
 a croon ineffably pitiful, when she came upon the body 
 of Abel ; a longing for death before her time, all 
 these in their sequence, told of an anguish in Eve which 
 only a heart which had suffered could have conceived. 
 Her woe became immortalized in the sob of the rain, 
 the moan of the sea, the wail of the wind, and so it 
 faded, faded from the ear of man. 
 
 Then at the end came again that faint, chaste motif 
 of the heavenly choir, distant, indefinable, not to be 
 traced to its source, but yet like a ray of hope towards 
 which, howsoever blindly, despair could grope. 
 
 When the last dying note had sounded, the celestial 
 theme was the thing that remained, as a fragrance 
 the last to linger in the heart and memory and so it 
 was done. 
 
 ******* 
 
 In the stillness which followed, a sound where a 
 woman in the topmost gallery softly cried came dis- 
 tinctly. Weeping heart-brokenly, women still leaned 
 forward in their seats, aware that Comanche was 
 shaken with emotion he could not wholly repress. 
 
 i47
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 Then, to conceal their wrought-up feelings, the men 
 suddenly created a deafening uproar of applause, under 
 cover of which the women sobbed and rose to their 
 feet, half hysterically calling out their bravos and mop- 
 ping their eyes, in order at all to behold the man whose 
 art had so broken their hearts. 
 
 Wave on wave of tumultuous cheering, applauding, 
 and cries of " Bravo !" reverberated through the house. 
 On the floor and in the galleries men and women 
 sprang to their feet with one accord. It seemed as 
 if they would never cease, and that Gordon would 
 never be permitted to bow his last acknowledgment 
 of their tribute. 
 
 In the thunder of it all, with the spectacle of fren- 
 zied, crying people about him, he saw but one face 
 and heard but one voice. 
 
 Genevra had risen, where she sat so near, the 
 sweet, impulsive Genevra he knew from that time so 
 long ago, the same little girl at last, for whom he 
 singly had played before, even as he had played his 
 whole orchestra to-night. 
 
 And, as once in the dear past of dreams, she cried 
 out, from her heart, 
 
 "Oh, Roger! Oh, Roger!" 
 
 148
 
 XIII 
 
 AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 
 WHEN everything else that is sweet on earth has 
 been tasted, love will be found the sweetest of them 
 all. Triumph, huzzas, emotions stirred, the guerdon 
 of laurel thrust tumultuously upon his brow, all sank 
 to second place in the instant that Gordon realized that 
 after all Genevra loved him. 
 
 The intoxication of success would pass, was passing 
 now, but the joy of love was a wine that coursed 
 through the veins forever. It was kind, it was splen- 
 did of fate, that he had been permitted to pluck the 
 wreath bestowed for a great or a worthy achievement, 
 but he thanked her most for Genevra's look and her 
 one little cry. 
 
 That was all he had wanted. It was all that the 
 time and the place had permitted. In the rush upon 
 him of the friends entitled to overwhelm him then 
 and there with extravagant congratulations he had 
 seen Genevra but once. The joy in her eyes, as their 
 look of understanding leaped across the intervening 
 space, was an elixir to his heart even in the morning, 
 after all the confusion had passed, like a dream of 
 things incredible. Of his final escape from the hall, 
 of all the partings, invitations, praises, and even of 
 
 149
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 his coming home, he had but a dim, confusing mem- 
 ory. Everything was unreal, save that look in Ge- 
 nevra's eyes and that note from her lips. 
 
 It was ended. He was exhausted, mentally and 
 physically. He was sitting quietly in a chair, in his 
 dressing-gown, leaning back passively and thinking 
 it over. The papers lay beside him on the table, but 
 as yet he had not so much as opened one. In a little 
 heap near at hand were the letters which the post had 
 brought him. He noted among them a long, heavy 
 envelope, spotted with American stamps. He knew 
 that it came from Doctor Pingle, but in his lassitude 
 he took no immediate interest, even in this. Such a 
 peace had stolen on his heart as he had not enjoyed 
 for years. Genevra was found. 
 
 He wondered at last if his apparent success with 
 his composition would prove a substantial thing. Had 
 the praises influenced Genevra, with the others? He 
 hoped not. He felt that this could not be so. His 
 playing once, with one ancient tree-stump for a 'cello, 
 with no one about to applaud him, had won her little 
 heart-cry from her lips. Before even that, she had 
 placed her hand confidingly in his. And later, how 
 bravely she had come to save his life! 
 
 No, he could not believe she had cared so much 
 for the praises bestowed by his audience. Yet the 
 place he would occupy henceforth would be determined 
 
 150
 
 AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 
 in a measure by something more judicial than a chorus 
 of bravos ; wherefore, criticism yet held somewhat of 
 the power of the determining vote. 
 
 He took up the paper that moulded opinions for 
 London's upper classes. When he found two columns 
 devoted to " Paradise Lost," he knew his laurels were 
 secure. 
 
 " Not the least remarkable feature of this remark- 
 able performance," he read, " was the extraordinary 
 leading of this new composer. Herr Comanche exer- 
 cised a wonderful power over every instrument. The 
 veriest novice could not but feel that the leader was 
 personally responsible for every tone, every note pro- 
 duced. By what magic he instilled into every per- 
 former such intensity of feeling it would be difficult 
 to say. The man must possess a temperament not 
 only of infinite depth and refinement, but also, of enor- 
 mous dynamic force. A dozen times he drew his audi- 
 tors half to their feet, so deeply did he make them feel 
 the emotions which his music portrayed. . . . We are 
 still too amazed to venture a word of criticism of the 
 daringly original treatment which the whole great 
 theme received. Not a canon of composition was 
 violated, and yet not a canon was strictly obeyed, in 
 Comanche's work. The man's genius is remarkable. 
 In his fugues he awakens a thousand brain-cells of 
 appreciation in the music-lover, which such a lover 
 
 151
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 never before was aware he possessed. . . . He rav- 
 ishes the senses, so insidious are the beauties of his 
 music of passion, but when he has told the tale of 
 the ' wages of sin,' the woe that he voices is terrible. 
 . . . We welcome a genius whose thought is at once 
 profound, exquisitely poetical, and withal sublimely 
 wholesome." 
 
 A scond paper was less dignified. " When ' Para- 
 dise' was ' lost' last night," it said, " there was noth- 
 ing left for the women and some of the men to 
 do but weep. By Jove ! how did he do it ? The man 
 is a wizard. Personal magnetism had, no doubt, much 
 to do with the ease with which he juggled with hearts 
 and souls, but the music was unquestionably good, 
 Perhaps it was more than good. It was startling, 
 certainly, and of the vintage of exceptional inspiration. 
 I was not prepared to see a man of so dark a counte- 
 nance, even after the silly rumor that a certain lady, 
 high in social circles, had made a protege of an Afri- 
 can. Herr Comanche is unmistakably of the Red- 
 Indian lineage, which his name would indicate, and 
 which his own confession renders certain. It is a 
 matter of gratification, to me at least, that Comanche 
 is not a negro. I have always maintained that the 
 negro, howsoever diluted the strain may be by a nobler 
 blood, is a cheap person, incapable of sublimity in any- 
 thing so lofty as pure musical expression. Comanche's 
 
 152
 
 AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 
 music approaches, if it does not, indeed, attain, the 
 sublime. His audacity for such originality is posi- 
 tively audacious is yet another indication of his an- 
 cestry. No noble red man was ever more untram- 
 melled than this singularly forceful young man, who 
 raised our hair last night, and might have scalped us 
 with impunity in the trance in which he held us when- 
 soever he listed." 
 
 Gordon found out things about himself and his work 
 which he would never have so much as suspected, 
 had the papers ignored him. He found himself dis- 
 sected, mentally and morally; he found out exactly 
 what influence the poet Milton had exercised upon his 
 mind. One of the critics had the temerity to state how 
 the composer's effects had been produced. His article, 
 had it been but a trifle more definite, would have made 
 an excellent guide to successful composition and the 
 short-cut to fame. 
 
 He laid the papers down at last, satisfied, glutted, 
 in fact, with praise. His work had created a genuine 
 sensation. There are many things which are cloyingly 
 sweet, but none more so than fulsome blandishment 
 in printer's ink. Glad of anything, presently, to exer- 
 cise a new line of thought, he opened his letters, re- 
 serving as ever the best for the last. 
 
 For the greater part, the dainty little envelopes con- 
 tained invitations which must have been written after 
 
 153
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 his recital had ended. There was one from Lady 
 Denby. "If not too weary, come to see me in the 
 afternoon," she had written. " Perhaps we shall go 
 for a drive, you and Genevra and I, for I think you 
 need a bit of rest and sunshine after all your work. 
 I shall look for you surely by three." 
 
 His heart turned over as his eyes beheld the name 
 of Genevra penned upon the paper. He kissed the 
 sheet and pressed it fervently against his cheek. He 
 arose and walked the room excitedly. He could 
 scarcely contain himself till three o'clock. At last! 
 Genevra found at last ! He could hardly believe it. 
 
 Fevered with all the mad thoughts in his brain, 
 of what he would say and what she would answer 
 when they found each other alone, he continued 
 to pace the floor with that crushed letter in his 
 hand. 
 
 Calm again, after a time, he opened what remained 
 of his letters, coming thus upon the bulky missive ad- 
 dressed in the well-known chirography of Doctor 
 Pingle. 
 
 The weight of the packet arrested his attention. 
 He looked it over curiously. In the corner was 
 written " Many happy returns." Then a something 
 momentarily stopped his heart. His birthday his 
 twenty-fourth birthday had passed him by three days 
 before, and he had forgotten it utterly. Doctor Pingle
 
 AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 
 had sent him that bundle of documents left by his 
 father, the explanation of everything! 
 
 A strange feeling of excitement, and almost of 
 dread, came upon him. The unknown alarms so 
 vaguely, so subtly. He had yearned to know what 
 these papers contained, and now that he had them in 
 his hands he almost feared to see them. 
 
 He had lived so many years without this knowledge 
 of what he was, that his habit of life was to select 
 what he himself preferred to be. He had known 
 neither father nor mother ; he had therefore fashioned 
 himself only with the aid and sympathy of Doctor 
 Pingle. His parents had abandoned their rights of 
 guidance; he had assumed them all for himself. It 
 seemed for a moment now as if some word of au- 
 thority stepped in to claim him, after his own work 
 and efforts had been crowned with achievement. And 
 yet he had so wanted to know who and what he was, 
 to have the matter definitely settled in his mind. 
 What line of the Indians was it by which he had come 
 to possess a face so dark ? This was a matter on which 
 he had speculated so often that now the wonder of 
 being placed in a position to know made him tremble 
 with excitement. 
 
 He broke the package and drew forth the doctor's 
 accompanying letter and the sealed envelope within. 
 
 " I send the enclosed in conformity with your wishes, 
 155
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 lad," he read, " and with a sense of awakening to 
 the fact that you are now a man, and no longer the 
 boy I sent away. You will read what your papers 
 contain as a man of settled judgment, and for this 
 I am glad. Judge as unharshly as you can, for you 
 would never have been my own lad had not fate and 
 motives not altogether explicable made you otherwise 
 parentless at an age so tender." 
 
 The enclosed envelope was addressed in a writing 
 he had never seen before to " Master Roger Gordon. 
 In the trust of Doctor Pingle. To be kept until Master 
 Gordon's twenty-fourth birthday, and then handed 
 over to him to read." 
 
 With fingers not at all steady, Roger broke into the 
 envelope and drew forth two papers, neither of them 
 bulky. The first was commercial, a certificate of de- 
 posit, granted to a George Gordon, by a bank of San 
 Francisco. The amount deposited was ten thousand 
 dollars, which sum, with interest at four per cent, per 
 annum, was, by agreement signed at the bottom, to 
 be payable to Roger Gordon, on demand, at any time 
 after his twenty-fourth birthday. 
 
 Roger read this through, not without emotion. Ten 
 thousand dollars deposited to his credit twenty-four 
 years ago meant a small fortune, awaiting his order. 
 What manner of father had he been who could thus 
 have provided for a child that might not live, and who 
 
 156
 
 AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 
 could then give that child away, abandon him utterly, 
 and never more appear, either to see or to claim him ? 
 
 He laid the sheet of paper upon the table, before 
 him, staring at it dumbly. At length he remembered 
 that the more explanatory document was still to be 
 read. He opened it, folded back its creases and found 
 it written in a strong, round hand, with an ink which 
 had faded to a rusty brown. He read, 
 
 " MY DEAR LITTLE SON, I am a. weak man, and 
 God forgive me that admits it, and you will often 
 think the same of me and know I must have been a 
 weak man, or I would never do what I am letting her 
 make me do, and going away and leave you, little 
 helpless son that I love so dearly. But I am fixing up 
 my money so that you will have nearly all I have 
 left now, and I hope it will do you more good than 
 it did me, and this letter which will tell you these 
 things which you may want to know and which you 
 shall know, if you want to. 
 
 " I ran away with your mother from White Plains, 
 New York, about nine months ago, or a little more, 
 and we got married by the Justice of the Peace, and 
 her name was Bertha Neuville, and she was so beauti- 
 ful that she made me crazy, and she does it yet, and 
 I can't help it; and that is why I can't help going 
 away and leaving you with Doctor Pingle, because
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 she wants me to and says I must, and God forgive me, 
 for I do love my little son. She ran away with me 
 because her father opposed me coming to see her, 
 and we heard that he died, and I think of a broken 
 heart, which makes me sorry, indeed, for he was a 
 good man and a proud gentleman, and he spoiled her 
 and so did everybody else, so she was not very thought- 
 ful of anybody else and wanted nice things all the time, 
 and pretty words said to her which a man cannot help 
 saying, for she is so beautiful. 
 
 " When we ran away we went everywhere, having 
 a grand time and spending our money, all but what I 
 have left you, my dear little baby boy, in the bank 
 where you will get it some day, if you live to be a 
 man of twenty-four years old, and I am fixing it that 
 way so you will not be such a silly man as I have 
 been, as I am only twenty-two, and I do not think 
 any man gets his senses right till he is more than 
 twenty-two or maybe more. So when we got here she 
 was taken sick one day, and when I got the doctor, 
 which was Doctor Pingle, she had a baby and it was 
 you, and you had such a dark little face that she did 
 not like it, and she said she wanted to go to Japan and 
 China, so we are going to-morrow, and I would not 
 go till I had put the money in the bank and left this 
 letter, and I may come back ami get you soon, as I 
 love you so much, you poor little innocent baby, and 
 
 158
 
 AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 
 Doctor Pingle is a good man and he loves you already, 
 and I know you will like him, and that's about all there 
 is to it, except you may wish to know about me more 
 some day. 
 
 " Your mother is a genuine American, but her 
 father was French aristocratic descent, born in Bos- 
 ton, and was stock which came over with Lafayette, 
 and her mother's parents were English, and boasted 
 of noble blood, but their forefathers fought against 
 the British forces good and hard, and that makes your 
 mother pretty good American too, and she is of a 
 proud family of beauties before her. And my father 
 was named Donald Gordon and he came to America 
 from Scotand, and he and his brother were rich before 
 they came, and I was born in Virginia, July n, 1850, 
 and when the war broke out my father took me to 
 New York City and left me there at school, and he 
 gave up his property in Virginia for half its price and 
 went to the war and fought with the Union forces 
 under General Sturgis, and was shot in battle and 
 died of his wounds in January, 1864, a good man 
 and true; but perhaps he married my mother for 
 more money. My mother's name was Dora Muller 
 and her father was a German and a great musician, 
 and he was rich and independent and lived alone, and 
 no one went to see him often, and he did not care, 
 and that was all my father told me about him, and 
 
 J59
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 my mother was old Muller's daughter and she was 
 a good woman and nice looking, though she died when 
 I was ten, so I only remember a little about her. But 
 she was almost as white as any one, and she was 
 mulatto, but she " 
 
 A cry, as if from sudden pain, escaped from Gor- 
 don's lips. He straightened rigidly in his seat. He 
 tore open the collar of his dressing-gown and stared 
 at the paper wildly. 
 
 " almost as white as any one mulatto !" 
 
 He sprang to his feet. He thrust the paper from 
 him. His eyes were fixed upon it, glaringly. He 
 was choking. It could not be true ! The paper lied ! 
 His eyes deceived him! It was not really there. It 
 couldn't be true! it couldn't! He was Indian! He 
 was anything but that! He had always been an In- 
 dian! he had chosen to be an Indian! Nobody no- 
 body had a right to make him anything else! It was 
 false ! He spurned it. The paper lied, oh ! it had to 
 lie! it couldn't be true! 
 
 He read it again. It refused to change. It mocked 
 him swept away all he had been by his boyish thought 
 branded him sentenced him tainted his blood and 
 levelled his pride. 
 
 " Negro ! negro !" cried something in his suddenly 
 humiliated soul. He groaned and threw his hands 
 behind his head and held them fiercely over both his 
 
 160
 
 AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS 
 
 ears, then clutched his face about his eyes in a frenzy 
 of blotting out their vision. 
 
 " Not that ! Not that !" he cried at the paper on 
 the table, and, suddenly descending upon it, he tore 
 it to scraps and, casting them from him sank down in 
 his chair and hid his face in passionate anger and 
 shame. 
 
 ii 161
 
 XIV 
 
 POSTPONING THE JUDGMENT 
 
 THE laurels of all his achievement had been crushed 
 to a shapeless, insignificant thing by the weight 
 of his parentage suddenly fallen on Gordon's head. 
 The utter abasement he felt was beyond the compre- 
 hension of any, save one who had nearly been lynched 
 for a negro, who had suffered scorn and isolation his 
 whole boyhood through, and who had chosen so pas- 
 sionately to be the descendant of a free, if savage, 
 Indian. 
 
 Where he should hide his tell-tale face, how he 
 could manage to hold up his head, and how conceal 
 this shame were the problems that stared at him 
 blankly from those scraps of paper on the floor. His 
 gaze wandered listlessly about the room. There was 
 his music-score, here was a heap of invitations; the 
 one his work, the other results. Oh, the bitterness, 
 the gall and acid of this stroke of fate, after all these 
 years of his pride and spirit! 
 
 The world had believed him an Indian. Here he 
 was, heralded forth a descendant of the noble Co- 
 manches, whose name he had chosen. And here was 
 the slur cast as in all his life upon the African, thus 
 always flung downward from man's high estate for the 
 
 163
 
 POSTPONING THE JUDGMENT 
 
 chains that had bound him in the past. How far the 
 black man fell Gordon knew too well. He was fall- 
 ing still himself. He had not yet begun even to clutch 
 at anything to arrest that plunge in which he felt his 
 pride go sweeping upward past him, like a rush of the 
 wind. He had so abhorred the mere idea that he might 
 have a drop of that serf-shamed blood in his veins that 
 all that the negro might ever attain, in manhood 
 and upward growth, left not the shadow of a miti- 
 gating thought in his mind. 
 
 But nobody need be told ; this he suddenly realized. 
 It made him start and grow hot. The torn and scat- 
 tered document, that alone could apprise the world of 
 the truth, lay there upon the floor, already half de- 
 stroyed. He fell upon the pieces and gathered them 
 up in his hands in feverish haste. He threw them 
 guiltily into the grate and lighted a match to set them 
 all ablaze. 
 
 Then something in his nature, yearning towards that 
 father he had never known, arrested his gesture. He 
 dropped the match, and taking out the scraps of paper, 
 one by one, he fitted the pieces together, there on the 
 floor, as he kneeled before the grate. The last words 
 of his father's message, unfinished before, were pre- 
 sented to his gaze, and with a strange affection in his 
 heart he read the lines: 
 
 163
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " mulatto, but she was educated to speak in 
 
 three languages and she was gentle and good and was 
 happy when she died, for she had been a real comfort 
 to my father, and they were very fond of each other, 
 as my father often told me. 
 
 " So it is my fault your little face is so dark, for 
 your mother is very beautiful, and if she had not been 
 petted so much by every one and told how pretty she 
 was she would never let you go nor take me away 
 from my little innocent son, and, God bless you ! I 
 shall always love you with all my heart, and I hope 
 I shall come back to you soon, and my heart is torn 
 in two pieces, but I cannot do anything, and O God, 
 my little baby boy, I do hope you will forgive your 
 father, 
 
 " GEORGE GORDON." 
 
 Roger sat there on the floor and read the whole 
 paper again, from first to last. He could not destroy 
 it. All the pent-up yearning of his heart, the yearning 
 that for years had made him a sober, affectionate boy, 
 reached forth to this tangible thing from his father 
 and held it precious. It was something paternal at 
 last, something to prove that he had not been always 
 without that spirit of hovering love and anxiety which 
 none but an actual parent is given to feel. 
 
 He gathered the scraps in his hand, and carried 
 164
 
 POSTPONING THE JUDGMENT 
 
 them back to the table. There he pasted the pieces 
 one by one on a sheet of his blank score-paper, patch- 
 ing with infinite care where the fragments joined. 
 Then he dressed himself and placed the paper in his 
 pocket. 
 
 He was apparently calm at last, after the futile out- 
 burst against this thing. He could almost accept the 
 truth that so blighted his heart, but he could not lift 
 off the weight of the revelation. The worst was yet 
 to come. He knew this, but his mind avoided the 
 thought. Mentally he begged for time. It was too 
 much to ask of any man that he should decide so 
 soon between his love and his sense of right. 
 
 He could not see how he could tell Genevra of what 
 he had learned. She had scorned that imputation 
 years before, that negro blood ran in his veins. When 
 she saved him from the lynchers that day she had 
 called him an Indian. How could he bear to tell 
 the merciless truth ! 
 
 On the other hand, he could not live a lie always. 
 If ever he dared to make a woman his wife, the truth 
 might take such a terrible way of appearing. 
 
 But he could not decide what to do not yet. It 
 was still so soon since Genevra had cried out to him 
 just as once she had done so long before. His joy in 
 that one little signal had been so brief. He had a right 
 to see her once she herself would expect no less. 
 
 165
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 He made these excuses as one who has walked con- 
 fidently in the sunlight and suddenly feels himself 
 tapped on the shoulder by a stern, forbidding presence 
 which would say, " I arrest you, impostor, come !" 
 He could not comprehend at once that all he had been, 
 all he had ever enjoyed, had suddenly vanished, to be 
 known no more. 
 
 He knew he was begging the question. But a mo- 
 ment's respite was so little to ask. This thing had 
 come so unexpectedly upon him! With the eyes of 
 the world so turned in his direction, how could he 
 abase himself at once? 
 
 Gordon had no sense of self-importance to sustain 
 a thought that what he had managed to accomplish 
 would put him through, regardless of what he was. 
 He had once known the degradation of having been 
 thought a negro. 
 
 166
 
 XV 
 ROGER'S HOUR 
 
 THE world is filled with persons absorbed in the 
 passion of standing where the light from greatness will 
 fall upon them and model them out in relief, on the 
 vast desolation of obscurity. Indeed, the next best 
 thing to achieving celebrity is to know a celebrated 
 individual and to let one's neighbors see that one 
 knows him. A large number of men and women, dis- 
 tinguished after this manner, awaited Comanche's ad- 
 vent at Lady Denby's garden. 
 
 Her ladyship had intended something far more quiet 
 and restful. She was helpless, however, since even 
 unheard-of acquaintances had suddenly discovered 
 that they owed her important social obligations, neces- 
 sitating attention this very afternoon. 
 
 Roger came among them soberly. A few words, 
 sincere and precious to his heart, were all he had 
 time to hear from his hostess before the trial of 
 the lionizing process was upon him. Grave by 
 nature, rendered graver still by his recent discov- 
 eries as to who and what he was, he presented a 
 rare study in modesty and wistfulness, in all that 
 idolizing throng. 
 
 The reception amazed him. To have a score of 
 167
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 pretty women constantly clustered about him, hang- 
 ing on his every word, begging him winningly, coquet- 
 tishly, and even tearfully to accept great armfuls of 
 flowers, or to take to his heart the most extravagant 
 of flatteries, all this came to him oddly. He had 
 thought the world would guess the dread truth of 
 his parentage by the guilt in his eyes 
 
 He knew not what to do. From time to time his 
 half -sad gaze went searching beyond the bank of faces 
 for one truly comprehending glance, for which he 
 felt his soul was aching. He saw her at last, Genevra, 
 standing apart from the others, waiting, rewarded to 
 the full at last when his eyes exchanged their message 
 with her own. 
 
 It lasted for a second only, this sweet communion. 
 For the suddenly famous, fate turns her kaleidoscope 
 with rapidity. New faces, new smiles, new bunches 
 of roses played across his confused vision. But noth- 
 ing could serve to obliterate that inner consciousness 
 of who he was. 
 
 " Herr Comanche, you make rrie come to you," said 
 the voice of Lady Denby, who at length thus politely 
 chided the ladies. " I must really insist on your taking 
 a cup of tea. You are tired, I know." 
 
 Embarrassed as he was for a lack of replies to make 
 to acquaintances so swiftly and unaccountably ac- 
 quired, Gordon was as glad to behold the face of his 
 
 168
 
 ROGER'S HOUR 
 
 hostess once again as a lion might be to discover the 
 form of his keeper. 
 
 When he and her ladyship made their way out of 
 the cluster of feminine admirers, he saw again where 
 Genevra was standing alone, waiting in patience till 
 he should come to her side. 
 
 " This is only a little of the penalty you will find 
 yourself obliged to pay," imparted Lady Denby. " You 
 do look exhausted, really. How tremendous it was!" 
 
 He heard as one who walks in his sleep. He could 
 see only Genevra, with that light, so radiantly beautiful 
 and tender, in her eyes. He came towards her slowly, 
 every step an advance to a happiness ineffable. He 
 felt he could hardly endure the wild and uncontrollable 
 gladness in his heart. 
 
 Genevra put forth her hand and he took it. His 
 face was earnest, his look nearly sad and yet so tran- 
 scendentally illumined by what he felt in that second. 
 
 " I am so glad," she murmured, that only he should 
 hear. 
 
 He could make no reply, and Genevra understood. 
 
 But brief as their second would have been at any 
 ordinary function, it must needs be still further re- 
 duced. The ladies all developed a famishing thirst for 
 tea. New arrivals, and those who had come to secure 
 a front position, thronged about the tables and about 
 Comanche once again, a pink and blue and white bou- 
 
 169
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 quet of animated loveliness in mull and silk, exhaling 
 fragrance, lavishing glances, honeying all the air with 
 the accents of compliment. 
 
 Roger looked his bewilderment. His expression 
 served only to make him far more interesting to his 
 self-appointed admirers. From time to time some 
 naive remark brought the dancing lights once more 
 to his eyes; and then their succeeding melancholy 
 broke the hearts of his sentimental idolaters, in the 
 semi-hysteria of their emotions. 
 
 Lady Denby found all her tact called in requisition 
 when the time arrived to permit her guests to depart. 
 When at length her carriage was ready, however, her 
 adroitness was proved. She gave Herr Comanche in 
 charge of Genevra, and sent them through the house 
 together to meet her for a drive. 
 
 For one breathless second, when they found them- 
 selves alone, Genevra and Roger looked in one an- 
 other's eyes. 
 
 She placed her hand in his as she had when a child, 
 and walked thus a moment at his side. 
 
 170
 
 XVI 
 
 GENEVRA'S THEME 
 
 THERE are days of such fragrant charm that it seems 
 as if the heart would plunge the coldest reason into 
 love's own mischief. It was such a day as this when 
 Gordon found himself seated beside Genevra and 
 facing Lady Denby, as the carriage rolled away to the 
 near-by entrance of Hyde Park. The breath of trees 
 and grass, so freshly beautified again, the fanning by 
 of little zephyrs from Genevra's roses that filled her 
 lap, the perfect luxury and comfort of the cushions 
 about him, all created a semi-madness in Roger's 
 being. 
 
 He felt himself guilty, thus to be taking these pleas- 
 ures at Genevra's side. He was living a lie; he was 
 not what she thought him ; his smile when it answered 
 hers was false. That she had the first right of any one 
 in the world to know what he was, he conceded ; that 
 the courage to tell her would come he could not be- 
 lieve. 
 
 But the spirit of temporizing developed into some- 
 thing of defiance. Having sipped at this cup of de- 
 light, he must drink this once till he had all that the 
 day could afford. 
 
 Rotten Row had never been more brilliant. A thou- 
 171
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 sand carriages, with their polished spokes tossing off 
 a largess of glinting sunlight, seemed rolling on wheels 
 of the sun's own gossamer. In texture soft as down, 
 in greens, whites, pinks, and lavenders, hundreds and 
 hundreds of beautiful women were driven by, many 
 of them nodding and smiling as they passed. The 
 tinkle of harness and silver chains seemed the 
 music of this, the parade of beauty, wealth, and 
 fashion. 
 
 " It far excelled my greatest hope," said Lady Denby, 
 when at last they were well in the Row. " I feel as 
 proud to-day as if I had done it all myself." 
 
 " Done what ?" said Roger, whose thoughts were 
 all confusion. 
 
 "Why, your great recital, innocent. There is no 
 other topic." 
 
 " You are very kind to say so," Roger replied. The 
 flush that rose to his face, visible under the clear 
 bronze of his dark complexion, attested his genuine 
 lack of guile. 
 
 " No ; you must let me say it, Herr Comanche," 
 her ladyship insisted. " It was really tremendous. I 
 said that before. That's the word that expresses what 
 I mean. The critics uphold me. Surely you must 
 have seen the papers." 
 
 " I saw them, yes," he confessed. But his mind 
 was filled with what he had learned from that other 
 
 172
 
 GENEVRA'S THEME 
 
 paper now resting in his pocket. " They were cer- 
 tainly considerate." 
 
 " Not all," said Genevra, impulsively. " One had 
 its fling first before it could make itself ready to tell 
 the truth." 
 
 " Which one was that ?" said Lady Denby. " I don't 
 believe I saw anything of that sort, Genevra." 
 
 " Oh, it was nothing," said the girl, slightly flushing. 
 " Something about Herr Comanche's name being Red- 
 Indian. The criticism really gave him credit after- 
 wards." 
 
 " Then Comanche is really the name of a North 
 American Indian? How interesting!" said her lady- 
 ship, childishly pleased with this intelligence. " And 
 who was the original Comanche? A chief, I suppose, 
 or a mighty warrior of the prairies." 
 
 Both she and Genevra expected Roger to confess 
 that his name was derived from some noble red an- 
 cestor, perhaps even famous in the Cooper of which 
 all England is so inordinately fond. 
 
 He hesitated for a moment. " The name is applied 
 to a great family, or tribe, of the Indians," he said. 
 " Apaches, Comanches, Iroquois, Sioux, and many 
 other nations make up the Indian population of the 
 States. Comanche is merely a tribal name. My name, 
 Lady Denby, is Gordon." 
 
 " But you are really partially Red-Indian," Genevra 
 i73
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 said, eagerly. " The paper said something about your 
 confession that you are." 
 
 Lady Denby looked at her, somewhat amazed. They 
 had already overstepped the bounds of etiquette in 
 making these personal observations. This was really 
 shocking, even for the always impulsive Genevra. 
 
 " The papers probably got hold of what they 
 said from some of my fellow-students my friends," 
 said Roger. He knew this was simply evasion; he 
 knew it added to the lie which, however unwittingly, 
 he had lived so long. Genevra's eagerness to have 
 him an Indian now seemed but the mature outcome 
 of her hot little statement of years before concerning 
 what he was. 
 
 His agony at this moment was supreme. He knew 
 he would never dare, after this, to tell her the truth. 
 Yet neither could he go on and permit her to place 
 her hand in his again permit what his heart so 
 yearned for, to happen while she believed that the 
 terrible truth could not be true. 
 
 He had dared to look at her, sitting there beside 
 him. Her eyes had returned his gaze, honestly, frankly, 
 Her beauty had enthralled him. Now that heaven's 
 own joy shone in her face, what a sweet caress it was 
 that her warm gray eyes, so long-lashed and slumbrous, 
 gave him from their depths. How living was the vir- 
 ginal fire that flamed in her cheeks! How ripely red 
 
 J74
 
 GENEVRA'S THEME 
 
 and full was her perfect mouth! He had never seen 
 her so irresistibly winning. 
 
 " I have read that the Indian tribes of the States 
 have endured many terrible wrongs," Genevra added, 
 in a spirit of womanly sympathy. " You couldn't help 
 writing music like that." 
 
 " Oh, Herr Comanche," said Lady Denby, glad 
 to get back to the subject of the music, " I was so 
 glad you put in that little touch of hope at the 
 end. That was hope, wasn't it, really, that bit at 
 the end? It must have been hope. I don't know 
 much about music, but I want that to be hope I do 
 really." 
 
 Gordon looked at her strangely, almost wildly. 
 " How could we live without it ?" he said. 
 
 Genevra comprehended at least a part of what his 
 answer conveyed. She looked in his eyes fondly, while 
 her ladyship's head was momentarily turned. She 
 meant to convey to Roger a sweet assurance that 
 never more need hopelessness bring him its anguish, 
 for he had told her that evening when first they met 
 again, that out of his dream of that boyhood meeting 
 he had written his " Paradise Lost." He saw her look ; 
 his own eyes met it and caught it, till his heart was 
 leaping in his breast. 
 
 " Oh ! Herr Comanche," said Lady Denby, half ex- 
 citedly, " the Duchess of Arran !" 
 
 175
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 Roger turned in time to raise his hat to the lady 
 graciously bowing to them all as she passed. 
 
 " You shall meet her soon," Lady Denby added in 
 a moment. " She was there last night, and came up 
 to see me when it was over. She studied music, 
 and even composition, for years. Really, last night 
 was a triumph. Your fortune is made, Herr Co- 
 manche." 
 
 " And you won't be spoiled ?" asked Genevra. 
 
 " I don't know," said Roger, and the ladies laughed 
 at his gravity. 
 
 There were no more returns to personal subjects. 
 The flitting by of scores of titled and other important 
 persons whom Lady Denby and Genevra knew, made 
 anything but bowing and chating on the idlest of topics 
 all but impossible. 
 
 The afternoon slipped away, with its wonderful 
 sense of fragrance, its bewildering pageant of beauty 
 and riches, its intoxicating charm. Gordon still post- 
 poned sentence on himself, and drank madly at the 
 joy which he felt would slip so soon from his grasp. 
 
 It came to an end while the day was still a thing 
 of surpassing loveliness. He made all manner of 
 promises and social engagements, as one might 
 answer in a dream. 
 
 When they stopped at last at Lady Denby's house, 
 Genevra gave him both her hands, to assist her out of 
 
 176
 
 GENEVRA'S THEME 
 
 the carriage. Her ladyship was engaged for a moment 
 giving her orders to the coachman. 
 
 " Good-by, till we meet again soon," said Genevra. 
 
 " Good-by," he said. 
 
 She hesitated a moment and then she asked, " Will 
 you write something, some day, for something that 
 I would like?" 
 
 " Yes I hope so," he answered. " And what shall 
 it be?" 
 
 " I'd like it so much if you felt that you wanted 
 if you'd write a ' Paradise Regained/ " She was 
 blushing, but she looked at him bravely. " Do you 
 think you can?" 
 
 He looked at her yearningly. " O God !" he groaned 
 in his heart. To Genevra he only said, " I wish I 
 could." 
 
 12 177
 
 XVII 
 
 THE CHEER OF FELLOWSHIP 
 
 A MAN may endure a mountain of criticism who 
 cannot endure a mole-hill of humiliation. Gordon was 
 sickened at the thought of undergoing the consequences 
 of having it known that his dark-bronze face was the 
 advertisement of African blood. His soul revolted as 
 he dwelt upon the subject. He had suffered so in- 
 tensely, in his sensitive nature as a boy, for this same 
 dark skin, that he could bear no more. 
 
 He could contemplate the anguish of saying farewell 
 to Genevra forever with courage ; he recoiled from the 
 merest hint of telling her what he had learned. He 
 knew that to see her again, and yet again, as he had 
 to-day would be dastardly. But unless he told her 
 and let her shrink from him, suddenly disillusionized, 
 what course could he possibly adopt to prevent this 
 present drifting, towards which his whole nature urged 
 him so madly? 
 
 When he came to his room he found a score more 
 of letters, brought by the post since his leaving early 
 in the afternoon. They were invitations, tickets to 
 various functions, and perfumed congratulations. 
 Among the first that he opened was one from Lady 
 Fitzhenry. She called him naughty, in having failed 
 
 178
 
 THE CHEER OF FELLOWSHIP 
 
 to come to see her for several days, and more espe- 
 cially that day, after the homage she had paid him at 
 his great recital. But he would come to luncheon the 
 following day, and perhaps she should see him even 
 sooner. 
 
 The man sat down with this note in his hand. He 
 read it again, his thoughts beginning to focus on a 
 possibility: He had only to permit himself to fall a 
 little into the humor in which Lady Fitzhenry so in- 
 sistently professed herself to be, to make Genevra 
 believe him a worthless trifler. 
 
 Lady Fitzhenry, he was well aware, was amply able 
 to take care of her heart. That she was merely 
 amusing herself with a momentary flirtation he could 
 have no doubt. She had begun somewhat boldly to 
 take him into this species of favor at the earliest possi- 
 ble moment. So far as she knew, or apparently 
 cared, he might be African, Hindoo, or Esquimau. 
 He owed her nothing in the manner of a warning, 
 no explanation as to who and what he was. A mild 
 flirtation, or one that was not distinctly mild, would 
 mean as little to her at the end as it would to him. 
 But to Genevra it would mean all that his greatest 
 enemy could possibly desire. 
 
 He loathed himself that the thought of a method 
 so utterly unmanly should receive even a moment's 
 serious consideration, but the shame of this was a 
 
 179
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 thing he could bear. He could advertise himself un- 
 worthy in any particular in which men so frequently 
 fail to preserve the manhood with which they find 
 themselves endowed, but he could not think of inviting 
 back the mortifications he had formerly known. 
 
 There was no escape for him. It was merely a 
 matter of choosing the manner of his agonies and 
 shames. Through it all he was never tempted to de- 
 ceive Genevra. Were her love a thousand times his 
 for the asking, it could not bribe him to take her, under 
 a pretence that one of his ancestors had been an Ameri- 
 can Indian. If the man's mind was morbid on the 
 subject of what he had found himself to be, it had 
 always been awed too greatly by his own sufferings 
 to permit him to contribute to the same sort of punish- 
 ment for another. 
 
 He could think of nothing so likely to work its bitter 
 consequence as this possibility offered by the advances 
 of Lady Fitzhenry. In his soul he cried out in despair 
 at such a mockery of fate. But fate is as blind as 
 justice and as deaf as death. He was banished from 
 his Paradise; he must close its gates himself. 
 
 Having all but forgotten his weird protege in the 
 stress of the last twenty-four hours, he chided himself 
 somewhat at last, and went to the room that was 
 occupied by Fritz, where he found that faithful indi- 
 vidual lying in bed. 
 
 180
 
 THE CHEER OF FELLOWSHIP 
 
 Fritz was ill. He refused to confess to such a sur- 
 render as illness would argue, but Gordon could see 
 through the little fellow's smile, as if maternally. 
 
 "Hullo, Colossus," he said, "what's up? You 
 haven't been bawling yourself towards your grave 
 again, you humbug?" 
 
 " I am all right. I am only tired," Fritz hastened 
 to assure him. " I have been asleep, dreaming about 
 the great work. I knew you would come. I mean, 
 I was going to get up before you came." 
 
 Roger sat down on the bed and, pretending to push 
 the pillow into a rounder wad of comfort, touched its 
 surface. It was damp. He knew that Fritz had made 
 himself ill by living the fathomless despair he had 
 helped to express in " Paradise Lost." The things 
 he had never attained himself in music, the limitations 
 of his brain, which the comical little chap could never 
 comprehend, and the strangely sensitive temperament 
 that lurked in his misshapen body, all had plunged 
 Colossus into similar outbursts of grief before, as 
 Gordon was well aware. Sad music had the power 
 to reduce his spirits to a fatal ebb. That the partici- 
 pation in the recital might produce this effect Roger 
 had felt; but he had also known that to deny Fritz 
 such a boon as that same participation would afford 
 would have been to break the heart of this lonesome 
 little being. 
 
 181
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " I'd spank you for a pfennig," said Roger. " You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself, lying here and never 
 eating your meals." 
 
 " I forgot. I mean, I wasn't hungry and I slept 
 so long and I dreamed so many nice things about 
 you that I wouldn't wake up if I could. So I haven't 
 been hungry. But I'll eat a hippopotamus if you want 
 me to ... I knew you'd come." 
 
 Gordon rang the bell, parted the curtains till the 
 glory of the waning day illuminated the room, and 
 began to sing a little German song which had cheered 
 Colossus heretofore on similar occasions. To make 
 him smile, forget, and hope was the only way to keep 
 the rogue from pernicious illness. When the land- 
 lady appeared Roger ordered eggs, coffee, cold meat, 
 bread, marmalade, a bottle of wine, and some apple- 
 tart. 
 
 " I shall get up and prowl, if you wish it," said 
 Fritz. 
 
 Roger knew Colossus was as weak as wet paper in 
 this illness, come again upon him in a foreign land, 
 and that he was quite unfitted to stand on his long 
 slender legs. 
 
 " N-o," he said, as if after careful reflection, " stay 
 where you are. It will keep you out of mischief. You 
 might break the furniture, if I let you get up, after 
 all you shall eat." 
 
 182
 
 THE CHEER OF FELLOWSHIP 
 
 " Yes, I might break the house off," agreed Fritz, 
 with a smile. " I have got so rested I am too hearty." 
 
 Roger went on with the singing, as he moved about 
 the room, in his own peculiar " gayety" of spirits. He 
 smoothed the wrinkles from Fritz's bed and then 
 brought the basin of water, the soap, and a towel. 
 
 " Here, give me those hands, Colossus," he said. 
 " With your bluster and brawn you'd shatter the dish." 
 
 He washed the two limp hands, so homely and 
 freckled, dried them, and tucked them under the 
 blankets. Then he bathed Fritz's face, all the while 
 keeping up his raillery of scolding and joking. 
 
 When the dinner arrived he drew up a chair and a 
 table, and, propping Colossus upright in the bed, pro- 
 ceeded gently to make him eat till the patient sank lan- 
 guidly back on his pillows. 
 
 " Do I have to eat any more ?" asked Fritz, at length. 
 
 " More, Colossus ?" said Gordon, in amazement. 
 "Do you think yourself the Prussian army? And 
 what have you left for me, as it is?" 
 
 Colossus smiled, as Roger let him lie again on his 
 back. He had eaten as much as might have satisfied 
 the mightiest kitten withal. 
 
 Putting aside the table, with its half-consumed din- 
 ner upon it, Gordon sang at his cheerful bit of a lay 
 as he made the apartment tidy and opened the windows 
 for the air to enter more freely. 
 
 183
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " I've got some news as rich as plum-pudding," he 
 said, " but I don't know, Fritz, whether you like to 
 hear good news or not." 
 
 " Of course I do," said Fritz. " I could stand on 
 my head all the time you were telling me good 
 news." 
 
 "You stand on your back, flat, and I'll tell you. 
 I had a letter from home this morning that tells me 
 I've got a small fortune, more money than I shall 
 know what to do with. So you and I are going to 
 have a fine time, and I'm going to see that you get a 
 wife, and marry her straight away off and settle down 
 to a life of usefulness and joy. Now that you can 
 afford it, you must wed forthwith, and break no more 
 of the ladies' hearts, you villanous Don Juan. And 
 that's my news." 
 
 "Haw," said Fritz, grinning, somewhat wanly. 
 "Me! Married!" 
 
 " Yes, married, you rogue, married and presently 
 surrounded by a lot of little Colossi. You've wasted 
 enough of your life in riotous living. And now that 
 we've got more gold that we can spend if we try, you 
 shall live as befits your station. You shall have that 
 same little villa you chose as a boy, and Gretel shall 
 have you and her father both, and no pinching the 
 breakfast to make it answer for luncheon as well. To- 
 morrow, or next day, you spend your time in the park. 
 
 184
 
 THE CHEER OF FELLOWSHIP 
 
 You will thereby get accustomed to living the out-of- 
 door life you'll adopt at the Villa die Rosen, and one 
 day next week we shall go there and buy the place 
 together." 
 
 " I am glad you have got that money," said Colossus. 
 " You will be happy yourself. And you will get mar- 
 ried, yes. When I get up to-morrow I shall dance, 
 to show you how I am glad." 
 
 Roger was trying with his news to brighten Fritz's 
 spirit. He knew from previous experience how insidi- 
 ous and how enduring were these spells of melancholy 
 which so swiftly reduced his companion's vitality and 
 love of life. But instead of brightening, as he had 
 thought he would at the promise of that certain little 
 villa, with Gretel at last to make it glad, Fritz was 
 dreaming sadly of his hollow life, when the might- 
 have-beens were thus presented to his mind. 
 
 " You are a very devil for making me feel like a 
 boy," said Roger. " I shall have to get my violin." 
 
 He hastened away to his rooms, and, fetching the 
 instrument, lost no time in striking up a mad bizarre, 
 in which it seemed as if the violin tossed off a spark- 
 ling champagne of song till the melody laughed at its 
 own rollicking spree. As smiling as Gordon appeared 
 to be, he was watching Colossus narrowly, anxiously. 
 His playing became such a patter of fun that Fritz 
 was presently won wholly away from himself and his 
 
 185
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 mood. His eyes became brighter, his feet were lightly 
 kicking to the time, beneath the blankets of the bed. 
 
 It was almost an instinct that Gordon had for 
 moods, that told him at last when Colossus was warmed 
 and comforted sufficiently to be sent to sleep. His art 
 was at its highest then, as he blended a rune of peace 
 with his whimsical violin laughter, and gradually 
 dropped out the fun till the muses sang a lullaby as 
 soothing as the wind. 
 
 " Poor old Colossus. Good-night, and God bless 
 you," he whispered at last to the sleeping Fritz; and 
 stealing away to his own apartments, he dressed to 
 return to Lady Denby's. 
 
 He had meditated telegraphing, to say that illness 
 detained him. Then he thought it highly probable 
 that Lady Fitzhenry would be among the guests that 
 evening in attendance at her ladyship's musical party. 
 Should he find her there, his " farce" could commence 
 without further delay. He knew that his holiday was 
 ended. 
 
 1 86
 
 XVIII 
 
 THE FARCE COMMENCES 
 
 NEVER had singers, pianists, and the general herd 
 of musical okapis so responded to an invitation as 
 they did to Lady Denby's. It seemed as if the 
 London jungle had delivered up everything it con- 
 tained to do homage to the lion of the moment. 
 
 Confused by the introductions, the glitter, the clack- 
 ing voices, that taught him soon how weary he was, 
 after all his work and the big recital, Roger was never- 
 theless aware of two important factors of the gather- 
 ing. Lady Fitzhenry was there, and so was Genevra. 
 
 Lennox and Lady Fitzhenry came up nearly to- 
 gether to greet him. He was glad to see his first 
 violin, whose hand he shook heartily. Poor Lennox 
 had almost feared to face the "black lion" he had 
 done so much to create. Yet his treachery had never 
 been committed, and the man was glad immeasurably 
 glad. Come what might, he had not been a Brutus 
 to his friend. 
 
 " I knew you could do it, old chap," said Lennox. 
 " I jolly well knew you only wanted the opportunity." 
 
 Roger had only time to thank him when Lady Fitz- 
 henry addressed him. 
 
 " Big man," she said, smiling bewitchingly, " may 
 187
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 I approach and hover where your exalted shadow falls ? 
 May I sit at your feet, in humble admiration?" 
 
 " So many people have stepped on them, without 
 asking permission, that I am almost flattered, Lady 
 Fitzhenry," he said, laughing as best he could. " But 
 it is the privilege of him that worketh to make him- 
 self one of many at the feet of beauty." 
 
 " Ah, sir, success has made you daring at last ! 
 Think how I so recently wrought with you, vainly, to 
 get one wee compliment. Perhaps you can afford one 
 now, out of your many that overwhelm you." She 
 was archness itself, as she looked upon him with can- 
 did admiration. Moreover, she understood the art of 
 manoeuvring so that she held him all to herself against 
 the eager throng. " But, seriously, Herr Comanche, 
 you have chained us all with your music. You may 
 drag us, willing slaves, where you will." 
 
 "On the contrary, I must be alert to avoid being 
 myself dragged in twenty directions all at once," he 
 told her. 
 
 " But you will come to me for luncheon to-mor- 
 row ?" she hastened to say. " You have not accepted 
 for luncheon in nineteen other directions?" 
 
 " No," he said ; " but you are nearly as persuasive 
 as a score yourself. Indeed, you must be all of 
 twenty," he answered, still as if insisting in a joke. 
 He was, however, fencing for time. He knew that to 
 
 188
 
 THE FARCE COMMENCES 
 
 carry out his farce he would do well to attend her 
 luncheon, but he clung despairingly, for a moment 
 more, to a hope that this concession to fate need not be 
 made. 
 
 " Yes, prince of equivocators, I am twenty-two," 
 she replied, fixing his gaze with her ardent eyes. 
 " Now, will you answer me, are you coming?" 
 
 " When I am dragged by twenty-two, I am power- 
 less to refuse." 
 
 " Then I shall never be less again. Could a woman 
 say more than that, Herr Comanche?" 
 
 " So much might depend on how much she was 
 tempted," he answered. 
 
 " That is equivalent to charging that we would say 
 almost anything to gain a point. You wouldn't charge 
 us with that?" 
 
 " I would confess, under pressure, that women are 
 born with facilities for speech." 
 
 " Yes ; but this is a matter of conscience." 
 
 " Make sure that man would never have adopted a 
 conscience had it not been convenient and readily kept 
 in subjection," said Roger. " And woman gets what 
 she has from man." 
 
 " Dear me !" said the lady, much amused. " Then 
 perhaps I should renew my supply, you think? Could 
 you spare me some of yours?" 
 
 " What you have at present is very becoming," he 
 189
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 assured her. " Conscience should never out-lustre a 
 lady's well say her sense of humor." 
 
 " Nor a man's sense of flattery ? Incorrigible de- 
 mon," she said, tapping him lightly with her fan, " I 
 shall leave you to the mercy of these less discrimi- 
 nating worshippers. Come back to me when you 
 need to hear something conscientiously spoken." 
 
 She left him majestically. He could not but note, 
 as she walked away, how superbly beautiful she was. 
 Coiffure, face, shoulders, figure, and gown, she was 
 splendidly handsome and richly endowed with life that 
 bounded in her veins. 
 
 When some of the various performers and singers 
 began to entertain the company, Gordon had more of 
 an opportunity to move about. Yet one of the traits 
 by which genuinely high society may be known is its 
 habit of talking with renewed energy the moment that 
 music of any character commences. Therefore Co- 
 manche presently found himself the victim of a group 
 of antediluvians, who would have furnished Darwin 
 with interesting material for study on the descent of 
 man. Despite himself, as he answered these estimable 
 ladies and smiled when they laughed, a safe and 
 amiable proceeding always, he was looking about 
 the crowded rooms for Genevra. The touch of her 
 hand, the sound of her voice, the sweet warm light 
 in her eyes, all remained with him, stirring his nature, 
 
 190
 
 THE FARCE COMMENCES 
 
 quickening the leap of his heart, and making of 
 every moment that came an eternity of despond- 
 ency. 
 
 She was not apparently to be seen in all that crush 
 of people. He neglected to look towards the piano. 
 When at length he heard a voice that sang out freshly 
 above the Babel, with a sweetness, earnestness, and 
 feeling that compelled his attention, he saw to his utter 
 amazement, that Lady Denby had induced Genevra 
 thus to entertain her guests. 
 
 For a second she glanced to where he was. The 
 greeting of companionship flashed from her lustrous 
 eyes across the distance between them. A flush that 
 arose to mantle her cheek was a thing he felt more 
 than saw. His love, suddenly insubordinate, flamed in 
 his breast. 
 
 She was singing Lola's song from Cavalleria Rusti- 
 cana singing it passionately, as if the impulse of her 
 nature demanded all that expression could give it. 
 She was oblivious to everything in the rooms save 
 the presence of Roger. She sang to him. He could 
 not but know it, feel it. He had never known she 
 could sing like this, with such a force, such ease, 
 such temperament and culture. 
 
 The words were in English. She preferred them 
 so. But instead of singing, " My king of lilies," to 
 the metre, she sang, " My king of roses." She dared
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 to do it because no one could know no one but her- 
 self and Roger, and even Roger would not perhaps 
 realize what sweet abandon to and confession of her 
 love it was. Yet the color that burned upward in her 
 face, the first time the oft-repeated sentence came, re- 
 mained on her cheek till the end. Moreover, it seemed 
 to lend its virginal red as a color to her tones. They 
 were rich, impassioned, and thrilling. The impulse 
 of the moment had carried her quite away. But she 
 was right : nobody knew save Roger and one other, 
 Lennox. 
 
 Comanche's first violin leaned against the wall 
 dumbly, no longer capable of meditating a lover's re- 
 venge, no longer even jealous. The thing weighed 
 upon him with a sense of inevitableness that crushed 
 both spirit and hope at once. 
 
 But Gordon was the man who suffered. Genevra 
 came and found him when her song was finished and 
 some one was playing a tarantella on a violin. She 
 was not so clever as Lady Fitzhenry, yet she managed 
 to isolate him from the others for a moment. 
 
 " Miss Melgand has asked me to luncheon to- 
 morrow," she said, " and I'm going to walk across the 
 park." 
 
 " It is almost as good as the forest," he murmured, 
 at loss for a better reply. 
 
 " Not like some forests, full of music," she said, 
 192
 
 THE FARCE COMMENCES 
 
 slightly flushing. " But it is beautiful. I shall have 
 a few moments there all to myself." 
 
 His heart struck with heavy blows. The fire was 
 dancing in his blood, in his brain. 
 
 " I envy you that walk," he said. 
 
 She had planned for this moment ; she had planned 
 that walk for their two selves. She could barely 
 speak for the tumult of feelings that possessed her. 
 She could not look up as she added, half in a whis- 
 per, 
 
 " I know Miss Melgand wants to invite you as 
 well to come." 
 
 He understood. He had guessed at the first men- 
 tion of the park and the walk that her sweet sense of 
 womanly provision had schemed for this moment, to 
 which they should by every right feel entitled. His 
 brain was reeling. He caught at himself in despera- 
 tion, to prevent the outbreak of every natural impulse 
 that strove for expression in his nature. If only he 
 dared to tell her all, but he knew he had not the 
 courage. 
 
 " I am very unfortunate, I mean, I am too fortu- 
 nate, I fear," he said, with a laugh that he forced. 
 " I have already accepted an invitation to lunch 
 with Lady Fitzhenry." 
 
 " Lady Fitzhenry* to-morrow ?" she said. 
 
 " To-morrow, yes." 
 13 i93
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh ! You are, indeed, very fortunate," she said, 
 faintly. " Lady Denby must be looking for me. I 
 must go for a moment. Good-by." 
 
 He saw that her cheeks had suddenly paled a trifle. 
 She turned away smiling, but without spirit or mirth, 
 and went to her hostess through the throng. He knew 
 the first of his poisoned darts had found its mark. 
 
 194
 
 XIX 
 
 A PARTIAL INTOXICATION 
 
 THRICE ill at his heart, Gordon drove to Lady Fitz- 
 henry's the following day. He was ill to think of 
 Genevra and what she would naturally conclude from 
 his conduct; he was ill for himself and his life, for 
 which he could no longer care ; he was ill over Fritz, 
 whose malady had not diminished, but had rather in- 
 creased, if weakness can be said so to progress. He 
 had called in a doctor for the uncomplaining Colossus, 
 but there was none he could call for himself, for his 
 heartache and anguish. 
 
 In the absence of any sign of visitors other than 
 himself in front of Lady Fitzhenry's stately house, 
 Roger thought he must have arrived far too early. By 
 his watch, however, it was two, the hour her ladyship 
 had appointed. He therefore rang and entered, to find 
 that the reception-room contained no guests, as it had 
 on the last occasion when he called. Before he had 
 time to speculate on the subject, Lady Fitzhenry her- 
 self appeared and came towards him with her hand 
 extended. 
 
 " My dear Herr Comanche, I am so delighted that 
 you really did not forget," she said. " I trust you are 
 quite as well as you look. It is such a grand day that
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 I have ordered the carriage. So let us go to luncheon 
 at once. It will give us so much more time in the 
 park." 
 
 " But, Lady Fitzhenry " he started to say. 
 
 " Now, please, no protests, or anything of the sort," 
 she interrupted. " Luncheon with me nearly always 
 means a drive afterwards, and you know you accepted 
 without conditions." 
 
 After all, why not? as much driving as she pleased. 
 The more he was seen in her company, the shorter 
 would be the need of protracting his farce. 
 
 " I confess to a weakness for the park," he said, 
 somewhat lamely. He followed where she led the way 
 to a smaller dining-room than the one in which she 
 had entertained before. Thus he found himself in a 
 cosey little place into which the sun shone through 
 interstices between the leaves of plants, trained to 
 grow high on a swinging shelf, which was now across 
 the window with its burden of greenery. The leaves 
 made an unconventional design against the light. A 
 sleek cat, curled like a muff, was asleep on one of 
 the many cushions with which the window-seat 
 was provided. The apartment was one in which 
 luxury and beauty of adornment and furnishing had 
 been lavished with taste and without regard to 
 expense. 
 
 For a moment they were alone in this pretty bower 
 196
 
 A PARTIAL INTOXICATION 
 
 of delight. Then a door opened and a little emaciated 
 woman appeared. Lady Fitzhenry turned to her, hand- 
 ing her one of Comanche's cards. 
 
 " Herr Comanche, the Baroness Skeffingham," she 
 said. 
 
 Gordon bowed and mentioned the pleasure he felt, 
 but the lady, after a peculiar little nod, merely trotted 
 to a seat at the table and made ready to dine. Roger 
 must have looked somewhat of the astonishment he 
 felt, for Lady Fitzhenry said, in gay badinage, 
 
 " She is practically stone deaf, and she doesn't see 
 very well. 
 
 " How how very unhappy," said Roger. 
 
 " Not at all, my dear Herr Comanche, for you know, 
 even with you, one must have a chaperon." 
 
 He had been amazed to find that he was to lunch 
 with Lady Fitzhenry alone; her frankness completed 
 his surprise. But she smiled at him engagingly. As 
 pink and as fragrant as the roses that beautified the 
 table so profusely, as warm as the cat asleep on the 
 cushion, and as bright as the rays of the sun shining 
 in, she impressed him with a new description of 
 beauty. With her shoulders and arms merely sug- 
 gested, instead of being revealed, as in evening dress, 
 she drew his gaze only to her face, which he found 
 almost faultless in its lines of feminine loveliness. 
 Her hair was glossy, light, and abundant. Her eye- 
 
 197
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 brows were intensely black. Her eyes were brown. 
 With color that came and went, dimples that played 
 with only the slightest assistance, and a red mouth, 
 as sensuous as it was ready with smiles, she made a 
 picture on which it was possible to gaze for long with- 
 out becoming sated. Her gown was pretty in twenty 
 ways of such creations. It had not been made in 
 London. Parisian witchery seemed woven in the very 
 fabric of its costly material. 
 
 " You have a very beautiful home," said Roger, 
 in honest admiration of the room. " I wonder if there 
 is anything left that your heart could wish." 
 
 He thought he was making a commonplace remark ; 
 it had, however, no commonplace reception. 
 
 " My poor heart is the one thing which has not had 
 its wish," she answered, smiling straight into his eyes. 
 " Are you a palmist, or any sort of a soothsayer, Herr 
 Comanche ?" 
 
 " Alas, I fear I am not. Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " I thought you, of all men, could tell me whether 
 my heart will ever have its wish or not," she mur- 
 mured. 
 
 Her meaning was too Qbvious to be missed. Roger 
 colored boyishly. He said, 
 
 "You have a rare heart, indeed, if it really knows 
 what it wants." 
 
 " Why, I thought every one knew what a woman's
 
 A PARTIAL INTOXICATION 
 
 heart most craves to possess," she told him, with af- 
 fected innocence. 
 
 " I must plead a woful ignorance," was his answer. 
 " Perhaps, however, you will enlighten my wretched 
 mind. What would you say it is that a woman's heart 
 so fondly desires?" 
 
 " Well we all every one of us wish first to to 
 be loved. Every woman craves that most." 
 
 " Every woman all women," Roger repeated, at- 
 tempting to extricate himself somewhat from a posi- 
 tion which he conceived to verge on the perilous. 
 " This is a great burden of information for any one 
 man to assume. I shall feel it my duty to impart this 
 knowledge to all my kind." 
 
 "If you find one of the men apparently eager to 
 avoid this truth, or irresponsivee to all that it ought 
 to convey, what shall you think of his temperament?" 
 she inquired. 
 
 Roger colored again, with the consciousness that 
 she was whipping himself, thus artfully, over the 
 shoulders of some imaginary man. He looked for a 
 second into her eyes. They flashed him a glance as 
 warm as June. 
 
 " I should always go deeper than mere appearances 
 before I form a judgment," he responded. " We used 
 to say one could never tell from the look of a frog 
 how far he could jump if he wished." 
 
 199
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " From a woman's point of view, would you con- 
 strue that hopefully?" she inquired, with evident in- 
 terest. Had she asked him straightforwardly whether 
 she could hope for love from himself, he could not 
 have felt more cornered. This farce of making love 
 to her ladyship was moving with a swiftness that 
 alarmed him. He had never been frivolous-minded; 
 he had never gone so lightly along the path of life as 
 to blow about with every breath of the zephyrs. He 
 could not readily put on the motley, either of a mild 
 flirtation or a game at deeper passion. 
 
 " I should never dare attempt to construe anything 
 from a woman's point of view," he answered, as gayly 
 as possible. " Is it the Bible that bids us beware of 
 building a house on the shifting sands of a feminine 
 point of view?" 
 
 " I only know that the Bible doesn't counsel any 
 one to build behind the stone of a man's blindness," 
 she retorted, a little warmly. 
 
 Gordon confessed to himself that there are none so 
 blind as those who will not see, but he made no ad- 
 missions. A score of times he was tempted to utter 
 some word of reckless passion. To abandon himself 
 to the mood in which he found his beautiful companion 
 would have been so dangerously easy, and yet he found 
 it so difficult. 
 
 " Ah, poor blind man," he sighed, lugubriously. 
 200
 
 A PARTIAL INTOXICATION 
 
 Lady Fitzhenry mentally acknowledged his clever- 
 ness, and liked him the more. 
 
 " Poor, pitiful man, indeed," she agreed. " Are you 
 going to refuse the wine again to-day?" 
 
 " I am more than half intoxicated now," Roger 
 assured her. " And there is still the drive in the 
 park." 
 
 A mad thought that wine and Lady Fitzhenry could 
 bring him a species of delight, in which something 
 approximating oblivion would result, was in his brain. 
 He was weary of fighting to drive it out. Why should 
 he so exert himself? But the habit of his life had been 
 honest, abstemious living. It opposed its natural bar- 
 rier to madness now. Yet he felt that perhaps the 
 day would come when the pall of his anguish would 
 obliterate all habits that formerly governed his exist- 
 ence. He almost hoped this might be so. Nothing 
 so rankled in his soul as that one bitter irony which 
 Genevra had spoken so unwittingly when she asked 
 him to write a " Paradise Regained." Could the wine 
 but wipe that out, he thought he should hail it as a 
 boon. 
 
 The luncheon came to an end at last. Without a 
 sign, the little Baroness Skeffingham arose and disap- 
 peared with Lady Fitzhenry. They were both soon 
 ready for the drive, and the chaperon appeared to 
 know her place in the carriage from experience. She 
 
 201
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 sat on the forward seat and folded her hands de- 
 murely. 
 
 Roger and Lady Fitzhenry sat together in the cush- 
 ions and robes, in a space which he found was not as 
 wide as usual. Up through a fashionable street the 
 carriage rolled, to Hyde Park Corner, and here, with 
 dozens of smart conveyances, it glided under the arch- 
 way of stone and into the Row, with its tide of glint- 
 ing vehicles and spirited horses. 
 
 Her ladyship chatted in her brightest, most ani- 
 mated style; she nodded to right and left, at scores 
 of London's patricians. Half intoxicated, as he said, 
 Gordon felt his spirit of recklessness growing upon 
 him. 
 
 But at length they passed a carriage in which he 
 saw a girl with a white, set face. She nodded so 
 coldly that it brought all of his gall and wormwood 
 back, to make him sober. 
 
 The carriage was occupied only by Miss Melgand 
 and Genevra. 
 
 202
 
 XX 
 
 COLOSSUS NO LONGER A JOKE 
 
 As a result of what she called a secondary thought, 
 which is always one way of disguising deliberate cal- 
 culation, Lady Fitzhenry drove Herr Comanche to 
 the home of one of her friends. The Dowager Duchess 
 Farnham, whom this personage proved to be, appeared 
 to Gordon to be quite prepared for the visit. Indeed, 
 she expected Herr Comanche and Lady Fitzhenry not 
 only to have some tea, but to remain for supper as 
 well. 
 
 The reason for desiring so much of his company 
 was finally rendered comprehensible to Roger. The 
 Duchess had written an opera, which she much desired 
 should be set to music forthwith. Her work was not 
 new. Comanche was not the first musical genius who 
 had thus been honored by the dowager. Her volu- 
 minous libretto already enjoyed something akin to 
 fame, signified at times when some man who knew 
 of it nudged another of his sex and said, " I see you 
 have undergone a reading. What will you drink?" 
 
 Lady Fitzhenry had not permitted Herr Comanche 
 to hear the work on this occasion. She knew too 
 much to let him think her friends the sort to be avoided, 
 and herself, therefore, indiscriminating. But the dow- 
 
 203
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 ager was one of those persons who create a wonderful 
 first impression ; moreover, her suppers were famously 
 charming. Lady Fitzhenry was satisfied when the im- 
 pression and the supper had worked a vague back- 
 ground of possibilities for her own fair charms and 
 thoughtfulness to shine upon. This succeeded so well 
 that the guileless Roger had a moment of splendid 
 dreams before his indifference to further success re- 
 turned to blight all his hopes and desires. 
 
 When he let himself in at the quaint little house 
 where he lived, he met the housekeeper coming down 
 the stairs. 
 
 " Your friend is restin' splendid," she said. " He's 
 been quiet all the evenin'." 
 
 "Asleep?" he inquired. 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir." 
 
 " Have you heard him breathing a little ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, indeed, sir." 
 
 " Thank you," Gordon murmured, and he hastened 
 up to the floor above without delay. The look of 
 worry which had come on his face had escaped the 
 woman's observation. He knew too well what it meant 
 to have Colossus lying apparently asleep and making 
 no sound. 
 
 He unlocked his own apartments first, purposely 
 making a noise. Then he went to Fritz's room, en- 
 tered, and lighted the gas. 
 
 204
 
 COLOSSUS NO LONGER A JOKE 
 
 As he quite expected, Fritz's two round eyes 
 were open wide, and the little fellow's face was 
 wreathed in smiles the moment the light fell upon 
 his features. 
 
 " I knew you would come," he said, a little faintly. 
 " I've been waiting. I couldn't go to sleep without 
 saying good-night." 
 
 " I'd wollop you good if you did," said Roger, with 
 a poor imitation of fun in his voice. " I meant to come 
 home a little earlier to-day." 
 
 " I think I could have waited till pretty near morn- 
 ing," Colossus told him, wistfully, as Roger sat down 
 on the edge of the bed. " But I did want to say 
 good-by." 
 
 " Good-by ?" Roger echoed, scolding tenderly. 
 "Don't you talk to me of saying good-by, you big, 
 burly humbug, Colossus. That's perfect nonsense! 
 I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to make 
 you laugh till the rest of your hair falls off your 
 head." 
 
 " I'm laughing now," said Fritz, weakly, striving 
 to keep his lip from trembling. " You always make 
 me happy. That's why I wanted to see you when 
 you came back. You don't mind, much, all the trou- 
 ble I've been?" 
 
 " Fritz don't you talk this sort of thing to me," 
 Roger chided, in the way that usually made Colossus 
 
 205
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 brighter. "You promised to get up to-morrow, and 
 help me to have a good time." 
 
 "You've always made me happy when no one else 
 cared," said Fritz, looking up with a yearning affection 
 on his homely face. " I don't know why you did. I 
 couldn't play, and I couldn't write music, and I think 
 I must have been pretty near a failure." 
 
 " You weren't anything like a failure, Colossus. 
 You know more about music than hundreds of the 
 fellows," Roger told him, earnestly. " So you brace 
 up and don't talk all this foolishness. I'm going to 
 get you well, and you'll do something yet." 
 
 " Yes, I'll do something," Fritz echoed, smiling 
 wanly. " I used to think of wonderful music that I'd 
 like to write, but couldn't, and beautiful playing that 
 I could never play, but " 
 
 " Then you've got to make up your mind you'll do 
 it all yet," Roger interrupted. " We'll make you a 
 genius we can, if only you'll laugh more, and get 
 yourself well and strong." 
 
 " I've tried to laugh at everything. My life has 
 been a joke," Fritz told him, trying to smile as he 
 talked in his wavering voice. " But you don't think 
 it was all like that? I helped a little on your great 
 work. I helped you finish it up, and you let me play." 
 He turned his head to one side, in his old way, and 
 looked at Roger hungrily, anxiously. 
 
 206
 
 COLOSSUS NO LONGER A JOKE 
 
 " You helped me when I needed it most," said Roger, 
 whose voice broke, despite his efforts to speak in an 
 off-hand tone. " You were the only man I knew who 
 could do the work I wanted. But now I want you to 
 get back your strength for more good work." 
 
 " I helped a little," Fritz repeated, in his failing joy. 
 " I'm glad I came home to you again. I waited for 
 you to come. I wanted to ask you if I was only a 
 joke, before I said good-by." 
 
 Roger could have groaned. He dared not reveal the 
 slightest feeling that would add to Fritz's depression, 
 but to jest had suddenly become impossible. 
 
 " I'll not permit you to say good-by, or anything of 
 the sort, Colossus," he said. " Your success is just 
 coming to you now. You scamp, I want you for my 
 partner." 
 
 " I haven't done much all my life," Colossus said, 
 feebly, " but I helped you finish the great work." 
 
 Gordon saw how useless it was to rally the weary 
 Colossus with fun. He had one resource left. 
 
 " But you have got to help me with more of the 
 music," he insisted. " It is only begun only half has 
 been written. I shall need you to help me write the 
 other half, the ' Paradise Regained.' " 
 
 " ' Paradise Regained,' " echoed Fritz. " You see 
 you have the beautiful thoughts, and I never had. I'd 
 spoil it, I know. I'd never make anybody feel that 
 
 207
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 way. Nobody will ever like what you write more than 
 I do. But you can write it so much better without 
 me." 
 
 " I can't," said Roger. " You make me light-hearted 
 joyous. I want you to help. I need you to help. 
 You have got to get well and help me, Colossus." 
 
 " I'm so glad you don't think I'm all a joke," 
 Colossus faltered. He winked his eyes slowly. His 
 affectionate gaze rested on Gordon's countenance a 
 moment. Then he turned face downward and lay in 
 absolute quiet on the pillow. 
 
 " Here, Colossus, you humbug," said Roger, wrench- 
 ing at his collar, that choked him, " you look up here 
 and laugh. I'll get my violin. I'll play." He has- 
 tened from the room. Violin in hand he darted down 
 the stairs to his housekeeper's room. 
 
 " Will you go at once and get the doctor to come 
 again ?" he said. " And tell him to bring something 
 strong." Then he hastened back to the room above. 
 
 " Fritz," he coaxed, " look up here and tell me what 
 to play." 
 
 Colossus looked up, obediently, his head on one side 
 in his quaint little way. His eyes were strangely wist- 
 ful, even for him. 
 
 " I'd rather hear you talk," he whispered. " Will 
 you let me lie against your arm just for a moment 
 before the doctor comes." 
 
 208
 
 COLOSSUS NO LONGER A JOKE 
 
 Roger looked at him, startled. He could not de- 
 mand to know how Fritz knew. 
 
 Kneeling on the floor, he adjusted the little fellow's 
 head on his arm and saw the light of fleeting joy that 
 illumined the homely face. 
 
 " My home," faltered Colossus. " I could have 
 waited longer; but I am so glad you came." 
 
 One of his thin white hands crept slowly up to Gor- 
 don's shoulder and hung there, though it trembled. 
 With that wistful turn of his head to the side, Fritz 
 looked at Roger and smiled. A light ineffable burned 
 in his eyes, unsteadily. He closed them as if to sleep. 
 
 " I helped," he sighed, in content. 
 
 Then the wan hand slipped down from the place 
 to which it had climbed. There was one more faint 
 breath. That was all. 
 
 Roger remained there kneeling. He was silent. He 
 made no movement. He could not believe that the 
 one faithful being who had clung to him with such a 
 genuine affection had really gone. 
 
 He touched the cool forehead with his hand and 
 looked long and yearningly at the white face, so trans- 
 figured at last. At length he laid the freckled cheek 
 on the pillow and arose. The majesty of death was 
 already coming. The smile took on a beauty that can 
 never come till the final touch of divinity smoothes 
 away all that is earthly from a face. 
 14 209
 
 XXI 
 
 THE WAY OF A MAN 
 
 SENSIBLE that he owed an obligation to the friends 
 who had made his recital possible, Gordon knew his 
 social existence could not be ended so abruptly as his 
 soreness of heart would dictate. Nevertheless, it was 
 fully a week after Fritz's death before he again ap- 
 peared at Lady Denby's house. 
 
 The weather had suddenly developed towards sum- 
 mer heat. Exodus from town was already the topic 
 of conversation. Indeed, the stirrings of preparation 
 for the social flitting to river-side and sea-shore were 
 everywhere to be heard. Roger was glad this was so. 
 He wished to get away from London. The heat 
 formed an acceptable excuse. But where he would go 
 he had not thought. Vaguely he considered the Con- 
 tinent as a haven to which to return. 
 
 It was an evening party again which had brought 
 together a number of Lady Denby's acquaintances. 
 
 " You extravagant boy," said Lady Denby herself, 
 when she had greeted Comanche in all her cordial 
 spirit, " you have expended enough regrets to last one 
 a lifetime in declining so often to be seen. Do you 
 know that you deserve to have lost the several oppor- 
 tunities to write music for important persons, which 
 
 210
 
 THE WAY OF A MAN 
 
 I have preserved? You do, really. And this may be 
 the last of my evenings. I can tell you that when 
 every one leaves the town, all seriousness and thought 
 of work are placed in storage. You must really see 
 some of these music-searching friends without delay." 
 
 " You are more kind than I deserve, I admit," said 
 Roger. " I wrote you a little about the friend I had 
 lost. But sometimes there are things which one can- 
 not bury much better as such a ceremony might prove 
 to be. I thank you for thus forgiving me so 
 promptly." 
 
 " But I haven't said I forgive you at all, Herr Co- 
 manche," she protested. 
 
 " And you will not say you have not," he answered. 
 
 " I do forgive you," she told him, sincerely. " I 
 could wish you looked as happy as you did the night 
 we met you first." 
 
 " I must do so, or prove myself an ingrate," he 
 agreed, smiling at her gravely. 
 
 " You are never that," she told him, glancing past 
 him to where some new arrivals were approaching. 
 " Now say some nice things to my guests. You re- 
 member meeting Viscount Farron, Herr Comanche?" 
 
 She glided away to meet the friends who had just 
 arrived, and Roger nodded to a man he remembered 
 to have seen before. This bewhiskered person bobbed 
 his head in return. 
 
 211
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " The weather has turned much warmer," said Gor- 
 don. 
 
 " Bally warm weather for golf," replied the viscount, 
 bow, " you are a cruel as well as a wicked man." 
 
 " Herr Comanche," said a pleasant voice at his el- 
 bow, " you are a cruel, as well as a wicked man." 
 
 He turned about and saw the bare arms and shoul- 
 ders and the beautiful neck and hair and face of Lady 
 Fitzhenry. On her damask cheek flamed a color more 
 warm that that of the roses she wore at the top of her 
 corsage, where they rested against the creamy white- 
 ness of her bosom. 
 
 " I have to be all that you say," Roger said, " to 
 keep fresh the interest which I may thereby excite." 
 
 " Then you admit, shamelessly, that it has been de- 
 liberate cruelty that kept you from coming to see me ?" 
 
 " I confess I have been cruel to myself." 
 
 "Oh! Then I cannot forgive you, after all," she 
 told him. " To break my heart might be excusable, 
 but to pain my friends is a deadly sin. You didn't 
 really wish to come?" 
 
 " My wishes have never been conspicuously well re- 
 ceived by fate," he answered, equivocally. 
 
 " That is not an answer. You did not really wish 
 to see me." 
 
 "You do yourself an injustice," he assured her. 
 " But had I seen you a hundred times, you would not 
 
 212
 
 THE WAY OF A MAN 
 
 have appeared to greater advantage than you do to- 
 night." 
 
 She looked at him out of her soft brown eyes caress- 
 ingly. " I wish I might believe you," she murmured. 
 
 " Oh, you may," was his cheerful answer, for he 
 had meant far less than might have been supposed. 
 
 " I will if you will take me for something cool," 
 she answered, and, slipping her hand beneath his arm 
 so far that it lay upon his wrist, she guided him away 
 from the room. 
 
 Despite himself, he felt the fascination which this 
 beautiful young widow exercised, when she so desired, 
 for any man. She was always so fragrant, so bright, 
 so voluptuously radiant. Temptations to drift with 
 her whither she listed had become more natural and 
 more insidious. Yet he found himself looking rest- 
 lessly, yearningly about for one sweet face, the mem- 
 ory of which, in its whiteness, haunted him day and 
 night. She was not to be seen. She was there, how- 
 ever, jealously watching the movements of Lady Fitz- 
 henry. 
 
 To think at all of Genevra made Gordon's heart ache 
 dully. He knew, as he searched the faces there, that 
 the time had come when he must leave the scenes in 
 which he beheld her from time to time. His farce, 
 so far as it had gone, had wrung him till his heart 
 was weary of the thought of courage. 
 
 213
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh, why didn't I think before ?" said Lady Fitz- 
 henry. " The conservatory is the most delightfully 
 cooling place in the house." 
 
 She opened a door that led to the house of glass, and 
 took him away from the sound of the chatter, with easy 
 art. The perfume of leaves and blossoms, the plash 
 of a tiny fountain, and the sense of calm made the 
 place delightful. A rustling movement, in the ferns 
 on the farther side, escaped their attention. 
 
 " This is where your charity begins," said Roger, 
 referring to her thoughtfulness in conducting him into 
 such a peaceful bower. 
 
 " And charity should never end," she told him, as 
 they came to a rustic bench, in which she sat, and drew 
 him to a place beside her. " I could tell you the name 
 of a king who sat here once." 
 
 " Indeed ? Then I must make this seat an inch 
 higher at once, or refuse to sit here longer." 
 
 " And he broke a lady's heart," she added. 
 
 " Ah, well," he answered, " a king can do no wrong. 
 And I have found that a duke can do but about a fifth 
 of a wrong, a marquis only about two-fifths of a 
 wrong, an earl about a third of a wrong, a baron less 
 than half of one, and even a capitalist less than a 
 whole wrong. It is only the plain, poor citizen who 
 can commit a whole wrong in this world." 
 
 " But it is more than a wrong, it is a sacrilege, to 
 214
 
 THE WAY OF A MAN 
 
 break a lady's heart," she answered. " And even a 
 king could commit a sacrilege." 
 
 " I believe a few have tried the experiment," he 
 said. 
 
 " But the man who wouldn't break a woman's heart 
 is the true king after all," she told him, looking in 
 his eyes candidly. 
 
 " And they say something about ' uneasy is the head 
 that wears a crown/ " Roger replied, with an indiffer- 
 ence he found it hard to assume. 
 
 " Then wouldn't you care to be a king of that 
 sort?" 
 
 " So many zealots might desire my abdication," he 
 answered, guardedly. 
 
 " But no one could make you abdicate, if a woman's 
 heart were your throne." 
 
 "Thrones and women's hearts have much in com- 
 mon, I agree," said Roger. " I wonder if all thrones 
 are as hard as this bench." 
 
 " They are soft enough when they are women's 
 hearts," she murmured. " I should think you would 
 like to to try one." 
 
 " I should never feel sure I knew what sort I want 
 these days," he told her, without revealing the emo- 
 tion she had stirred within him. 
 
 " But if you married some woman who could help 
 you who liked you very much, and who had the 
 
 215
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 means, so that you could do your great work at 
 
 ease It might be some advantage if she had a 
 
 little money and could make you happy, or wouldn't 
 you wish to marry?" 
 
 He looked at her, only for a second. Her eyes were 
 ablaze with a passionate light ; her cheeks were flushed, 
 as if with the consciousness of their own warm beauty ; 
 her bosom moved rapidly, as she caught her breath 
 through her red, parted lips. 
 
 Roger was half intoxicated in that one second. She 
 infatuated all his senses for the moment. A madness 
 was in his brain, but he gripped himself, as if by 
 habit. 
 
 " A woman is so hard to please, according to some 
 one," he said, huskily. " He would be a bold man who 
 felt sure that " and he left it unfinished. 
 
 " Sure that a woman loved him ?" she supplied, in 
 excitement only half concealed. " Oh, but you should 
 know the signs. Have you ever played ' She loves 
 me ; she loves me not' ? Here, take one of these roses 
 and play it." 
 
 She leaned towards him so that the roses fastened 
 to her corsage were presented to him irresistibly. 
 They trembled, as if to the thrill which surged through 
 him, racing with the blood that leaped in his veins. 
 For a second, deprived of the power to think, he raised 
 his hands to one of the buds that was touching her 
 
 216
 
 THE WAY OF A MAN 
 
 bosom. His fingers shook. Why not? Why should 
 he not? 
 
 " Oh, there is a pin !" she gasped, and suddenly 
 catching his hand in hers, as if the pin were hurting, 
 she pressed it, with roses and all, against her cool, 
 soft flesh which instantly heated beneath the contact 
 of his touch. 
 
 His senses reeled. He felt he should clasp her in 
 both his arms, kiss her on her lips, her shoulders, 
 crush her, so fragrant and velvet soft she was. 
 
 Then strangely it seemed as if something in his 
 heart cried out in pain. 
 
 " I am sorry you were hurt," he stammered, 
 thickly. " I was awkward. I'll go and open the door 
 for air." 
 
 He had extricated his hand from hers with one 
 strong movement. He arose at once, unsteadily but 
 doggedly. 
 
 " Don't go not for a moment," she gasped. " I 
 can't 
 
 " I know the heat," he said, master of himself 
 again in a flash. " I hope you will not faint. I'll open 
 the door. I'll ask Lady Denby to bring you her salts." 
 
 She had started to her feet, to restrain him. But, 
 as if in great solicitude for her health, he strode away. 
 She sank on the bench, breathing like a spent doe. 
 
 Gordon, who had no intention of calling Lady Denby 
 217
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 into requisition, went swiftly to the door that led to 
 the garden. Somewhat to his surprise he found it 
 already open. He went out. 
 
 A faint sound, as of some one crying, attracted his 
 notice at once. He peered through the weakened light 
 cast in the garden from the windows, and saw the 
 figure of a girl, who was leaning against a tree and 
 softly sobbing. 
 
 218
 
 XXII 
 FOUND 
 
 HE knew who it was. He knew she had heard, 
 how much could make but little difference. Now that 
 the all he had started out to do was accomplished, he 
 broke down in all his resolution. 
 
 " God help me ! I can't endure it any longer !" he 
 cried to himself, in anguish, and going down from the 
 low veranda he stood in the grass and wrung his hands 
 in silence. 
 
 " Oh, Roger," came in a little cry to his ears. 
 
 He thought she had called him. She had not. She 
 had only breathed his name, while she threw herself 
 against the tree and buried her face in the curve of 
 her arm. 
 
 " Genevra I'll tell you I'll tell you everything," 
 he said, as he went towards her with his hands pressed 
 painfully against his breast. 
 
 She turned about instantly and faced him. She 
 caught at the tree and held herself away from it as 
 she looked at him, wildly. 
 
 " Go away. I don't wish to see you. I hate you !" 
 she said, in a voice still shaken. " You can have her. 
 I wish you would leave me at once !" 
 
 " I'll tell you," he repeated, simply. " I don't 
 219
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 care, now. I'd rather tell you and let you hate me 
 more." 
 
 " I don't wish to listen. I don't wish to see you. 
 You've no right to come here," said Genevra, still 
 clinging to the tree for support. " I don't care for 
 anything about you. I never cared never!" She 
 stamped her foot in anger. " Leave me directly !" 
 she commanded. 
 
 " I am glad you have never cared," he said, in his 
 melancholy calm. " But I cared so much I couldn't 
 tell you couldn't bear to have you know that I'm 
 that I'm not an Indian." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," she said. " I don't 
 want you to tell me anything. Why should I care to 
 hear anything about you and Lady Fitzhenry? I 
 wish to be alone." 
 
 " I knew you would, as soon as you knew about 
 me," he told her. " I was too big a coward to tell 
 you before, and to go away, but now I want you 
 to know it all. I don't care anything about Lady 
 Fitzhenry, but I couldn't bear to tell you the truth 
 before." 
 
 " Perhaps you are breaking her heart, as you broke 
 I don't wish to speak to you again. Why don't you 
 go away?" 
 
 She had turned about to face him, with her shoulder 
 to the tree. She was trying to stifle her pent-up emo- 
 
 220
 
 FOUND 
 
 tions and to dash away her tears with her handker- 
 chief. 
 
 " I am going now that I've told you what I am 
 an octoroon," he said. He hesitated for a moment and 
 then added : " Good-by." 
 
 He turned, as she made no reply, and started away. 
 
 " Roger Mr. Gordon," she said, " you I have a 
 right to know what you mean." 
 
 He came back, still clutching one of his hands in 
 the other and gripping it till it ached. 
 
 " I have told you all there is to tell," he said. " I 
 found out who I am, and why my face is dark, the 
 morning after the recital. I am not part Indian, as 
 you have always thought. It is worse than that." He 
 hesitated for a moment, and gazed at her wistfully out 
 of his brilliant, mournful eyes. " I was cursed, I was 
 sickened, all my boyhood through, by my darkened 
 face," he continued, unflinchingly ; " but the darkness 
 came because my father's mother was mulatto. I 
 couldn't bear to tell this to you. I knew you would 
 scorn me. But it is better as it is. I'll go, for that is 
 all there is to say." 
 
 " No, it isn't," she answered, almost impatiently. 
 " I don't care anything about all that. But you ! 
 the things you have done! I didn't think you could 
 treat me so after all that you knew after every- 
 thing. That is what I want explained." 
 
 221
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " I have confessed I was too great a coward to let 
 you know what I am," Roger repeated, patiently. " I 
 could not bear to have you know and turn away from 
 me for that. I have been a greater coward in what I 
 have done. I tried to make you think me unworthy 
 and you see how well I succeeded." 
 
 " Do you mean you have done these things to make 
 me despise you?" 
 
 " That is a harsh way to say it yes." 
 
 " I don't see how you could," she said, brokenly, 
 and turned with her face again to the tree. 
 
 Gordon was terribly wrung. He came closer to 
 where she was. 
 
 "I thought it would fall on me," he said. "It 
 was all because I loved you so because I have loved 
 you so long, so wholly." 
 
 " You ! love !" she laughed, in a paroxysm of cry- 
 ing. The sound was dreadful. " If I could only hate 
 you! if I could if I could! I do! and I wish 
 you'd go away and leave me now !" 
 
 " I'll go," he answered, still patiently. " But I have 
 loved you beter than life all these years. Won't 
 you say good-by?" 
 
 "If you loved me you would have trusted me com- 
 pletely; you would have known I shouldn't care for 
 anything but what you are to me," she said, less in 
 anger. " You haven't told me the truth." 
 
 222
 
 FOUND 
 
 " Oh, Genevra, send me away," he begged. " I 
 have told you everything more than I thought I could 
 tell to any one. I have told you because I love you 
 love you more than happiness, or pride, or life. 
 Please believe that only believe that and I can go." 
 
 She was silent for a moment. His words, in all 
 their poignancy, had gone deep into her heart. 
 
 " If you wish to leave me, Roger, go," she fal- 
 tered, and looking at him fondly, with the tears still 
 in her eyes, she held out her hand. 
 
 He knew at last that he could not go. 
 
 " You do not care for what I am ?" he said. And 
 the answer in her eyes was all his heart could wish. 
 
 Almost overcome, he took her in his arms and held 
 her gently to his breast. His lips trembled, but he 
 could not speak. She clung to him, shaken convul- 
 sively, weakened by the tumult of reaction and happi- 
 ness suddenly come upon her. 
 
 " Oh, Roger, oh, Roger," was all she could murmur 
 as she lay against his shoulder. 
 
 He kissed her on the lips, and she laughed and 
 cried together. He kissed her hands and her hair, 
 and crooned her name till she felt all the sadness in 
 his nature laid bare at last, when this joy came to 
 open wide his heart. It was almost terrible to feel, 
 as she did, what his sensitive nature had suffered. A 
 thousand days of protestations could not have borne 
 
 223
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 in the truth of his love at this one brief moment of 
 mingled pain and ecstasy was doing now. 
 
 " Oh, Roger, my own darling Roger," she whis- 
 pered at last, " I am sorry, dear, for all I said. How 
 could I know? My heart was breaking. Had you 
 really gone, my heart would have stopped its beat- 
 ing." 
 
 He looked in her eyes. Such fathomless depths of 
 emotion as she saw in his gaze filled her soul with awe 
 of the sacredness of love. 
 
 " It is terrible to love any one as I love you, Ge- 
 nevra," he told her presently. " I love you more than 
 my hope of heaven and God forgive me more than 
 God Himself." 
 
 She nestled to him. " I am so glad. My Roger," 
 she answered. 
 
 From the open windows came sounds of music. 
 Then they heard the voice of Lady Denby. 
 
 " Genevra, where are you, child ?" called her lady- 
 ship. 
 
 Genevra held up her lips and Roger kissed her once 
 again. She tucked her little hand in his and they 
 started together for the house. 
 
 Near the door of the open conservatory Lady Fitz- 
 henry glided away to the cover of a shadow, and with 
 anger and scorn in her blazing eyes watched the pair 
 as they entered with their hostess. 
 
 224
 
 XXIII 
 
 ROGER'S ADVOCATE 
 
 GENEVRA'S father considered that he best performed 
 the functions of a mother to his otherwise motherless 
 girl when he exercised his privilege of consenting to 
 whatsoever she very much desired. If her mother had 
 lived, he argued, the two of them together would have 
 inveigled all manner of consents from him anyway, 
 wherefore his mind should always be made up as if 
 the mother and bairn had worked their will upon it. 
 
 Impulsive as he knew Genevra to be, he had never 
 yet had occasion to regret his complaisance with her 
 moods. He loved her dearly and trusted her im- 
 plicitly. Fortunately, he told himself, she had never 
 desired to do anything unwholesome or indiscreet. He 
 was waiting for that day to come in which she would 
 tell him she had chosen a mate, with all the patience 
 he would have expended on any microscopic subject. 
 That such a day had not yet arrived seemed to him, 
 when he thought upon it, rather peculiar. Genevra 
 was a beautiful child, and she was clever, good, and 
 honest. 
 
 They had moved up to Datchet, on the Thames, for 
 the summer. He was carefully rearranging his micro- 
 scopes and their attendant paraphernalia in one of the 
 15 225
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 sunny rooms that faced the river when Genevra came 
 in upon him. She was flushed with the happiness of 
 youth and love; she must needs run across the room 
 to where he was, to express her mood of liveliness. 
 She kissed him on top of his head, then on the cheeks, 
 and then on the lips. 
 
 " That's the sign of the four," she said. 
 
 " Yes. I thought it was coming the moment you 
 entered the room, my dear," he said, as he pushed his 
 glasses up on his forehead and gripped the lower part 
 of his smooth-shaven face in his big, freckled hand. 
 " So you want my consent to something you deem 
 important." 
 
 " You shall be deemster yourself," she said, tossing 
 up a handful of rose leaves and catching only two. 
 " I am going to be married. Do you deem that im- 
 portant." 
 
 Her father sat down and took his glasses entirely 
 off. " You might fare far and come back to me with 
 something more trivial," he said. " When is the inci- 
 dent to happen?" 
 
 " Well, I am only engaged at present," she amended. 
 " Do you remember all that I read you about the won- 
 derful young composer, Herr Comanche?" 
 
 " Not quite all, but some of it, yes. You have not 
 told him that I possess a Strad ? He is not asking your 
 hand to obtain your daddy's violin?" 
 
 226
 
 ROGER'S ADVOCATE 
 
 " Indeed, he thinks I am far more valuable," said 
 Genevra. " He knows me better than you do, dad- 
 kins, already." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose he does. That's the way of the 
 world. And yet I know so much of you, after all, 
 that I have thought of this moment most earnestly 
 and with many of a foolish old man's regrets. Who is 
 this Herr Comanche?" 
 
 " Dear dadkins, we have got on together famously, 
 and I love you so much," she said, as a preliminary. 
 " And now I want you to read this paper, for he said 
 I must have you read it first, and then I want you to 
 bless us directly and then something else. Read it 
 fast, dadkins, it's only one of his whims." 
 
 She gave him a sheet of paper on which Roger 
 had copied everything explanatory of his lineage 
 which his father had written for his final perusal. 
 Gordon had insisted that Genevra's father should know 
 who and what he was without delay. To this Genevra 
 had consented the more readily as she knew her own 
 powers of argument with her parent. 
 
 " Gallop through it, dadkins, I've something else I 
 want to say," she said, impatiently. " It is only to 
 satisfy poor, morbid Roger." 
 
 " He asked you to show me this ?" said the man, 
 when he had read to the vital point of what was 
 written. 
 
 227
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Yes. Have you read it through ?" 
 
 " You don't mind this," said he, with his finger on 
 the paper, " this strain of darker blood ?" 
 
 " No ; of course not. Why should I ? He is mostly 
 Scotch, like us, and German, French, and English," 
 she answered. " It's only an eighth. It doesn't 
 amount to anything at all." 
 
 " You should be very sure that what you feel is not 
 infatuation, merely," he told her. " Genuine love is 
 bad enough. I thought you liked young Lennox 
 perhaps that way." 
 
 " I do like Algy, of course, but not that way. But 
 Roger I have loved for years," she said, with all 
 that sincerity and out-spoken honesty he knew so 
 well. " When you took me abroad to the States I was 
 only a child, but I saw him then, just once. Don't 
 you remember? he was the boy who saved me from 
 the snake. And I have liked him ever since, and 
 now more than ever. Is that an infatuation, dadkins, 
 do you think?" 
 
 " You never told me that you felt like that towards 
 any boy." 
 
 " No, dadkins. What would have been the use, if 
 we had never met again ? Or even if he had not cared 
 for me when we did meet, there would have been no 
 reason for telling. But now, you see, I want your 
 consent and your blessing for us both." 
 
 228
 
 ROGER'S ADVOCATE 
 
 " It is a serious matter. I always liked Lennox. I 
 wish you to marry well wisely," he said. 
 
 " And happily oh, happily first !" she replied. 
 " You did that yourself." 
 
 " He is a gentleman ?" said the man, evasively. 
 
 " He is, oh, he is and he's a man as well," she 
 answered, proudly. " He is so refined, so modest, so 
 gifted ! All London is at his feet, and he doesn't seem 
 to know it. They have called him a genius; they 
 have made him a social lion, but none of them knows 
 how truly great he is, nor what he can do. He has 
 won his fame already. The critics call him a genius 
 of the greatest magnitude, but how unspoiled he 
 is ! How gentle and cultured he always is ! He's 
 the real, noble-hearted gentleman that my own dad- 
 kins has always been or how could I love him as 
 I do?" 
 
 " And how much a year will his music earn ?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 " Oh, nearly anything he wishes," said Genevra, 
 with ingenuous assurance. " But his father left him 
 what he calls a little fortune, so that will be quite 
 all right." 
 
 " Do you love him enough to run away with him, 
 lass, if I refused my consent?" her father asked her, 
 gravely. 
 
 " Yes, dadkins," she told him, frankly, " I do. You 
 229
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 ran away with my mother, you know. But you will 
 not refuse your consent. You mustn't you can't." 
 
 " He appears to be honest, to send me this," he said, 
 as he gave her the paper. " I should like to meet 
 him, before we say anything further on the subject." 
 
 " I want you to see him. I want you to ask him 
 to come to Datchet and stop with us for the summer," 
 she answered, slipping her arm about his neck. " Then 
 you will be the first one to tell me I am not a foolish 
 child." 
 
 " I hope so," he told her. " I am sorry it isn't 
 Lennox, but we shall see." 
 
 " I am not afraid to trust some to your judg- 
 ment," she said, eagerly. " I know you will like him. 
 You are always such a dear, kind dadkins and wise. 
 I'll telegraph him directly to come." She kissed him 
 fondly and ran away to summon Gordon forthwith to 
 the scene. 
 
 She and her father met him at the train, for which 
 little courtesy they found themselves obliged to go 
 to the station three several times before he arrived. 
 
 Genevra ran to him gayly and dragged him by both 
 his hands to her " stern, forbidding parent," as she 
 dubbed her father when she introduced the dignified 
 Gordon. 
 
 Harberton looked at him critically. He had not 
 been prepared to find him so dark, but he had expected 
 
 230
 
 ROGER'S ADVOCATE 
 
 features far less classical and a manner a little spe- 
 cious. He mentally agreed that Gordon was a gentle- 
 man, handsome enough, and evidently cultured. He 
 even found himself forgetting soon that the man's face 
 was of so deep a bronze. 
 
 Whatsoever the affinity was that Roger possessed 
 for Genevra, it was somewhat communicated to her 
 father. Harberton's prejudice slipped from him 
 swiftly. 
 
 " If you are certain you prefer him to all the world," 
 he said to Genevra in the evening, " I suppose I shall 
 have to consent." 
 
 231
 
 XXIV 
 
 THEIR DAY OF SUMMER 
 
 FROM Hampton Court to the long calm reaches of 
 the river beyond Windsor there was not a nook of 
 beauty and seclusion that Roger and Genevra failed 
 to find. Morning, mid-day, and evening the Thames 
 is a thing of beauty and charm. With pollarded wil- 
 lows, meadows that slope away from its brink, trees 
 that hang Narcissus-like on the bank, to catch their 
 own reflected loveliness, windings that lay the sky 
 at the feet of swans or wading boys, and with swal- 
 lows dipping throughout the lazy day, it entices first 
 to its bosom, and next to its bank, and then again to 
 its placid breast till its magic excites the senses to a 
 species of ecstatic desperation. 
 
 " I could float here forever, with only you," said 
 Genevra one day, from her seat on the cushions in the 
 bottom of the punt, " and yet we love the woods so 
 much, we should spend a day, at least once a week, 
 in some of the forests. Let's begin to-morrow with 
 Burnham Beeches. Dadkins is getting to be a regular 
 boy since you came to help me take him out of the 
 house. I am sure he will go to-morrow." 
 
 The secret of always obtaining one's wish is to 
 wish for something that is easily obtained. Roger 
 
 ?32
 
 THEIR DAY OF SUMMER 
 
 and Genevra, having found each other, had nothing 
 but simple wishes left to express. They wished to go 
 to the beeches; they went. They wished her father 
 would pother about with his field microscope, or fall 
 asleep beneath a tree; he did both. 
 
 " If only we could find a little stream where I could 
 stand out on the rocks in the middle," she said, " then 
 you could come by, on your way to string your 'cello 
 again, and I could scream at a twig for a snake, and 
 you could run to save me, and then I'd take your hand, 
 and we'd go to your 'cello together. I'd like that, 
 dear. And then I would greet you, just as if it were 
 the very first time. Oh, wasn't that first greeting 
 sweet! And the first one when we found each other 
 in the garden at Lady Denby's and this one !" 
 
 He kissed her and she turned rosy red. He took 
 her hand and, pressing it first to his lips, held it against 
 his cheek till she put up the other and drew down his 
 face to her upturned lips, so sweet and soft. 
 
 " It doesn't seem so long ago that day when I saw 
 you first," he said. " I remember it all so vividly." 
 
 " And how did I seem to you then ?" she asked. 
 " Tell me how I looked." 
 
 " You looked like one of the little Rhine maidens, 
 come up from your tiny river, where you had the care 
 of the gold. And your hair had the gold all in it, 
 safe where no one could take it." 
 
 233
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " No one but you," she interrupted. " I'll take it 
 down and put it all in your hands." 
 
 Swiftly she shook out the plaits and coils till a 
 shimmering cascade of the nugget-gold strands hung 
 all about her beautiful face. Her gray eyes danced 
 in their own warm light as she drew the masses over 
 her shoulder and hung the long glossy ringlets across 
 his fingers. 
 
 " Did I look like that ?" she whispered to him, 
 happily. 
 
 " Ah, yes, sweetheart, yes, you did, only now you 
 are even more beautiful than then. But I thought 
 there could never be another sight so sweet as you 
 were that day, and there never was, till now." 
 
 " And you looked so sturdy and handsome, dear," 
 she said, as she put her hands on his shoulders and 
 looked in his eyes. " I had never seen a boy like you 
 before. I wanted to tell you to stay. I wanted to 
 say, ' I like you don't go away.' But I didn't. I 
 was very proper." 
 
 " And I couldn't take my eyes away from your 
 dear face, and I fell like the clumsy boy that I 
 was," he laughed. " It was the sweetest day in the 
 world." 
 
 " And such a terrible day, too," she said, in awe 
 of the memory of what had followed their happy meet- 
 ing. 
 
 234
 
 THEIR DAY OF SUMMER 
 
 " It ended terribly," he echoed. For a second a light 
 of dread came in his eyes and made them grave. 
 
 " We mustn't think of that," Genevra told him 
 brightly. " I want you to tell me again what you 
 thought the first night we met, at Lady Denby's 
 after all those years and how you didn't know 
 me. You didn't really mean you were falling in 
 love with me, and thought it a treachery to that other 
 time?" 
 
 " I did. What a funny little talk we had ! I thought 
 I had never seen such a beautiful girl in all my life. 
 I even forgot my little Genevra. I fell in love with 
 you then and there, all over again." 
 
 " And I a perfect stranger !" she said. " Roger ! 
 what a naughty boy you were. Aren't you ashamed 
 for forgeting everything I said and did that day 
 when first we met? But I am glad. It was sweet 
 to have you love me again. But I thought things. 
 I thought you meant Lady Fitzhenry. Oh, if it had 
 been that, I shouldn't have wanted to live. And you 
 did treat me dreadfully that day when I poured you 
 the tea. And when I saw you driving in the park 
 with her, oh, that was terrible!" 
 
 " Two poor things that we were," he said, laughing 
 at her gayly. 
 
 "You were a poor dear thing," she said. "But 
 when you gave your recital that night, I loved you so 
 
 235
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 I didn't care for anything. The sad parts broke my 
 heart. I don't see how you ever, ever wrote it." 
 
 " It wrote itself," he answered her, seriously. " It 
 wasn't half sad enough to tell the way I felt, here in 
 my heart. Precious, it doesn't seem true that I really 
 have the right to love you now so much as I do, for 
 I never seemed meant for such a happiness." 
 
 " Yes, you were, and I was meant to make you 
 happy, dearest. Do you think I really can? I want 
 to, so much. If love can do it, I know I shall. And 
 your love makes me so happy that I think it can." 
 
 " That's it," said Roger, as he held her hands against 
 his breast, " I am so strung tight with happiness that 
 I am almost afraid something will break. I don't 
 know how my heart can hold it all." 
 
 " You aren't afraid to be happy, dear ?" 
 
 "Almost," he answered, gravely. 
 
 " Then you are sorry you love me," she said, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 "Sorry? I am reckless in my gladness. All the joy 
 of the world seems surging in my breast. I can't pour 
 it out, it comes so mightily. I love you as if all the 
 love bequeathed by the hordes of lovers gone before 
 had come upon me clamoring for sanctuary. My joy 
 is so deep that I could comprehend no more. You are 
 all ! All ! I can't speak it out. No words, no music, 
 could suffice to reveal the God-sent gladness of my 
 
 236
 
 THEIR DAY OF SUMMER 
 
 heart. Though jealous destiny should slay me now 
 for daring so to love you, dear, I'd cry out still how 
 glad how supernally glad you have made me with 
 your precious love!" 
 
 He knelt as he spoke and looked up in her sweet, 
 earnest face with a light ineffable in his eyes. 
 
 A tidal wave of passion's ecstasy swept coursing 
 through her being. And then for a second she knew 
 the fear of those who love, indeed. 
 
 " Oh, Roger, be careful how you talk like that of 
 destiny," she cautioned. " I love you so ! I love you 
 so!" She placed her arms about his neck as if to 
 protect him from the unseen Fates. She was silent 
 then, but she gave him a smile that was more than 
 caresses. 
 
 " Let's sit on this tree and talk about things," she 
 said at last. " I want you to tell me all about writing 
 ' Paradise Regained.' " 
 
 " What shall I tell you of it, dearest?" 
 
 " Oh, tell me how you shall do it, and what the story 
 will be. I want to know about glad things. And 
 love must be in it, or how could it be a paradise 
 regained? How could a paradise be, without a lot 
 of love? It couldn't. But I don't see how you can 
 do it all write such music, I mean music that will 
 tell it all. I could write it, dearest, but not in 
 music." 
 
 237
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Could you, precious ? And what would you write 
 it in?" 
 
 " I'll whisper it to you," she answered, blushing 
 radiantly, and, drawing down his head, with her arms 
 about his neck, she said, " Oh, I can't. I would write 
 it like that," and she gave him a little kiss on the 
 cheek. " I could write it in those dearest. They 
 would be little sad ones at first, but when we had 
 regained our paradise they would be so rapturous. 
 There would be so much to tell as there is, between 
 us. And I was so sad when our paradise was lost, 
 and so hungering for your love and those all that 
 long, long time we were waiting." 
 
 " Little heart!" he said to her, fervently, and, taking 
 her warmly in his arms, he kissed her till her lips were 
 hot and her cheeks aflame. 
 
 " It's too much," she finally gasped, as her eyes 
 looked their love into his. " I can hardly bear it to 
 be so hungry for our paradise. I would rather live 
 here forever, in this wood, with you than to go to 
 any other heaven with lots of other people. Oh, 
 dearest, you mustn't write it quite like this. Not with 
 our sweet joy revealed. This is our own paradise. 
 I don't want you ever to tell of our own sacred para- 
 dise, not even in music not of all this and kisses, 
 I mean." 
 
 " I couldn't," he said. " No music could tell of the 
 238
 
 THEIR DAY OF SUMMER 
 
 love that burns in my heart. Music, if it rose to such 
 a height, could never stop. I mean it would burst 
 past control. It could never be so passionate and yet 
 so chaste as love. Even music would be too gross to 
 tell of such a love as I have for you, my little soul's 
 desire. No, this is ours, and ours alone. This is para- 
 dise real ; in my music, I know at last, it will only be 
 a fiction." 
 
 " I knew you understood," she answered, ardently. 
 " A paradise really once grasped any paradise but 
 this will leave nothing more. But the yearning for 
 love is so sweet. I like so to starve for you and your 
 words of love and never have enough, and starve 
 again and again. I never want to have enough and 
 yet I mustn't be starved too much and that will be 
 paradise for us. And you'll not write that. So there," 
 and she gave him one more kiss. " Now tell me what 
 the story will really be." 
 
 "All the world is full of poor Adams and Eves," 
 he said. " The story for one pair is the story for all. 
 We all do a little wrong and a little right. We are all 
 oppressed by the sadness of life, with its births and 
 deaths, and we all therefore need to hope. We must 
 have hope. If that is lost, where is paradise? And 
 if hope is restored, no matter what our hope may be, 
 that is paradise regained. There must have been a 
 million forms of hope, a million forms of paradise, 
 
 239
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 since the world began. I shall therefore go back to 
 Adam and Eve, and give them a hope that comes with 
 a sunset light so glorious that nothing can shake 
 it, nothing dim its shimmer." 
 
 She crept close to his side and nestled against his 
 breast, like a child. " Yes, dear," she said. " The 
 sadness of ' Paradise Lost' was so heart-breaking, the 
 little ray of hope at the end was so faint. And what 
 will the great hope be Christ's, dear, please, I 
 should never want to give you up." 
 
 " It was such a universal, human hope that Christ 
 made plain," he told her. " Throughout the centuries 
 the Adams and the Eves have hoped that the ties of 
 love that form in life will not be severed. They want 
 each other again, forever. So, very often, that would 
 be paradise enough." 
 
 " It would for me, to have you, dear, forever 
 and ever," she said. " But where would we be ? What 
 would paradise be like? When your music restores it, 
 what shall I see?" 
 
 " What most you wish to see, like every one else, 
 dearest heart." 
 
 " Then this will be it : Burnham Beeches and you, 
 or that other wood, away out there in Missouri, where 
 you played on the tree, for a 'cello. Make it a forest 
 for us, dear, please." 
 
 " Yes, like this," he agreed, " with patient old trees, 
 240
 
 THEIR DAY OF SUMMER 
 
 with a beauty that goes all through, and a warm breeze 
 making the leaves softly sigh of content; and bird- 
 notes for music, coming from we know not where. 
 I like the sunlight, streaming down on grass and leaves. 
 I like to know the open fields are out beyond, and the 
 river winding so, to prolong its caress to the meadows. 
 It is all such peace here and drowsy warmth. And 
 trees are such brothers. There are so many thousands 
 of Gardens of Eden all over the world, that why 
 should man contend as to which was the one? I 
 could never describe one-half of the beauties in any 
 one, with all the music awakened in my heart." 
 
 " But you will think of Burnham Beeches, dearest ?" 
 she coaxed. " I want you to say, yes, you will, be- 
 cause I am here at your side. You haven't said any- 
 thing about me for the longest time." 
 
 " It was all about you, rogue. You are my paradise 
 regained. You are forests of sweet warm breaths, 
 and sunlight, and song, and beauty." 
 
 He knelt at her feet again and kissed her hands and 
 laughed at her boyishly. 
 
 She patted his face and, holding her hands on his 
 firm bronze cheeks, kissed him on his forehead and his 
 lips. It was always in her natural, impulsive way that 
 she kissed him. 
 
 " Oh, Roger," she murmured in her joy, " it is so 
 sweet to know that you love me, and let me love you, 
 16 241
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 dear. I don't want you to write your music yet. I 
 want you to say it all to me. I want all those beautiful, 
 wonderful thoughts in your head and heart just made 
 into love. I couldn't share you with any one, just 
 yet." 
 
 " I'm glad," he said. " I would rather you would 
 write it all in kisses. Only I fear that if ever you 
 find out how much I really love you, precious, you 
 will be alarmed." 
 
 " Never. I love you twice as much as you do me," 
 she told him, again flushing red as a rose. 
 
 " Let's have no tests," he suggested, " except in 
 protestations." 
 
 " And " She looked at him roguishly. 
 
 " Of course." And he kissed her thrice. 
 
 242
 
 Ill 
 
 SUNSHINE
 
 I 
 
 AN AFTERMATH 
 
 A MONTH before Comanche's recital at the Royal 
 Albert Hall, New York City underwent one of its 
 freaks of weather. A heat wave of summer intensity 
 swept from Washington to Boston through suddenly 
 opened windows. 
 
 It was sultry in the evening of one of those April 
 days, even at the top of the lofty building that faced 
 Central Park, where the " mountain air" wafted heav- 
 ily through the stuffily furnished apartments. 
 
 Sitting in front of the window, where the curtain 
 lazily swelled and flattened, were two women, both 
 pretty. They were holding hands, as they faced a 
 man who sat near by in a chair, with his finger-ends 
 held precisely together. 
 
 Another man, much the elder of the first, came walk- 
 ing into the room with his slippers slovenly dragging 
 along the floor and his head tilted backward pecu- 
 liarly. 
 
 For the moment no one was speaking. An odor 
 of stale cigar smoke, wine, and flowers hung on the 
 drapery of the place, suggesting the recent departure 
 of the guests who had come to the evening reception. 
 
 The two women seated together were obviously 
 245
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 mother and daughter, and yet their features differed 
 widely. The mother was petite, dainty, beautiful after 
 the manner of Dresden china. Her hair had become 
 white at the age of thirty, entirely without the influ- 
 ence of cares or griefs, so that it gave no impression 
 or suggestion of age. Her color was soft and radiant. 
 Her cheeks were round and smooth. She was dressed 
 in gray satin, with a violet vest. About her neck, 
 where the gown was cut somewhat low, a double string 
 of pearls seemed to indent their own dimples in which 
 to rest. On her feet she wore the daintiest of violet 
 satin slippers, which swung prettily in view, with 
 violet silk stockings revealed in pleasant curves. 
 
 For a moment it might have seemed that the eyes 
 of the two women were equally dark, but those of the 
 daughter were brown, while the mother's were pur- 
 ple. The hair of the younger woman was wavy golden- 
 brown. There was a wide-open, innocent look in her 
 eyes, above which her brows were heavily pencilled in 
 jet black. A serious little pucker came frequently 
 between her eyes, but she always laughed it away, 
 in a girlish manner. Her upper lip was particularly 
 short. Altogether her face was striking; it was arch 
 and yet it conveyed a sense of childishness and sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 The man who had come into the room, slurring his 
 feet along the floor, was a small, gray being with a 
 
 246
 
 AN AFTERMATH 
 
 naked head, hammocks of flesh on his face, and eyes 
 with lids so heavily drooping that he tilted his head 
 backward to look at any one he chanced to be ad- 
 dressing. 
 
 " Well," he said, growlingly, as he drew up a chair 
 and sat down, " I'm glad it's over. That's what the 
 fellow said when the wagon ran over his legs. ' I'm 
 glad it's over,' the fellow said, when it was over. And 
 that's what I am; I'm glad it's over." 
 
 His hearers laughed, the mother with particular 
 mellowness and gayety. " Oh, Jimsie, you are so comi- 
 cal," she said, playfully striking towards him with a 
 fan. " Robert, you know Mr. Chichester always has 
 to have his joke." 
 
 The man addressed as Robert smiled and nodded. 
 He was as faultless as a billiard ball, with his smoothed 
 hair, his oval cheeks, and his polish, which was shown 
 even in the manner of his smile. 
 
 " Yes," Mr. Chichester readily agreed ; " you see 
 the man was thrown down and run over by a wagon. 
 So when it was over he said, ' I'm glad it's over.' 
 And that's what I said, I'm glad " 
 
 Everybody laughed and interrupted the finish. 
 
 " I guess we're all glad it's over," said the daughter, 
 looking inquiringly at Robert. " I'm sure I am, for 
 one." 
 
 " Exactly," put in Mr. Chichester, cheerfully, " that's 
 247
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 just the point, glad it's over. The man had just been 
 thrown down, and the wheels passed over his legs. 
 Then he said, 'I'm glad it's over.' Good, isn't it? 
 So that's why I said I'm glad it's over, meaning this 
 beastly reception. That's the point. I'm glad it's 
 over." 
 
 Yet again every one appreciated the humor. Mr. 
 Chichester had long retained possession of considerable 
 money. 
 
 " Yes," sighed the older woman ; " but I do love 
 receptions. How did I look?" 
 
 " Your appearance always commands admiration, 
 Mrs. Chichester," observed Robert, who was other- 
 wise Mr. Dunn. 
 
 " Yes, mamma, dear, you are always lovely," said 
 the daughter, wistfully. " You always outshine the 
 callers, the bride, and everybody else." 
 
 " Dear me, hear the honest child !" said Mrs. Chi- 
 chested, laughing as a kitten might be expected to 
 laugh. " But I do suppose it is really my duty to look 
 my best." 
 
 " My dear, you are a beautiful woman," her husband 
 informed her. " You're a charming woman, but I'm 
 glad it's " 
 
 " Thank you, my dear," Mrs. Chichester smilingly 
 interrupted. " The evening was certainly a great suc- 
 cess. Mr. Rudder and Harry Fenn both paid me such 
 
 248
 
 AN AFTERMATH 
 
 delightful compliments. Mr. Rudder has such a soul 
 for the beautiful, and Mr. Fenn is always such a dear, 
 reliable creature, with such splendid taste." 
 
 " Eh, Sunshine," said Mr. Chichester, looking at 
 the daughter with his head tilted backward, " do you 
 really feel eh married? Do you feel like Mrs. 
 Dunn, my dear? You've gone and Dunn it, you 
 know." 
 
 Everybody enjoyed this immensely. 
 
 " Oh, yes," answered the bride ; " I have been called 
 Mrs. Dunn so much since Christmas, wherever we've 
 been, that I begin to wonder if I ever was just plain 
 Sunshine Chichester." 
 
 " But you've gone and Dunn it. Your name is Dunn. 
 You've gone and Dunn it," Chichester explained. 
 
 His auditors were loyal. 
 
 " Oh, Jimsie," ripplingly protested his wife, " really 
 you will be the death of me, you comical thing. If 
 laughing weren't becoming I should never have dared 
 to marry him, never." And she arched her brows in 
 playful good humor. 
 
 "You see, she married Mr. Dunn," continued the 
 man of jokes. " She went to do it. She took his 
 name. She's gone and Dunn it." 
 
 Mr. Dunn felt obliged to stroke his jaws, so stiff 
 were they growing with merriment. After this he 
 smoothed his Vandyke beard to its customary point. 
 
 249
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Chichester to her daugh- 
 ter, " I hope you will always be as happy as your 
 mamma. Everybody has always made me happy." 
 
 Had the lady confessed she had always been flattered 
 and spoiled, and that doubtless she should perish with- 
 out adulation from every possible source, the statement 
 would have been no more than merely adequate. 
 
 " You are very thoughtful, dear little mother," Sun- 
 shine answered. " How many people do you think 
 were here?" 
 
 " We sent out cards to one hundred and fifty, but 
 of course only half the invited people ever come," re- 
 plied the mother. " I think it was selfish of Holbrook 
 Mann not to come. He always says such original 
 things about the way I look and so sincere and 
 honest." 
 
 " I liked that Mrs. Gudrun, who came with Mrs. 
 Trapp," said Sunshine. " Mrs. Gudrun's name re- 
 minded me of a man we saw at New Orleans last week. 
 You remember, Robert?" 
 
 Mr. Dunn replied that he did. 
 
 Chichester shuffled out of the room. He was bored ; 
 and he also remembered a certain unconsumed bottle 
 of champagne, still on ice. 
 
 " A very tall man he must have been, but his back 
 was bent ; and his hair was gray and curly," the bride 
 continued. " It was really quite odd, what hap- 
 
 250
 
 AN AFTERMATH 
 
 pened. Our wheel came off, I mean the wheel of 
 our carriage, and I got quite a fright. But this man 
 ran right up. He must have been wonderfully strong, 
 for he lifted the axle do they call it the axle, Rob- 
 ert?" 
 
 Robert nodded. 
 
 " He lifted it right up and put on the wheel all 
 alone, before we could even get out; didn't he, Rob- 
 ert? And then he found the screw thing " 
 
 " The nut," Mr. Dunn corrected. 
 
 " The nut, and mended the carriage instantly." 
 
 " Rather remarkable performance," said Sunshine's 
 husband. " Quite remarkable, for a negro." 
 
 " I hate negroes," Mrs. Chichester remarked, with 
 emphasis. " My dear child, why do you speak of any- 
 thing so indelicate?" 
 
 " But he wasn't a negro," Sunshine protested. " He 
 was nearly white, and his hair just a little curly. And 
 Robert gave him a quarter. The man said his name 
 was Gordon, George Gordon, and really I liked him 
 right away. Wasn't it funny?" 
 
 " I don't see anything funny at all," Mrs. Chichester 
 answered, fanning herself with vigor. " Negroes are 
 low. I never like to think of negroes. I don't wish 
 to know there are any negroes. I wish they would all 
 die, or go away. I don't see why they shouldn't." 
 She arose somewhat abruptly. " The sudden heat 
 
 251
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 has made me sleepy," she added. " My dear Sunshine 
 and Robert, I must say good-night." 
 
 Thus abruptly to have learned from her daughter 
 that George Gordon still survived might in all reason 
 have agitated Mrs. Chichester far more deeply than it 
 did. She had once been Gordon's wife, and she was 
 the mother of Roger, his son. She had hoped, more- 
 over, that both were dead. 
 
 But angered as she was by Sunshine's story, and 
 vexed to know that Gordon should have survived, she 
 soon beheld her own reflection in the mirrors on her 
 walls and was presently practising agreeable expres- 
 sions, with all the art with which she had been so 
 generously endowed. 
 
 252
 
 II 
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED 
 
 ABOMINABLE and, indeed, disgusting as she con- 
 ceived it to be for Roger Gordon's father not only to 
 be in existence, but actually once more in America, 
 Mrs. Chichester's mind would soon have been oc- 
 cupied with other concerns had her daughter's tale 
 been all that circumstance intended to furnish on the 
 subject thus dragged from the past. But ordinarily 
 circumstance arranges her fateful affairs in clusters, 
 and thus her many little incidents happen one behind 
 another. 
 
 Several days had elapsed, and Sunshine's story of 
 her drive in New Orleans was duly blurred in her 
 mother's mind, when an item appeared in a local New 
 York paper that mustered a score of new and startling 
 thoughts for that pretty little lady's diversion. 
 
 Bertha Chichester's habits of reading were peculiar 
 to herself. She read the "personal" advertisements 
 and the " Doings of Society" almost exclusively, and 
 she read in bed, after routing out her husband to exer- 
 cise a brindle dog as gruesome of countenance as a 
 Chinese idol. The " personals" she kept as plums of 
 reading, just as when a child she had plucked the 
 raisins from her pudding, to eat with avidity, the 
 
 253
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 while she bestowed the dough upon her mother. Thus 
 it came that she fingered out and devoured the follow- 
 ing: 
 
 " GORDON. If George Gordon, the son of Donald 
 Gordon, deceased, who is a nephew of David Gordon, 
 also recently deceased, or the heirs at law of said 
 George Gordon, will communicate with the under- 
 signed, he or they will learn of something of great 
 
 advantage. 
 
 " BILLINGS & STRONG, 
 
 "Attorneys. 
 "NUCLEUS BUILDING, BROADWAY, NEW YORK CITY." 
 
 Mrs. Chichester stared at this item with an in- 
 terest which soon became intense. She read it three 
 or four times over. It amazed her, baffled her, awoke 
 strange wonderings and deep-laid cupidities in her 
 nature. 
 
 George Gordon! That man again! and in such a 
 connection as this! How well she remembered him, 
 speaking the names of his father and uncle! 
 
 What could it mean? Was it property, left by his 
 uncle, thus advertised as recently deceased? And if 
 so, was it nothing, now, to her? She had once had 
 all that George Gordon could give. It seemed as if 
 she must still have claims to anything he owned. 
 
 But she puzzled her brain over " heirs at law." The 
 254
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED 
 
 phrase was somewhat, but not entirely, beyond her 
 ken. Dimly she wondered if Sunshine Dunn could 
 not be construed as an heir at law. She was presently 
 demanding that this should be so. What right had a 
 man who was working with the negroes at New Or- 
 leans to inherit a property if property were meant 
 by this notice staring upward from the type if he 
 stood in the light of her child and herself? 
 
 Something half sophistry, half cunning, was making 
 its argument swiftly in her thoughts. It might mean 
 so very much, this word to the Gordons. A score 
 of possibilities arose before her vision. But all went 
 toppling at the onslaught of her partial ignorance. To 
 her that " heirs at law" was a sinister thing in which 
 importance indubitably lurked. 
 
 Inflamed, as she swiftly became, through the agen- 
 cies of pique and curiosity, Mrs. Chichester lost little 
 time in determining that she must immediately pay 
 a visit at the offices of Billings & Strong. Then she 
 thought of her husband, and burned with impatience 
 to have him return. She knew he could readily inform 
 her as to the meaning of " heirs at law," howsoever 
 much or little the words might imply. 
 
 She arose in haste, and cutting the notice from the 
 column of print, concealed it at once in her purse. Her 
 toilet she then concluded with such alacrity that when 
 Chichester presently appeared, with the gruesome dog, 
 
 255
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 she was seated already at the table for breakfast. She 
 glanced at the man, to read his mood, as he slurred his 
 way across the floor to his chair. 
 
 " Well, Jimsie," she said, with a pretty pout, " well ?" 
 
 "Well," said he, "what?" 
 
 " You haven't noticed how I look, or said a single 
 word." 
 
 " You are very pretty what have we got for break- 
 fast ?" said he, looking hungrily about. " Where's 
 my toast?" 
 
 " It's here, you cross old thing, but you shan't have 
 a bite till you've said I'm nice." 
 
 Like the dog, who went through certain fulsome 
 tricks at the same command, Mr. Chichester ran 
 around the table. " You're nice, you're very beautiful, 
 adorable, and nice," said he. " Gim-me !" and he 
 snatched the plate of toast. " You're damned nice," 
 he said to himself, and trotted back to his chair. 
 
 " I don't believe you mean a word you say," said 
 Bertha, who had missed his final observation. 
 
 " Well, I do. I mean it all," said he, having in mind 
 the confidence imparted to himself. " I mean even 
 more, my dear. Gim-me something to drink. I'll get 
 no rest from the damned dyspepsia till I eat." 
 
 "Oh, has he got a little dyspepsia?" she inquired. 
 " I've always told you, Jimsie, to leave ice-cream for 
 me. It always improves my color, and it always ruins 
 
 256
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED 
 
 yours. But there ! you're such a darling, with all your 
 faults." 
 
 Her husband growled at this, from his toast, down 
 in his plate. 
 
 " Jimsie, what is an heir at law ?" she inquired. 
 " You are my walking oh, one of those books that 
 tell you everything, not a dictionary, you know 
 what I mean " 
 
 " Encyclopaedia," growled Mr. Chichester, less pug- 
 naciously. 
 
 " Yes, that's it. And what is an heir at law ?" 
 
 " Sometimes it's a brat, sometimes a roue, sometimes 
 a woman. Anybody that gets a dead man's shoes." 
 
 " Oh ! But how does a woman ever get to be one ?" 
 
 " By blarney, ordinarily." 
 
 " No ; now you tell me all about it. You are always 
 so clever, Jimsie." 
 
 " Nothing to tell," said he, indifferent to all his 
 erudition. " If a man dies, his sons or his daughters 
 if he has 'em would be his heirs. If he hasn't, his 
 wife might come in. If he hasn't any wife and kids, 
 then his brother or sister, or their brats, or his own 
 mother and father, according to the law. 'Most any- 
 body's willing." 
 
 He tilted back his head to look at his wife, and de- 
 cided not to crack a joke which occurred to his mind. 
 Indeed, Mr. Chichester rarely wasted his jokes on an 
 i? 257
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 audience of one, particularly if the one were his part- 
 ner for life. He preferred to scatter his wit into flocks 
 of victims. 
 
 " Oh, dear," said Bertha, " it's such a lot to remem- 
 ber. And you mean, Jimsie, if a man died and left 
 his property all to his brother's son, his nephew, 
 just for instance, and the son was dead, then the son's 
 wife would be the heir at law?" 
 
 " Of course. Where's the claret?" He reached the 
 bottle and pouring a glass full swallowed it down at 
 a gulp. 
 
 Bertha had sipped hot chocolate and eaten a plate 
 of macaroons. She was one of those enigmas with 
 whose liver, complexion, and conscience nothing ever 
 disagrees. 
 
 "I don't know why I ask such a lot of silly ques- 
 tions," she said, with a laugh. " By the way, my dear, 
 I wish you'd go over to Sunshine's a moment and tell 
 them not to call with the carriage till three o'clock. 
 I find I've got to go shopping. How do I look in 
 this green and white. Good-by, dear, you may kiss 
 me now. I hate to be all pawed and disarranged when 
 I've got my hat on. Good-by." 
 
 She put on a hat and veil and, taking a parasol, 
 tripped out and along the Park to the Fifth Avenue 
 entrance, where she took a hansom for lower Broad- 
 way. 
 
 258
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED 
 
 There were three large rooms in the Nucleus Build- 
 ing devoted to the needs and uses of Billings & Strong, 
 all of them breathing of law-calf bindings. It chanced 
 that Messrs. Billings & Strong were both at court 
 when Bertha made her appearance, but a middle-aged, 
 red-haired clerk arose from the chair intended for 
 clients, to give her greeting. 
 
 " Good-morning," said Mrs. Chichester, advancing 
 with outstretched hand. " I'm so glad to find you in. 
 Is this Mr. Billings or Mr. Strong?" 
 
 "Ahem er permit me to offer you a chair. Er 
 my name is Billings," and he deftly pushed from sight 
 a blotter in which he had been diligently writing 
 " Charles Billings Portbridge," with many flourishes. 
 
 He was, in fact, the son of a man who was an ad- 
 mirer of the senior member of the firm. This was not 
 the first occasion on which the clerk had found it ex- 
 pedient to merge his personality in that of his absent 
 employer. 
 
 " Oh, how charming !" said Bertha. " I expected 
 to see shall I really confess? a cross old man who 
 couldn't see anything in the world but law." 
 
 " Madam," said the clerk, " I assure you there never 
 and this I say without fear of successful contra- 
 diction there never was a legal gentleman who would 
 not fail to lose all sight of law and everything of earth 
 on beholding yourself." 
 
 259
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh, you eloquent gentlemen ! you are so accus- 
 tomed to say exactly what you think." 
 
 Mr. Portbridge, who looked on her beauty out of 
 two little button-hole eyes, the orbs of which gave the 
 impresion of swimming in the fat of his overhanging 
 lids and upward-rolling cheeks, appeared to have 
 spoken precisely what was in his mind. " We are 
 ahem accustomed, of course, to giving sound, judi- 
 cial opinions," he agreed. 
 
 " Of course you are. And that's just exactly what 
 I came to get. I never know a thing about my 
 rights." 
 
 " Madam," said the clerk, rising and bowing pro- 
 foundly, with his hand upon his heart, " I honor myself 
 by declaring to all in the sound of my voice that your 
 rights have found a place in my heart, from which 
 they shall never be removed while I live." 
 
 " Oh, what dear, kind men you lawyers are," said 
 Bertha, shaking her finger at him coyly. " And maybe 
 it wasn't worth coming for at all. It's about your 
 advertisement in the paper." She opened her purse 
 to take out the clipping. " There, Gordon, something 
 of advantage to the Gordons. I was the widow, you 
 know, of Mr. David Gordon's nephew." 
 
 "Phew!" said the clerk to himself. "Ah," he 
 added, aloud, "how very fortunate yes, very fortu- 
 nate indeed." 
 
 260
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED 
 
 " And I'd like to know what the great advantage 
 is. I suppose it could hardly be property." 
 
 " Er Gordon yes, I remember the name we have 
 so very many clients, you will understand er Mrs. 
 _Mrs. " 
 
 " My name is Chichester now." 
 
 " Mrs. Chichester ah ! But I think I may say, with- 
 out fear of successful contradiction, there is property ; 
 in fact, to wit, a large amount. Mr. David Gordon, 
 deceased, left one hundred thousand dollars to his 
 nephew er Joseph " 
 
 " To George Gordon ! Oh, how very kind !" 
 
 " To George Gordon. I think I understood you to 
 say you were the widow of this nephew, George Gor- 
 don ? Are you as positive of this as anything you have 
 heretofore sworn to ? excuse me if I seem to proceed 
 according to legal habit." 
 
 " Oh, dear, yes. I've brought my wedding certifi- 
 cate along." 
 
 He looked at it gloatingly. What he saw was be- 
 tween the paper and his eyes, however, a plan which 
 was weaving, but not entirely formed, in his mind. 
 The apparent perusal gave him a moment in which to 
 think. 
 
 " Very good exceptional evidence, priina facie evi- 
 dence, my dear madam. Er Mr. Gordon pardon 
 the question did he die without issue?" 
 
 261
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Bertha, laughingly, " he died with- 
 out any what did you say?" 
 
 " Issue children. Did he die without leaving chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 " Oh, how stupid of me ! issue of course. No, oh, 
 no; my daughter, my daughter Sunshine married at 
 Christmas. We had her reception yesterday. Too bad 
 I couldn't have known you, Mr. Billings, in time to 
 send you a card. She is Mr. Gordon's daughter." 
 
 " Ah ! And you had no other children by Mr. Gor- 
 don?" 
 
 " No, oh, no. Dear me, and am I really heir at law ?" 
 
 " You and your daughter, my dear madam, beyond 
 the question of a doubt." 
 
 " Well, then, can't we get it all settled right away ? 
 I should like to have the advertisement discontinued 
 at once. It's a matter it's a family matter." 
 
 " Huh. But the law prescribes certain regulations, 
 and another salient feature is this, that the contracts 
 to print this notice have been made with various publi- 
 cations, and could not be readily revoked. 
 
 " Oh, that is wretched !" pouted Bertha. " Really, 
 Mr. Billings, I think that is too bad. Couldn't you 
 stop them? It doesn't come out except in New York 
 papers, does it not as far away as as New Orleans 
 just for instance?" 
 
 " I am not prepared to give you any definite infor- 
 262
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED 
 
 mation at this particular moment, but I should venture 
 to say it appears in several cities; in fact, I do so 
 allege, without fear of successful contradiction." 
 
 " How very provoking ! Couldn't we you know 
 couldn't we stop them? You lawyers are always so 
 clever. Couldn't you do that just a little thing like 
 that for me?" 
 
 " Madam," Mr. Portbridge replied, rising again, 
 with his hand on his breast, " there is nothing and 
 this I proclaim to all in the sound of my voice there 
 is nothing I would hesitate to attempt for so charming 
 and excuse me so beautiful a woman as your- 
 self " 
 
 " Oh, you eloquent, naughty lawyers " 
 
 " But, unfortunately, these things require manipu- 
 lation, and er capital. If," and here he lowered 
 his voice " if, my dear er I could be assured of 
 a quiet continuation of our friendship, I would er 
 be willing to undertake what you desire for a modest 
 retainer." 
 
 " You mean oh, you men confuse me so you will 
 do it for friendship and what else?" 
 
 " Just a nominal fee. That is to say, to wit, if you 
 will bring me, let us put it ridiculously low, say, 
 five thousand dollars to my private office not here, 
 you know, I will undertake this serious bit of work, 
 provided our friendly relations er increase ; for, be- 
 
 263
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 lieve me, your personal charms, my dear er are of 
 greater consideration than all the rest." 
 
 " Oh, you artful thing," Mrs. Chichester answered, 
 shaking her parasol towards him ; " but five thousand 
 dollars isn't that a great deal of money? Couldn't 
 you do it for less just for me?" 
 
 The clerk came suddenly around the table, kneeled 
 at her feet, and took her hand, to kiss it madly. " For 
 you," he said, ardently, " I will do it for a wretched 
 three thousand dollars and affectionate " 
 
 " Oh," she cried, jumping quickly away and laugh- 
 ing nervously, " you artful, delightful lawyers ! Really 
 I must be going, I really must. I had nearly forgotten 
 a pressing engagement. Then you will fix it up all 
 right for the money " 
 
 " And friendship, my charming client." He took 
 her hand in both his own and pressed it kindly. " It 
 isn't quite er regular you understand. I assume 
 a risk for your er lovely sake, my dear, but for the 
 paltry three thousand I will do it, if you will bring it 
 to-morrow to my private office, and here is the ad- 
 dress." He wrote on a card and gave it to her, taking 
 her hand once more to present it. 
 
 " I'll try I'll try," said Mrs. Chichester, frightened 
 a trifle; "but now I must go. Good-by." And she 
 opened the door and slipped from the room. 
 
 The clerk started to follow, but checked himself 
 264
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED 
 
 abruptly and contented himself with thumping his 
 thorax and making a series of faces, each fairly repre- 
 sentative of the various breeds of pigs. Then he went 
 to the inner office, approached the safe and halted. 
 From a pocket he drew forth a key which proved to 
 be quite the thing wherewith to unlock an inside com- 
 partment of the vault. From this he extracted and 
 rapidly perused a bundle of papers, marked " Estate 
 of David Gordon." 
 
 " Hum," he said, " just as I thought. Memory not 
 so bad." 
 
 He read aloud : " ' and I want you to know, Uncle 
 David, that my wife has had a son, and I am ashamed 
 to say she has deserted him entirely and she has sent 
 him away and will not see him at all any more, and I 
 take the precaution of letting you know he was born in 
 case there should ever be any need for anybody to 
 know.' " All of which was but part of a letter signed 
 in San Francisco, years before, by George Gordon. 
 
 " Yes," resumed the clerk in a moment, whisking 
 the papers again in the safe, " yes she ought to be a 
 lawyer herself. I'll stop that notice in the Sun, for 
 I'll bet she never reads anything else; but the whole 
 thing has got to be done in a hurry. Friendship and 
 three thousand dollars! Hey? Charlie, ha, ha, 
 ho, hoa, ! you're a devil of a fellow and a damned 
 slick piece of goods." 
 
 265
 
 Ill 
 
 MR. CHICHESTER ACQUIESCES 
 
 MRS. CHICHESTER shopped to the extent of pur- 
 chasing a lace handkerchief, a pair of gloves, and 
 some silk hosiery. She drove up Fifth Avenue, ar- 
 riving at Delmonico's at one. There she partook of 
 refreshments which occupied her attention till 2.30, 
 when she drove home in time to change her hat, touch 
 her face with a trifle of powder, and join her husband 
 and Mr. and Mrs. Dunn in their carriage. 
 
 The route they took began at the fashionable en- 
 trance to the park. Mother and daughter sat back in 
 the cushions, Mrs. Dunn gazing fondly at her hus- 
 band, Mrs. Chichester watching alertly for glances 
 of admiration from the passers-by. 
 
 " I always love to ride in a brougham," Sunshine 
 confessed, girlishly ; " it always seems to sweep along 
 so finely, don't you know?" 
 
 " Eh yes," said Mr. Chichester, tilting back his 
 head to look at them all from beneath his heavy lids, 
 " a new brougham heh, heh ! a new brougham always 
 sweeps clean." 
 
 The company laughed gayly. 
 
 " Oh, Jimsie ! Isn't he comical ?" said his wife. 
 
 " Very good very clever," Mr. Dunn agreed. 
 266
 
 MR. CHICHESTER ACQUIESCES 
 
 " You see," the joker answered them, " this is a 
 brougham, broom, you see, and Sunshine says it 
 sweeps along finely, so I say a new brougham sweeps 
 clean." 
 
 The risibilities of all were again excited. 
 
 " Well, Jimsie, that is a delicious bon mot," said 
 Bertha, tapping his knee with her parasol, " but I 
 love a brougham because it gives all the people you 
 meet such a nice chance to see how you look." 
 
 "You always look very pretty, dear little mother," 
 said the bride. 
 
 " Of course," Mr. Chichester here explained, " that's 
 a very old and remarkable proverb, ' a new broom 
 sweeps clean,' and Sunshine says she likes a 
 brougham because it sweeps along, you see. That's 
 what makes it so good, so I said, ' A new brougham 
 sweeps clean.' " 
 
 The trio proved how hard it is to kill a certain 
 species of laughter. Mr. Dunn somewhat abruptly 
 opened a monologue on buying wheat on a margin, a 
 topic which he knew transfixed the joker infallibly. A 
 banker himself, Mr. Dunn presented a plausible exterior 
 always. He never raised his voice, never spoke with 
 rapidity, and never, it would have seemed, permitted 
 his blood to circulate except during banking hours. 
 He subscribed, modestly, to anything and everything 
 in or about the church, rented his tenements at the 
 
 267
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 highest prices, and dispossessed delinquents with calm 
 impartiality, winter and summer alike. 
 
 So thoroughly was Mr. Chichester side-tracked 
 from his joke that he failed to deliver it even so much 
 as one more time. He tilted back his head to regard 
 Mr. Dunn till his neck was stiff. The ladies found 
 it necessary to amuse each other ; or, more accurately, 
 Sunshine found it essential to admire her mother. 
 Bertha pouted her way in between sophistries on 
 " margin," and her husband finally managed another 
 repeating joke before the ride was finished. 
 
 Mrs. Chichester hastened the end of the drive some- 
 what by allusions to fatigue and her personal appear- 
 ance when weary. Thus at six o'clock she found 
 herself alone with her husband at the table, eating 
 pink shrimp salad and green ice-cream, and resting 
 preparatory to spending the evening at the opera. 
 
 " Jimsie," she said, " you darling, delightful old 
 thing, I've been waiting to tell you some news. You 
 know I did look worried to-day, simply because I had 
 this secret on my mind." 
 
 Mr. Chichester munched at hot bacon and cold mut- 
 ton with mushroom sauce, drinking claret every mo- 
 ment. " The beauty of bacon is, it makes you thirsty," 
 he said to his wife. 
 
 " Oh, you selfish thing," she pouted. " You don't 
 deserve to know what the secret is." 
 
 268
 
 MR. CHICHESTER ACQUIESCES 
 
 " Oh, it's probably lotion for my hair," he conjec- 
 tured, and gulped at his wine. 
 
 "No, it isn't; and just to make you ashamed I'll 
 tell you it's money, one hundred thousand dollars. 
 And I'll just give it all right straight up, and I won't 
 move a step to get it so now!" 
 
 " Huh," said her husband, " don't be a fool. How 
 will you go to work to get a hundred thousand dol- 
 lars?" 
 
 " Oh, it isn't worth speaking of at all. I don't care 
 for the money. We will drop the subject. What shall 
 I wear this evening? Do you like me in the pale 
 yellow and white crepe?" 
 
 " I like you best in green backs ; they're getting 
 rare. Now, my love, I'm listening if you've really 
 got anything to say." 
 
 " No, I haven't, Jimsie. A hundred thousand dol- 
 lars is nothing to me. I only thought you might like 
 to have it. But hair-lotion I'll talk about that, if 
 you like." 
 
 " My dear, beautiful wife," said Chichester, look- 
 ing at her keenly with his head far back, " I like to 
 listen to anything you have to say. Go ahead, now, 
 huh?" 
 
 " No, Jimsie, it's a thing that needs money, and I've 
 got to do it secretly or not at all, and I won't try to 
 put your love for me to any test." 
 
 269
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " But, sweetheart, I want to be tested. I have a 
 right to want to be tested. I love you. I trust you 
 hem and I recognize your wisdom I do! And 
 a hundred thousand, come now, I was cross and 
 wrong, and I promise to listen, huh?" 
 
 " Well, you would have to trust me to do the whole 
 thing alone, and help me all you can, or I couldn't 
 think of telling or trying." 
 
 " All right, I'll promise to let you do the thing 
 alone. Dem it! Haven't I the right to prove I trust 
 my adorable little wife? Dem it! I have!" 
 
 " Then it's stocks Wall Street but the very best 
 kind. And I want three thousand dollars, and I'll 
 get one hundred thousand back and it's ever so much 
 surer than your old margins ; and it can't fail you'd 
 know it couldn't if I told you; and there isn't any 
 risk; and that's all I can tell you, except a man told 
 me who is very high up, and the hundred thousand 
 dollars is almost right in my hands so there!" 
 
 "What kind of stock?" 
 
 " Now, there you go ! I knew you'd just begin with 
 questions. I told you I couldn't tell any more till we 
 get the money, and I wish I hadn't said a word. I'll 
 drop it right this minute!" 
 
 " Dem it ! wait my pet. I don't want to ask any 
 questions. I trust you completely, but " 
 
 " But ! Yes, but ! Just what I knew was coming. 
 270
 
 MR. CHICHESTER ACQUIESCES 
 
 Will you give me the three thousand dollars, or shall 
 I drop it all and never, never try again to get it?" 
 
 " I'd give you the money, my dear, if I had it, but 
 I haven't. All but five hundred dollars is up on a 
 margin now, and hem gone, in fact. And Dunn 
 says he hasn't a cent that isn't tied, or he'd help me 
 out; and there you are, huh?" 
 
 " And you mean to sit there and tell me, James 
 Higgins Chichester, that you've gone and gambled 
 away every cent we had but five hundred dollars?" 
 
 " My dear, we only had four thousand dollars to 
 gamble. I had to try to retrieve our lost fortunes. 
 We've spent it, sweetheart. But I'll give you all that's 
 left. You can take the five hundred to-morrow." 
 
 " Oh, you selfish thing ! Then you'll have to give 
 me your diamond rings and studs. And all my dia- 
 monds and pearls will have to go. We've got to 
 have that hundred thousand dollars, then we'll get the 
 things all back, and a lot of new ones besides. I'll 
 take that five hundred dollars right away, and the 
 ring and studs the minute you get back from the 
 opera to-night. Or else shall I drop it right this 
 minute, hundred thousand and all?" 
 
 " No, no, no, my dear," said Chichester, trotting 
 around the table ; " no, my darling beautiful. But 
 I hope you won't be long in getting the money." 
 
 271
 
 IV 
 
 MRS. CHICHESTER ENLIGHTENED 
 
 CHARLES BILLINGS PORTBRIDGE waited long on the 
 following day in his " private office," but not in vain. 
 It was late in the afternoon when Mrs. Chichester 
 finally appeared, and the clerk was impatient to re- 
 turn to his post. She had " raised" only twenty-five 
 hundred dollars, inclusive of Mr. Chichester's last 
 half a thousand, and this, after much persuasion on 
 the part of herself and a deal of gallantry from the 
 clerk, he accepted. 
 
 Mr. Portbridge impressed upon her mind the neces- 
 sity of keeping their counsel to themselves, and, re- 
 plying to Bertha's desire to have the fortune placed 
 in her hands by " Monday morning," assured her of 
 the gravity of everything legal, the slow and careful 
 movements of the great judicial machine, and the 
 risk he now undertook on her behalf, concluding by 
 promising anything and everything by the end of five 
 or six weeks. 
 
 Having reached the limit of her cunning in form- 
 ing and executing the plan to this point, Mrs. Chi- 
 chester had not sufficient reserve of tact even to se- 
 cure a receipt for the money delivered. She left the 
 office a trifle disappointed at the necessary wait, but 
 
 272
 
 MRS. CHICHESTER ENLIGHTENED 
 
 gratified with her stratagem and powers of " getting 
 her way" in the end. On her way home she found 
 herself too fatigued to order the three new dresses 
 which she felt her husband had forfeited by his spend- 
 thrift conduct. However, on the morrow of the day 
 of triumph, she ordered not only the dresses, but 
 stockings and slippers to go with each, in addition to 
 many less important requisites of her toilet. 
 
 All these goods she procured on credit. Indeed, 
 although credit was not a novel thing in Chichester's 
 life, a larger creature grew from this embryonic bill- 
 germ than ever had flourished before in their career. 
 
 Credit is often an inside decay, that creeps in un- 
 obtrusively, like the rot which enters the back door 
 of an apple, leaving the polished exterior whole, while 
 devouring in darkness till all the substance to the 
 very skin is gone. 
 
 The Chichesters inaugurated a comprehensive sys- 
 tem of rapid internal decay. The weeks went by, 
 and at length the mail brought a letter, a fatty ex- 
 pression of regret from " Mr. Billings" that the courts 
 had not entirely concluded the matter "in re Gor- 
 don." They must still maintain their judicious silence, 
 but at the utmost another month would see the mat- 
 ter settled to their mutual satisfaction. With many 
 assurances of affectionate esteem and admiration, the 
 letter concluded by begging his client to remain away 
 18 273
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 from the office for the present, and to "burn this 
 communication without delay." 
 
 Credit stuffed its maw even more greedily than 
 before. There came a Hay, however, when Bertha 
 determined to call upon her legal adviser, loathsome 
 butchers and grocers having sent their respects and 
 ultimatums at the end of odious bills. 
 
 The private head-quarters of Mr. Portbridge prov- 
 ing to be tenanted by a protoplasmic newspaper syn- 
 dicate and literary bureau, Mrs. Chichester wended 
 her way again to the Nucleus Building and entered 
 the offices of Billings & Strong. 
 
 A man in a frock coat and light-gray trousers, 
 hands in pockets and eyes on the floor, was walking 
 up and down in the place, alone. He turned about, 
 revealing a face with jaw muscles more than usually 
 developed, keen gray eyes, moustache tobacco-stained, 
 and nose a trifle hooked. 
 
 " Morning," said he, as he halted in his parade and 
 kept on thinking of his business. " I beg your par- 
 don, good-morning, madam. I er I seem to for- 
 get. Hicks versus Coe, or Green versus Green?" 
 
 " Why," said Mrs. Chichester, smiling witchingly, 
 " I don't quite understand. I came to see Mr. Bill- 
 ings. Isn't the gentleman in? That's his desk, is 
 it not?" 
 
 " Clerk's desk, madam. Billings is out of town, so 
 274
 
 MRS. CHICHESTER ENLIGHTENED 
 
 is the clerk. Too hot weather for even lawyers to 
 fight. Permit me to introduce myself Strong, A. C. 
 Strong, at your service." 
 
 " Oh, thank you so much. I'm delighted to meet 
 you, Mr. Strong. Your face almost seems familiar, 
 but faces so often do, Mr. Strong and it makes me 
 feel, of course, it's absurd, but it makes me feel 
 as if I had known a person a very long time." 
 
 " Uh well, sit down, madam, sit down." 
 
 " Why, I only came for a moment, but all you legal 
 gentlemen are so persuasive," and she took the chair. 
 " Did you tell me," she resumed, " that the gentleman 
 who sits at this desk is the clerk?" 
 
 " Clerk, madam, yes clerk, Portbridge fat man 
 mouth like a hole in a ham, head as red as that 
 ink." 
 
 " And his name of course, he is Mr. Billings ?" 
 
 " Billings ? Billings looks like a whittled bit of 
 last year's potato-skin, with a better head than Napo- 
 leon Bonaparte ever dared to own. Sorry he's out." 
 
 " Oh, said Bertha, attempting still to smile. " It 
 is too bad, but after all it may be a foolish fancy 
 but I always prefer to talk to a pleasant-looking man 
 if you'll excuse the forwardness, it does so seem as 
 if I have known you all my life." 
 
 " Uh. Thank you, madam. You called in about 
 it isn't Snow versus Black?" 
 
 275
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Dear me, no. How intensely interesting all you 
 say is, Mr. Strong. I just came in to inquire just 
 as I was passing, you know, about the Gordon heir 
 at law, David Gordon." 
 
 " Exactly," said he, regarding her sharply. " Did 
 you say your name is Gordon?" 
 
 " Oh, dear, bless you, no." And Bertha burst into 
 mellow laughter. " My name is Chichester Mrs. 
 James Chichester there, I have a visiting card, and 
 we'd be charmed to have you call, Mr. Strong. My 
 name used to be Mrs. George Gordon, and my daugh- 
 ter's name was Gordon, of course, but even as a child, 
 when her father died and Mr. Chichester fairly made 
 me marry again, she preferred Chichester. It's so 
 aristocratic you really couldn't blame the child. Isn't 
 it comical, really?" 
 
 " Very comical, indeed," said the lawyer, " espe- 
 cially as Mr. George Gordon is alive and kicking 
 hang him! He kicks around so fast we can't even 
 run him down to make him rich." 
 
 " Oh !" cried Bertha, " they haven't really found 
 him? I mean it isn't it can't be possible. Why, 
 if all the property the hundred thousand dollars 
 
 is left to him, the heirs Mr. Billings didn't tell me 
 
 There, I don't know what I'm saying. You legal gen- 
 tlemen fluster me so." 
 
 " You started a very fair legal deduction," Mr. 
 276
 
 MRS. CHICHESTER ENLIGHTENED 
 
 Strong assured her, coldly. " George Gordon being 
 alive, as we have ascertained, there are no other heirs 
 at law, as there would be, certainly, if the fellow were 
 dead, but " 
 
 " But he fell off the steamer 'Australian steamer 
 and was drowned," volunteered the lady, recovering 
 ground. 
 
 " But his son " 
 
 " Oh, who told you he had a son ? he hasn't how 
 did you know?" 
 
 " his son and daughter would take precedence 
 
 in the matter of inheritance," he concluded. " Uh, 
 yes. Permit me to thank you for adding your link 
 to the chain that hangs Portbridge. Sugar-coated 
 scoundrel I knew it! How much did you pay 
 him?" 
 
 " I paid him " She started to cry, but checked 
 
 herself and laughed instead. " Really, you clever, 
 clever lawyers. I'm such a little woman, I really 
 can't try. I'm really confused. I must hurry home 
 at once. So pleased to have met you, Mr. Strong." 
 
 " Uh," said he, eyeing her as if he were scrutinizing 
 the back of her skull through her transparent arts. 
 " I think Portbridge would have done whatever he did 
 for half the money, or less. If you paid him more than 
 fifty cents you lack discrimination. I suppose he prom- 
 ised you all the legacy at once ? Procuring money un- 
 
 277
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 der false pretences. Don't suppose you care to prose- 
 cute the case?" 
 
 " Prosecute him the wretched robber ? Yes, I 
 will !" she responded, in a passion. " How can I do 
 it? He took every cent I had " 
 
 "What for?" said the man, in a cold-steel voice. 
 " What did he promise to do ?" 
 
 " What for ? Why, he said he'd get me he'd stop 
 I don't remember I " 
 
 " Then you don't care to prosecute, and tell about it 
 in court?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? How dare you stand there 
 and insinuate all sorts of things about an innocent 
 woman? I have never been treated so no gentleman 
 ever speaks to me like that !" 
 
 " No plug hat and dress suit ever told you the truth, 
 you mean. You are unfortunate never to have had a 
 friend to tell you the truth. I have not the honor of 
 being your friend, but I will make no charge for let- 
 ting you know that whatever you paid the clerk is 
 lost. At present you have no rights whatsoever in the 
 Gordon estate. Madam, I wish you a very good-day." 
 
 Mrs. Chichester burst into a passionate speech, but 
 the man merely walked to an inner apartment. She 
 was forced to retreat, and she hastened home to vent 
 her anger on the slinking dog and her husband. 
 
 Lawyer Strong penned a notice to the clerk, re- 
 278
 
 MRS. CHICHESTER ENLIGHTENED 
 
 lieving that functionary of further duties at the office, 
 and another to his partner, to acquaint him with the 
 fact. Then he placed his hands in his pockets and 
 resumed his march, working knots either out of or 
 into the case of Somebody versus Somebody Else. 
 
 279
 
 V 
 
 ROGER'S NEWS 
 
 ASTUTE as Strong & Billings were, they were a long 
 time discovering the whereabouts of Roger Gordon 
 through the medium of their advertisement, which 
 eventually came to the notice of Doctor Pingle. They 
 were even slower in ascertaining anything concerning 
 Roger's father, George Gordon. At the time of Mrs. 
 Chichester's final visit to their offices they were in pos- 
 session of the fact that the nephew of David Gordon 
 had left Australia, bound presumably for America, and 
 this was all. Any assertion to Mrs. Chichester to the 
 contrary, notwithstanding, A. C. Strong could only 
 conjecture, at the best, that George Gordon was still 
 alive. Naturally Mrs. Chichester did not communicate 
 the fact that her daughter had seen the much-sought- 
 for man in New Orleans. 
 
 The summer had therefore come to an end in Eng- 
 land before any intelligence of what was going on in 
 America was sent to Roger. The warm, bright months 
 had been an intermezzo to Gordon in the somewhat 
 tragic opera of his life. He had written a little music, 
 all of it rose-tinted by the influence of the tender pas- 
 sion; he had rambled woods and fields with Genevra, 
 never finding even nature so beautiful as she, and 
 
 280
 
 ROGER'S NEWS 
 
 he had quaffed day by day from the deep cup of 
 content. 
 
 Genevra was even more childishly happy than he. 
 She was not so afraid to be joyous, not so inherently 
 suspicious of the smile of the jade, Fate. 
 
 The date for the wedding was set for December. 
 The autumn being exceptionally fine and warm, the 
 Harberton's and Roger remained still at Datchet. 
 However, the day of returning to town was approach- 
 ing. The garden-parties the two had attended together 
 were becoming to Roger and Genevra mere memories 
 of charming moments, that jumbled themselves with 
 dreams of house-boats, the Henley regatta, and days 
 all their own in the forests. 
 
 The plans for what they would do in London were 
 formulating delightfully, when Gordon received a let- 
 ter from Strong & Billings. 
 
 " DEAR SIR," it read, " After several months of 
 diligent search, we have received satisfactory evidence 
 not only of your present residence abroad, but also that 
 you are without doubt the son of George Gordon, and 
 as such possibly the heir, or one of the heirs, of said 
 George Gordon's uncle, David Gordon, recently de- 
 ceased. We beg to inform you that we are at present 
 engaged in further search for the said George Gor- 
 don, whom we believe to be somewhere in this country, 
 
 281
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 but who may, nevertheless, be dead. We have pleasure 
 in writing you that the said David Gordon, deceased, 
 bequeathed property to the said George Gordon to the 
 value of about one hundred and ten thousand dollars. 
 We shall hope to hear from you at your earliest con- 
 venience, our trust being that you may have received 
 intelligence of the said George Gordon, either as to 
 his demise or his present whereabouts, if he is still 
 living. We are, sir, your obedient servants, 
 
 " BILLINGS & STRONG." 
 
 Roger read this letter a number of times, and then 
 laid it down on his table and stared at it silently for 
 a long time. The old excitement which always arose 
 in his breast at the thought of his father returned to 
 make his heart beat faster. After all these years of 
 mystery, to have such a thing as this come hunting 
 him out gave him the weird sensation as of a shock 
 from a summer sky. 
 
 Was there, then, the slightest possibility that his 
 father lived? Where had he been these twenty- four 
 years and over? How would it seem, supposing he 
 should ever meet his father? He shook his head as 
 these and many other questions came to him, one after 
 another. He was not much affected by the news of 
 this great inheritance. He was comfortably provided 
 for already, as the result of this same strange father's 
 
 282
 
 ROGER'S NEWS 
 
 foresight and generosity. He had paid back to Doctor 
 Pingle a considerable sum of money, more than enough 
 to cover what his economical living had cost him dur- 
 ing his years of study, but what he had then remaining 
 seemed to him an abundance. He was only concerned 
 with the thought of whether it was likely that his 
 father was still in the land of the living. He thought 
 this could hardly be so. 
 
 Some note in the letter his father had left for him 
 to read on his twenty-fourth birthday had struck an 
 answering chord in his heart. He yearned towards 
 that father. He would have been so glad to believe 
 him still alive. But the simple affection which had 
 actuated all that his father's letter to himself contained 
 argued that were that father still this side of the grave 
 he would write again. 
 
 Once more he perused the letter from the lawyers. 
 "You are without doubt the son of George Gordon, 
 and as such possibly the heir, or one of the heirs," he 
 read, and there he halted. 
 
 It all brought back the thoughts he had worried upon 
 as a boy concerning his mother and the little child 
 with golden-brown hair whom she had brought once 
 to see him at Doctor Pingle's. How distinctly he re- 
 membered every word the doctor had ever imparted 
 to him of that mother. He had once admitted that the 
 little girl whom she had brought that time was fair 
 
 283
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 and probably his half-sister only. This was doubtless 
 the reason why Billings & Strong had not been posi- 
 tive as to whether he would be the sole heir, or only 
 one of the heirs of George Gordon's uncle, in the event 
 of his father's demise. That Doctor Pingle had spoken 
 what he knew, when he confessed that the child they 
 had seen that fair little girl was only half his sister, 
 he felt convinced. If this were so, she belonged to that 
 mother ; she was hers wholly. That mother had ut- 
 terly disowned himself ; he disowned that mother, and 
 all that was hers. She had never had a place in his 
 thoughts, as his father had, and she never should 
 have now. 
 
 Vaguely disturbed by the line of thought which the 
 arrival of this letter had awakened, he dismissed the 
 matter as best he could, after writing to Billings & 
 Strong that he knew nothing whatsoever of his father. 
 Their own letter, he told them, had given him his first 
 intimation that George Gordon could by any possibility 
 be still alive. He kept the whole affair to himself. 
 He thought if he steadfastly refused to talk the matter 
 over with Genevra, it would the sooner pass from his 
 mind. It could not make him any happier; it could 
 profit nothing, in its present state of incompleteness. 
 
 But the thoughts of it clung to him stubbornly, day 
 after day, during all the following week of rambles at 
 Genevra's side. 
 
 284
 
 ROGER'S NEWS 
 
 The American mail seemed to skip him by when the 
 mid-week steamer arrived in port, but the next one, 
 as he had thought might be the case, brought him 
 three of the home-messengers. One was from Strong 
 & Billings, one from Teresa, and the third from Doctor 
 Pingle. 
 
 He read Teresa's little sisterly note first. To her, 
 Roger would ever be a distant star, on which she could 
 gaze with a faithful love, which he would never sus- 
 pect, never look to see. That never a word of this 
 ecstasy, which had come to maturity in the young 
 woman's breast, escaped in one of her letters argued 
 exceptional strength of character in the girl and a 
 remarkable sense of reserve. It was a pleasant little 
 note she had sent. Roger tossed it aside, however, in 
 a spirit of brotherly indifference. 
 
 From Billings & Strong he read : " In re estate of 
 David Gordon, deceased, we have to inform you that 
 your father, George Gordon, is known to be alive, at 
 present somewhere in the United States. Have not 
 been able to ascertain his whereabouts for this writing, 
 but hope to do so for the next mail. If you learn of 
 him, which seems highly probable, kindly communicate 
 at once. Matter of inheritance still in abeyance." 
 
 With his hand to his cheek Roger stared into the 
 corner of the room vacantly. He had felt a something 
 like a dim foreboding that his father would prove to 
 
 285
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 be alive. He felt a strange sense of the nearness of 
 this unknown parent. He presently felt a need as if 
 for a freer breath of air. It was not to be had in the 
 house. 
 
 With Doctor Pingle's letter, still unopened, held in 
 his hand, he went out, and, passing through the street 
 alone, walked away from all the houses on the road 
 that went by the river leading to London. 
 
 He thought there might be further news of his 
 father in the doctor's letter. There was. His kindly 
 old friend and guardian had carefully prepared the 
 way for his news, to break it easily. But Roger raced 
 swiftly, in his reading, to what he wanted to find. 
 
 " Naturally I could not for a moment recognize my 
 visitor," he read. " But at length I knew him for your 
 father. He had come from San Francisco, which city 
 was on his mind as the place of your birth to such an 
 extent that I fear he may have returned there since. 
 When he found you were not here, I had much diffi- 
 culty in impressing upon him the fact that you are in 
 England, and not in California. Lad, I have never 
 touched one penny of the money you sent me, but as I 
 had not the whole sum in the house, I could not give it 
 into your father's hands. I am sorry I could not have 
 done so, in the light of what has since occurred. 
 
 " After our long talk, which I must tell you, lad, was 
 a little painful, I gave him all the ready cash I had by 
 
 286
 
 ROGER'S NEWS 
 
 me at the moment. This was before we went off to 
 bed, he in your old room, which I keep always as you 
 left it. But in the morning he was gone. I wish I 
 might be able to state to you where he has now wan- 
 dered. I fear, as above written, that he has returned 
 to San Francisco, where, of course, he saw you last. I 
 fear I was hardly real to him, now, for my years have 
 laid their hands upon me, to stoop my back and to 
 unthatch my old poll. Had he seen more of my old self 
 in me, mayhap he would not have thought so much on 
 San Francisco. But I do not make certain he has gone 
 in that direction. I have written of his visit here, and 
 of my own fear, to those lawyers in New York City to 
 whom I supplied your address. You may therefore 
 hear from them soon."
 
 VI 
 
 A PILGRIM 
 
 ROGER was staggered by what the lawyers and Doc- 
 tor Pingle had written. His father was actually alive ! 
 His father ! George Gordon, the man who left him as 
 a child, for the love of a woman, was searching to find 
 him ! What sort of a father would he prove to be, if 
 ever they two should meet? 
 
 A yearning first, and then a dread, and once more a 
 yearning, possessed the boy. He was still a boy; he 
 felt more like a little boy now, with this shadow of his 
 father over him, than he had for years. 
 
 How was it that now this parent should arise, after 
 all this time? What did he owe to this stranger 
 whom he might meet at last? He had builded his life 
 himself, apart from parents. His habit was not to have 
 or to know any parents. All his life he had fought 
 his battles, abandoned to whatsoever might result by 
 father and mother alike. Had he learned they were 
 dead, he could never have grieved. How should a son 
 grieve who had never leaned upon this father, never 
 had an opportunity to know or to love him? 
 
 Perhaps, he thought, the inheritance from David 
 Gordon, falling now as it would into the hands of his 
 father, would keep them apart, each to continue his 
 
 288
 
 A PILGRIM 
 
 separate path. Did he wish to meet that father, or 
 did he not ? After all, he was his father, the author of 
 his being, in whom there must have been a deep affec- 
 tion. What did it mean, this father's wandering away 
 to San Francisco? Was he tugged by the strings of 
 his heart? 
 
 He wondered what his father was like. Perhaps the 
 man had suffered. What wifeless, childless spirit had 
 he been, wandering somewhere all these years ? What 
 had it been that kept him silent so long? 
 
 He felt, in some strange, indefinable way, that his 
 father needed him called to him across some unknown 
 abyss of years and space. He wondered if he owed 
 his father a duty. How could he? What right had 
 this parent now to summon his sympathy, his boyish 
 love, left so to perish in his heart ? As a boy Roger had 
 been so alone; as a man he had been isolated, soli- 
 tary. Yet he felt as if he were running to meet his 
 father, childishly, with all the yearning in his breast 
 impelling him onward. Right or wrong in his in- 
 stinct, he loved that father, he cried to him, out of 
 a loneliness which nothing had ever been able to satisfy 
 in his being. 
 
 He was walking thus, aimlessly, rapidly. No 
 
 thought was in his mind of where he was going. He 
 
 observed nothing as he went. The path was one he 
 
 had traversed often. It led under trees, over a stile, 
 
 19 289
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 and through a lane, where the trunk of a tree lay half 
 concealed in a bramble growth by the hedge. 
 
 Roger knew of the old piece of tree. He had sat on 
 it often with Genevra. But he came upon it before he 
 was aware. He halted abruptly before it, for a way- 
 farer sat here now, and something about him arrested 
 the younger man's attention. 
 
 The man looked old. He was bent, but his frame 
 was large and strong. His clothing was shabby, his 
 shoes were plated with dust and were broken at 
 the toes. He had taken off his hat. On his bowed 
 head the iron-gray hair, slightly wavy, was heavily 
 massed. 
 
 As Gordon halted, the man looked up in the young 
 fellow's face. Roger started as he steadily returned 
 the gaze. The face that he saw was thin, apparently 
 tanned dark brown, and stubbled with a few days' 
 growth of iron-gray beard. There was an unfathom- 
 able look of sadness and longing expressed in the 
 countenance. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir," said the stranger ; " can you tell 
 me if I'm close to this place here on the card, Rose- 
 croft, Datchet?" 
 
 The Harbertons lived at Rosecroft. Gordon echoed 
 the name with a strange misgiving at his heart. He 
 looked at the man before him, who had risen from 
 his seat, with searching eyes. " Whom do you wish 
 
 290
 
 A PILGRIM 
 
 to see at Rosecroft?" he asked, in suppressed excite- 
 ment. 
 
 The stranger was looking at him eagerly. " I'd like 
 to see a man," he said, in a voice that shook. " I'm 
 hunting to find a man. He must be grown to a man 
 by now. I'm hoping to find my boy and his name is 
 Roger Gordon." 
 
 Roger raised his hand to his cheek slowly. His eyes 
 were wide, and almost wild in their look. His face 
 took on that rechiselled look that came at times of deep 
 emotion in his heart. He was searching the face before 
 him searching it with lightning-like rapidity to find 
 a father. 
 
 " I might have known it," he said, hoarsely. " I felt 
 it coming. My name is Gordon Roger Gordon. I 
 am your boy." 
 
 The man suddenly sank down in a heap on the earth, 
 and threw his arm across the fallen tree. " My boy," 
 he sobbed, convulsively, " my little baby boy. Found 
 him at last found my boy at last." 
 
 Roger felt a welling up in his heart of all the un- 
 spent emotions of his boyhood. All the affection He 
 had so yearned to bestow surged like a flood in his 
 being. He went and sat down on the ground beside 
 the tattered, dusty figure, and placing his hand on his 
 father's head, he patted the masses of hair boyishly, 
 as he might have done had he been but a lad giving 
 
 291
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 comfort in nature's way. The story of an infinite 
 tragedy had borne itself in upon him the moment he 
 looked in his parent's face. 
 
 " You are tired," he said, presently. " You look 
 tired and hungry. We must go along home some- 
 where, home." 
 
 The father turned his head, to look at the serious 
 face so near his own. " My boy," he repeated, per- 
 mitting the tears to flow across his cheeks unheeded. 
 He put out a thin, large hand, that trembled, and laid 
 it caressingly on Roger's face. " My boy, my boy," 
 he crooned over and over again. " Let me stay 
 right here, honey, I don't care for anything not 
 for anything more. I can die now and never care 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no," said Roger. " Don't say a thing 
 like that. You're tired, you're very tired; you must 
 have walked very far. But now you will rest ; you'll 
 be strong and well " 
 
 His father shook his head, smiling with an affection 
 infinitely tender. " I'll never get well," he said. " I'll 
 never get rested, little boy. I've found you. I've been 
 living to find you, and walking and working so long 
 to tell you how I loved my little boy. Now I've 
 found you that's all. I've found you at last. My 
 boy's a gentleman; my boy's got a heart he's got a 
 heart." 
 
 292
 
 A PILGRIM 
 
 After a moment Roger said, " Don't, please, don't, 
 any more. Let's go somewhere home. I'll help you. 
 I'll get you strong again. Won't you come?" 
 
 His father turned his head, with a strange little 
 movement of listening. " Honey," he whispered, 
 " your voice just like your mother's only kinder, 
 more honest. Oh, Lord, my little boy, you don't 
 scold your father you don't, you don't. You can 
 blame me, honey. I expected that, but I had to find 
 you; I never could rest till I found my little boy 
 again." 
 
 Roger waited patiently for the outburst of renewed 
 emotion to pass. " I'll scold if you don't come home," 
 he said, presently. 
 
 His father gave his head a vigorous shake. He stood 
 up. His figure was bent, his shoulders were rounded. 
 He tried to throw himself erect and to hold up his 
 head. It was painful to see this struggle. 
 
 " I was once a man, like you," he told his son, " but 
 I threw myself away. I couldn't help loving your 
 mother no, I couldn't. I loved my little boy, but she 
 made me go away. That's what you can scold me for, 
 honey. I don't mind now." 
 
 He put his hand abruptly over his face and bowed 
 his head on his breast. He seemed about to fall. 
 
 Roger advanced to him eagerly and took his arm in 
 his strong, steady hands. 
 
 293
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh, you you are a man," he said, catching ten- 
 derly at the straw of pride still remaining. " Come 
 on, you are hungry and tired and sore. Don't think 
 about anything just now but getting home, and then 
 you can tell me everything. If you want me to, I'll 
 go and get a carriage if you want to wait for me 
 here. You are rich, did you know it ? Anything you 
 want you can have." 
 
 His father was making an effort to keep up his 
 head. " Money ain't anything to me now," he an- 
 swered. " I found my little boy. I don't care for any- 
 thing more. My boy don't scold me that's all I 
 want in the world." 
 
 " Oh, won't you come, father ?" Roger begged. 
 
 The man, aroused by that word, made another effort, 
 one of those struggles that it hurt Roger to see, but 
 which made a thrill go through his heart. The man 
 was trying to speak a better English, trying to hold 
 himself as Roger did, manfully straight. 
 
 " Yes, I will," he answered. " I'll try to be a credit 
 to my son." 
 
 Roger saw how weak the traveller was. " Shall I 
 go for a cab?" he said. 
 
 " No, honey, bless your heart," said his father, 
 taking his arm," I reckon I walked mighty near all 
 the way from New Orleans to San Francisco, and I 
 reckon I can walk a little more." 
 
 294
 
 A PILGRIM 
 
 " We can go slowly. Don't try to hurry," said 
 Roger. " Rest another minute first." 
 
 The man looked at him with a hungry light in his 
 eyes, as if he knew he would never catch up on the 
 affection he had always so longed to bestow. There 
 was also a shadow as of awakening pride, that made 
 a little mark of seriousness on the furrowed brow. 
 " Roger," he said, hesitating for a choice of words 
 he had once employed, " I don't look respectable." 
 He stopped, and then added, " If only I could 
 have a bath, and something clean, I could walk 
 better." 
 
 " Oh, never mind that, never mind," said Roger. 
 " But if you would like to rest a little here, and would 
 feel any better in something new, I could go and get 
 some clothing and bring the things back, and then 
 we could go in the trees, near the river, and fix you 
 up. Would you like to have me do that? Do you 
 want to wait?" 
 
 " Yes, I'll wait," said the pilgrim. " But you won't 
 forget to come back? Oh, I know you won't, my 
 honey I know you won't. But I couldn't bear it 
 now." 
 
 " No, I won't forget to come back," said Roger, 
 gravely. " I couldn't. I never forget anything. I'll 
 come back, soon. Sit here and rest. I shall not be 
 long." 
 
 295
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 He turned around as he came to the bend of the path, 
 and waved his hand and smiled. But his heart was 
 filled with a chaos of conflicting emotions. It was 
 all so unreal, and yet so poignantly presented. He felt 
 in one moment that he was the father himself; in the 
 next that he was only a lad, awakening to an acquaint- 
 ance with his parent. 
 
 He went by the most unfrequented streets, to avoid 
 a possible meeting with Genevra. He could not bear 
 to think of himself and her just at present. He pur- 
 chased clothing, shoes, and food. With all these things 
 in two bundles he hastened away to that path through 
 the fields again, and came to the fallen tree. 
 
 His father was there. He was sitting on the ground, 
 half reclining against the old tree-trunk, asleep. Nature 
 had claimed this moment in which to restore somewhat 
 of the strength he had used to exhaustion. On his 
 care-worn face a little troubled look alternated with a 
 wan smile. The marks of suffering, patiently borne, 
 could not entirely obliterate the lines of refinement still 
 to be seen. 
 
 Roger sat down quietly and waited. The sun shone 
 warmly. The summer's last bee buzzed lazily in the 
 grass. Roger's yearning was the thing the father saw 
 when at last he opened his eyes. 
 
 When the man walked forth from the cover of trees 
 at last, clothed and comforted anew, it seemed as if 
 
 296
 
 A PILGRIM 
 
 he had shed the dusty shell of some former self and 
 left it behind in the shadows. 
 
 The two walked but slowly back to the town. Roger 
 knew of a house where rooms could be rented. 
 
 " Don't you care about me," said his father, when he 
 sank in a chair at last. " I know I'll never get rested 
 any more. I don't care, now unless you are sorry 
 your father came. But I know you ain't, I'm sorry 
 I said it. I know you ain't. You never scold." 
 
 " I want you to go to sleep," said Roger. " And 
 when you wake you can tell me everything I've got 
 to know." 
 
 397
 
 VII 
 
 A STORY COMPLETED 
 
 THE story that George Gordon told fitted with pain- 
 ful consequence upon what Roger already knew of that 
 run-away marriage, the mother's repudiation of him- 
 self, and the slavish indulgence which the man had 
 been powerless to withhold against her whims, per- 
 suasions, and commands. 
 
 When San Francisco had been left behind, they had 
 gone to Honolulu, and thence to Japan, according to 
 the dictates of Bertha's fancy. For a year they had 
 been irresponsibly happy in their wanderings. At the 
 end of that time, when their money was almost en- 
 tirely expended, they had started for Sydney, Aus- 
 tralia. Bertha had then discovered she was about to 
 become a mother once again. This and the state of 
 their finances awakened in Bertha's nature a germ of 
 hatred for her husband, a thing which grew rapidly. 
 
 Bertha's child had been born on the ocean. It was a 
 girl a little golden-haired, fair-skinned mite, so pretty 
 that even its mother was flattered by its advent. They 
 named it Sunshine, and the father's heart was soothed 
 a little where it ached for his first-born, so shamelessly 
 abandoned. 
 
 Bertha had not been long confined in her berth. 
 298
 
 A STORY COMPLETED 
 
 She had never been ill on the sea, and on this occasion 
 the ocean breezes quickly restored her strength. She 
 and the little one became at once the idols of all on 
 board. Then, when rougher weather had made her 
 husband ill, the woman's loathing for him returned ten- 
 fold. She hated illness; she could not bear his hag- 
 gard face. He had mended sufficiently to be again on 
 deck before the steamer arrived at her destination. On 
 the evening when the harbor was gained he had 
 climbed to the upper deck, and was leaning against 
 a railing when Bertha came to where he was. 
 
 " She came up, laughin' like her old honey self," 
 said the man, relating the incident, a far-away, remi- 
 niscent look in his eyes. " Then, when I was feeling 
 happy, she said, ' Oh, you are standing on my dress, 
 git off!' And she gave me a push. The push didn't 
 hurt, but I lost my balance and got a fall, down to 
 the lower deck. That was the last I knew, and I 
 never saw her never saw my little baby-girl again." 
 
 The remainder of his story was painful. The fall 
 he had, the man related, not only rendered him wholly 
 unconscious for the time, but it wrenched his spinal 
 cord in such a manner that his brain was affected and 
 one side of his body paralyzed. He could see, hear, 
 and think confusedly, but his tongue had been locked 
 in his head and the grip had departed from his mus- 
 cles, even those which could still be moved. When, at 
 
 299
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 length, his faculties were somewhat restored, he had 
 found himself in a lunatic asylum, where he was prac- 
 tically a prisoner. 
 
 He told of his partial return to strength. He had 
 finally been dismissed as cured and was put to work 
 with natives. He was thus shackled to labor before 
 he was quite emancipated from the effects of his fall. 
 
 His memory had returned in fragments. He re- 
 called San Francisco, with its fogs, and a little about 
 his abandoned child, to find whom became the passion 
 of his life. A few years only before his return to 
 America he had learned that his wife sailed again to 
 San Francisco, secured a divorce, and married a man 
 who had travelled on the steamer with them on that 
 final trip. He was a wealthy man. His name was 
 James Chichester. 
 
 Finally, concealing himself on a steamer bound for 
 New Orleans, Gordon had arrived once more in the 
 United States. Discovered on the vessel, as soon as 
 the voyage was fairly begun, he had at once been 
 pressed into service. At New Orleans he secured em- 
 ployment as an ordinary laborer. He was saving his 
 money and patching together his scraps of memory 
 as fast as they came. He had believed that once in 
 San Francisco he could find the old localities which 
 memory refused to render back. 
 
 He had walked a great part of the distance to Cali- 
 300
 
 A STORY COMPLETED 
 
 fornia. Of his disappointment, when he came to the 
 city of the Golden Gate and learned that Doctor Pin- 
 gle had been gone for many years, he said but little. 
 He had plodded onward once more, headed for Mis- 
 souri, to find the child he had been compelled to aban- 
 don. 
 
 Roger knew the tale, or could readily supply what 
 remained to be told, after that. 
 
 When it was complete, and his father lay asleep in 
 the snow-white bed, the thought that haunted Gor- 
 don's mind was of that dimly remembered day when 
 his mother came to Doctor Pingle with his sister, little 
 Sunshine Gordon. 
 
 She was not a mere half, she was all his sister. That 
 little white, fair-haired girl, untouched by the taint 
 of a darkened skin, was the same flesh and blood as 
 himself. 
 
 " Little Sunshine Gordon," he said to himself, time 
 after time. And he wondered how she had fared 
 with that mother. 
 
 301
 
 VIII 
 
 A CONCEPTION OF DUTY 
 
 A LITTLE wistful crooning as the next few days 
 went by, a little yearning as he smiled at Roger, a 
 word of happiness to Genevra when she called, and 
 George Gordon died. 
 
 " Getting rested, my honey, because you never 
 scold," he said. " Found my boy at last." And he 
 went to sleep. 
 
 Roger had hardly had time for the filial love poten- 
 tial in his breast to expand to its limitations. He 
 had only commenced to become acquainted with his 
 father, after the first up- welling of pity and longing 
 which the man's arrival had occasioned, before all was 
 over. But he had seen enough to understand why 
 and how his father had been lovable in his youth. The 
 gentleness, the anxiety to please, the almost child-like 
 wish never to scold or to be scolded, had made the man 
 unusual. But in the prime of an ordinary life, as he 
 was when this end came so swiftly, George Gordon 
 appeared loaded with years which had broken him in 
 every way that a human being ever breaks. In his 
 final repose, however, he reassumed the dignity of 
 manhood and the beauty of features which had so 
 potently attracted Bertha Neuville when first they 
 
 302
 
 A CONCEPTION OF DUTY 
 
 met. Roger saw, with some reason to wonder, that 
 the still face was much more lightly touched with the 
 tint of dark than was his own. He saw that to any 
 casual observer there was not an indication of the 
 African lineage behind this man. Apparently all of 
 this, for the three of them, father, son, and little Sun- 
 shine, had come upon himself. But even this was 
 behind him now. 
 
 The trials and pains of all this new element of 
 melancholy in his life had served to cement more 
 closely than ever, if possible, the ties between himself 
 and Genevra. She had shown him before what a 
 sweetheart and companion could be; she had shown 
 him since that ineffably tender compassion of her 
 latent maternity, in the simple, pretty little things she 
 did for his father. 
 
 " Dearest," he said to her, when finally everything 
 was concluded, save that last little stroll by the river, 
 before the return to town, " I have thought and thought 
 about my sister, and what I ought to do, and now I 
 have at last decided that I shall be obliged to go to 
 America, to find her and give her half of my father's 
 inheritance. I don't see what else I can do. I could 
 never be happy till that was done. So I want you 
 to tell me I am right to go, and then in a month 
 I shall be here once more, to claim my wife, and we 
 will never part again." 
 
 303
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 "Oh, Roger," she said. "Return to America? 
 Suppose anything should happen ? Couldn't you have 
 your solicitor manage the business just as well ?" 
 
 " If I felt I could trust it to any one else, I would do 
 so, gladly," said Roger. " But it is quite a worry. It's 
 a thing that is on my mind day and night. I must 
 do it, or have no peace. I have thought of every other 
 plan, but this one I am sure is the best in every 
 particular. I shan't be gone long. A few weeks, 
 dear, and I shall be here again, and life will begin 
 at last!" 
 
 " It's noble of you, big boy," she said, employing her 
 latest name of endearment. " It's like you, dear 
 splendid and generous always, but I can't want you 
 to go." 
 
 " There is nothing noble about it," he told her. " It 
 seems more like a duty. It's almost a mania some- 
 where in my brain. There must have been trials and 
 things in her life. I must do it before I can dare 
 to be happy." 
 
 He wanted to cry out that Sunshine must have 
 suffered a thousand things with such a mother; that 
 through all he had undergone himself she seemed to 
 call to him, helplessly and as one alone; that unless 
 he went to her, doing what his sense of justice de- 
 manded, she might never receive what he deemed 
 to be hers. But all of this he throttled. He could 
 
 304
 
 A CONCEPTION OF DUTY 
 
 utter no word against that mother. It was terrible 
 enough to feel what he did. 
 
 He dreaded this duty far more greatly than he 
 would ever have permitted Genevra to know. It 
 was already a fever in his veins. To hasten across 
 the ocean, to find Sunshine Gordon, give her the 
 half of what he would own, and then to call him- 
 self free, to live his own life, to go his own ways, 
 all this burned so hotly within him that he had no 
 peace. 
 
 " But if anything should happen," said Genevra 
 again, taking his arm and his hand, as they walked 
 by the river. " Oh, dearest, I know you will go. I 
 can feel it. I see how you think. But please, please 
 don't remain long away. I don't wish to have you 
 think me selfish. I want you to do noble things all 
 your life, as you always have, but I love you so it is 
 hard to give you up, even for a week. A month will 
 be so long. You won't be gone more than a month, 
 big boy?" 
 
 " Not so long as that, if I can possibly arrange to 
 come back again sooner," he said. " I don't wish to 
 go. I feel that I must. And you are always so 
 thoughtful, so right. If love for you had not taught 
 me the sweetness and the beauty of womanhood, I 
 doubt if I should wish to go on this mission. When 
 I know that you send me, out of the loveliness of your 
 20 305
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 own nature, how glad I shall be of the wonderful mo- 
 ment of turning to hasten back !" 
 
 " But you will never let anything happen ?" she 
 asked him yet again. " If anything should, it would 
 break my heart. I could never forgive myself for 
 letting you go. You are sure absolutely sure that 
 you couldn't arrange it in some other way?" 
 
 " I shouldn't think of going if I could, to my own 
 peace of mind," he replied. " No. I feel it is just to 
 be my last little trial. There is nothing much left 
 that could occur now. Everything has come that could, 
 to affect my life. I shall soon be back, and then the 
 whole world is ours mine, for you are more than all 
 the world." 
 
 She clung to his arm and held to his hand tightly 
 as they walked. After a moment of silence she said, 
 
 " Dearest, I want you to come back to me just as 
 you are now. Please don't let anything change you, 
 even a little. You are all mine now, just as I am all 
 yours. I love you just as you are, my big boy, so 
 honest, so kind, so pure in all your thoughts and deeds. 
 I love everything there is in your nature. I shouldn't 
 want one little thing removed or altered. It is so 
 precious, so sacred, to have you the way you are. 
 Promise me, dearest, you will be just the same when 
 you come back and kiss me again." 
 
 " I waited all those years, and loved you always," 
 306
 
 A CONCEPTION OF DUTY 
 
 he told her, earnestly. " I should love you the same 
 way, and be the same, in my hope to deserve you, even 
 if I had to wait a hundred years more. I am more 
 yours than ever. I love you more than ever I did. 
 To-morrow I shall love you more than I can to-day. 
 And the next day more than that. And so on, with 
 every day in every year, till only eternity and all space 
 can hold my love. I shall never change, precious, ex- 
 cept to love you more. So when I turn homeward, 
 you shall feel that I am coming, just as I shall feel 
 the days grow sweeter and brighter. I am all yours, 
 dearest, forever." 
 
 307
 
 IX 
 
 THE UNESCAPABLE 
 
 ROGER carried away a last picture of London, with 
 Genevra for its centre and a glimpse of all the others 
 as a background. Lady Denby, always genuine, sent 
 him a message of regard and a promise to have Ge- 
 nevra ready for the wedding. Lennox parted from his 
 friend with a regret which had come with that strong 
 affection in which he would hold his friend through 
 any trials and disappointments of his own. Lady 
 Fitzhenry, disdainful and already concerning her- 
 self with a lion more willing to be tamed, was more 
 distant than a comparison with mere space could ex- 
 emplify. 
 
 But after Genevra's sweet wishes and smiles on his 
 journey, the next thing dear to the boyish heart that 
 beat in Gordon's breast was the memory he was taking 
 with him of Harberton's hopes to see him back with 
 them soon, hopes actuated by a fondness which the 
 older man had revealed as frankly as had Genevra her- 
 self. 
 
 So many years had passed since Roger's last trip 
 upon the ocean that many things were novel to him 
 now, and of absorbing interest. The passenger-list 
 was a long one, so many belated Americans were has- 
 
 308
 
 THE UNESCAPABLE 
 
 tening homeward after having remained abroad as 
 long as time or finances would permit. 
 
 Thrown into company made up almost exclusively 
 of his own countrymen and women, Gordon found him- 
 self regarded soon by questioning eyes, to the manner 
 of the gaze of which he had long been unaccustomed. 
 He thought at first there must be something peculiar 
 about his manner of dress. Then the thing became 
 clear so suddenly that a hot flame of color burned up 
 in his bronze cheeks and his deep-set eyes denoted the 
 recrudescence of galling memories. It was the tint of 
 his skin that had marked him for notice. He realized 
 that the country of his heart, his beloved America, 
 would never be a haven of delights again. Boyhood 
 will be happy, no matter what its passing anguishes; 
 manhood loses its grasp upon the simpler joys and 
 quickens its capacity for aches of the heart. 
 
 The habit of a solitary life had its advantages. 
 Roger felt as utterly alone on that steamship, filled 
 with its microcosm of a nation, as he might have done 
 in Sahara. But he was not permitted to forget that 
 despite his achievements, his wealth, and his culture, 
 he belonged apart from his whiter brethren. When 
 the seats were allotted at the tables, he had no place 
 with his fellow-passengers. He found himself seated 
 at a small table, specially provided, with another man 
 in whose features, and darkened face as well, he recog- 
 
 309
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 nized the presence of that cogent force, the African 
 blood. Too well balanced at last to permit humiliation 
 to claim him for its own, he accepted the ruling of 
 caste as a thing once again to be expected. 
 
 As he took the seat provided for him thus, Roger 
 bowed, silently, to the man with whom he shared this 
 isolation. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Gordon ?" said the stranger, 
 courteously. " I hope I may be allowed to introduce 
 myself. My name is Jefferson Clark Jefferson. I took 
 the liberty, which I trust you will pardon, of ascer- 
 taining your name. I knew we should be thrown 
 somewhat frequently together." 
 
 " I am happy to meet you, Mr. Jefferson, I am sure," 
 said Roger. " It looks as if we may have a pleasant 
 trip." 
 
 " I hope so," Mr. Jefferson replied, and then he 
 said no more. Instinctively he felt that Gordon was 
 unusually reserved. 
 
 Roger presently felt his reply had been cold. " Have 
 you been in England long?" he asked, desirous of 
 appearing more responsive. 
 
 " Only three or four months. I went there to elicit 
 sympathy for the New Liberia movement," the other 
 answered. " Perhaps you have heard of our work, 
 or at least of our hope?" 
 
 " I fear I have overlooked it," Gordon confessed. 
 310
 
 THE UNESCAPABLE 
 
 " I have been on the Continent until a few months ago. 
 I am wofully behind, on reading the papers." 
 
 " There has been very little about it in print. It 
 is not an important matter as yet. It may never be 
 important," said Jefferson, with a smile as if hope had 
 grown faint about his project. " There are only a 
 few of us working. But at least I have interested a 
 great philanthropist to some extent. He is providing 
 a transport free of charge." 
 
 " Oh, I doubt if I understand just exactly what you 
 want of a transport," Roger told him. " I am sorry to 
 appear so ignorant." 
 
 " My trouble is in always presupposing that every 
 one knows as much about our little scheme as I do 
 myself," the other said, cheerfully. " A few of us 
 believe that Africa Liberia is the place for the Afri- 
 can. We have collected a colony together to try the 
 experiment again. It failed somewhat before, but 
 there seems to be no reason why it should fail always. 
 And, as I say, at least I have secured free transporta- 
 tion from New York City to Liberia for all who will 
 join in our pilgrimage, and we shall test our theoretical 
 solution of the great problem as earnestly as possible, 
 come what may." 
 
 " You mean that a number of people are going to 
 Liberia Africa from America ? I should think your 
 project might be successful," Roger answered. " Do 
 
 3"
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 you like England?" he added, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 His new acquaintance knew from Gordon's abrupt 
 change of the subject that something sensitive had been 
 touched upon by their conversation. He had seen re- 
 sults like this before. He was a gentleman himself, 
 with delicate instincts. 
 
 " England is a very beautiful country, especially in 
 the summer," he said. And the subject of the problem 
 dropped for the moment. 
 
 312
 
 X 
 
 THE PROBLEM OF A RACE 
 
 ON shipboard the seriously minded soon find them- 
 selves sifted together in one little group, while the 
 volatile-headed individuals just as certainly gravitate 
 together in another, larger contingent. Roger and 
 Jefferson formed even less than a group. 
 
 To Gordon, who had never thought upon a negro 
 problem in his life, the aims and hopes of his friend 
 became a fascinating topic. He liked the man, not 
 only for his knowledge of and interest in what he 
 termed his people, but also because of his personality. 
 Jefferson was honest, earnest, broad-minded, and an 
 altruist, self-designated to work for the race to which, 
 by his color, he belonged. He was a college man, 
 highly educated ; he counted among his friends many 
 of the most esteemed of America's citizens. 
 
 " But why should the negroes leave the United 
 States?" said Roger, when the subject was broached 
 again. " Why not educate them where they are, and 
 make them better citizens, I mean, citizens who will 
 be able to take a higher place than at present in the 
 nation's growth?" 
 
 " You see, so often book-education merely makes the 
 negro a ' smarty,' to express it as I have heard it put,"
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 said Jefferson. " He is no longer contented then to 
 be a workingman. He wishes to be like, and to asso- 
 ciate with, the whites. That is impossible. On the 
 other hand, if he is trained in industrial arts, even well, 
 he must always be in a class by himself. He can never 
 be assimilated. That is perhaps the most terrible part 
 of it all. There are sometimes exceptions to the rule, 
 but in America, part negro makes a man all negro, to 
 all intents and purposes." 
 
 " I suppose you mean, the white people will not 
 care to associate, in America, with a man whom 
 they suspect of being even partially of African 
 blood." Roger did not bring himself to say that 
 easily. 
 
 " I mean that exactly," agreed Jefferson. " Almost 
 a drop suffices to drag a man down to the ordinary 
 negro level. That sounds brutal. The truth is often 
 brutal. Then what can be done? In such circum- 
 stances how could a nation assimilate so vast a throng, 
 even supposing the inclination existed, which is far 
 from being the case ? See, then, what an un-American 
 institution must result, unless we go to Africa once 
 more. Even granting that the best of education, which 
 is that along industrial lines, be vouchsafed for our mil- 
 lions of negroes, they can never enjoy the caste of 
 the whites. And could caste, such, for instance, as 
 unmans India, be an American institution? I think 
 
 314
 
 THE PROBLEM OF A RACE 
 
 not. I see but one solution to the problem, and I fear 
 that is almost impossible." 
 
 " Would they know what to do in Africa now, after 
 all these years of acclimatization in another land?" 
 said Gordon. 
 
 " Perhaps not. Some would. If we are really 
 worthy, if there is a spark of greatness or a germ of 
 evolution in us, we could build up a great nation in 
 the country to which we belong. We have been given 
 a start along the lines of a higher civilization. Can 
 we work out our destiny along the lines of something 
 truly heroic? If not, we shall fail in America as sig- 
 nally as we might in Africa. When the horde grows 
 larger, when the lines of caste grow too irritating to 
 be endured, when a pseudo-education has inflamed 
 rather than enlightened the average negro mind, then 
 the struggle will come, and our failure will be a tale 
 of carnage instead of one of economics. I am one of 
 the horde. I have wished a thousand times I might 
 have been an Indian, but what I am that I must accept. 
 I have seen some of the hordes, the great unleavened 
 lump. It is no worse than many another lump, Lon- 
 don's, for instance. I have come to believe that those 
 who talk most glibly of leavening the lump, no mat- 
 ter where, have never seen the lump. And I could 
 not wish that any of them had." 
 
 Roger was amazed at this speech. It's frankness, 
 3iS
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 its confessions, the man's cried-out wish that he too 
 might have been an Indian, as he himself had wished, 
 awed him and made him think as he had never thought 
 before. 
 
 " Then you don't think your present scheme will 
 really leaven what you call the lump?" he said. 
 
 " I wish I could hope so," Jefferson answered. " I 
 wish we could move the lump, at any rate. I am half 
 a white man. I am all an American. God forgive me 
 the boast, I think I love it more than many who are 
 white all through. It will be a far, far better republic 
 without us. I should weep in heaven, or hell, to see 
 it blotted with another great stain of blood. But I 
 fear it will come. I fear we will never go, in our 
 millions. I fear they will one day wipe us out. Force, 
 insolence, intolerance will grow as the lines of caste 
 become deeper. I am all American. I love her well 
 enough to go well enough to take every one of us 
 I can away!" 
 
 " Is it really so bad as that ?" said Roger. 
 
 " What else can we think ?" his friend replied. 
 " The problem is there for solution. If we leave 
 all of us, certainly the thing is settled. What else can 
 solve a question so profound? Religious training, to 
 make us more amenable to regulations? No, I think 
 not, not while the conflict between morals and re- 
 ligion continues. We are already fanatically relig- 
 
 316
 
 THE PROBLEM OF A RACE 
 
 ious. Book-education ? No. It could never be given, 
 in the first place; it would utterly unfit us in the sec- 
 ond. Industrial training? Not while we multiply and 
 caste makes assimilation out of the question and a 
 republic no longer possible. If we are worth the price 
 of education, if we can rise to greatness, we are great 
 enough to found an empire of our own." 
 
 317
 
 XI 
 
 A BELATED DISCOVERY 
 
 THE morning of the last day out, after the steamer 
 had indulged herself in rolling, like a horse turned out 
 to pasture, a man appeared who had hardly stepped 
 upon the deck a half-dozen times. He was staggering 
 weakly from the cabin-door to a chair when Gordon 
 took him by the arm impulsively and lent him his 
 strength. 
 
 " It seems to me I have seen you before," said the 
 man, when he had spoken his thanks and taken time 
 to look at Gordon's face. " Are you not the gentleman 
 who gave a recital in London, a few months ago, 
 your own composition, ' Paradise Lost' ? Herr Co- 
 manche, isn't that the name?" 
 
 Roger bowed slightly. " My professional name," 
 he admitted. " Are you comfortable now ? Do you 
 think you'll be warm enough, wrapped like that?" 
 
 " Thank you, yes," said the stranger. " My name 
 is Pallingham. I was there that night. I should be 
 glad to know you better." 
 
 Gordon thanked him and shook the hand the man 
 presented. The captain and a number of women came 
 bearing down on the invalid, wherefore Roger said 
 perhaps they should meet again, and moved away. 
 
 318
 
 A BELATED DISCOVERY 
 
 The man to whom he had rendered the merest little 
 service proved to be a personage of some social im- 
 portance. His title was the veriest sugar to catch the 
 human flies aboard the vessel. And when these busy 
 creatures had buzzed about the liner, from stem to 
 stern, the all-unconscious Gordon had suddenly be- 
 come someone whom all were sorry they had failed 
 to discover sooner. 
 
 However, it was not absolutely too late even yet. 
 The news went around that the concert that evening 
 would be the finest of the voyage. That handsome, 
 dark young gentleman was Herr Comanche, the com- 
 poser of " Paradise Lost," and perhaps he would 
 play. 
 
 Good-natured always, and never resentful, Roger 
 consented to bring forth his violin for the entertain- 
 ment of his fellow-passengers. 
 
 He played that evening, as he always played, these 
 days since his life had been made happy, a theme that 
 addressed itself to Genevra. Far away, over the heads 
 of all his listeners, he gazed, back across all those 
 thousands of miles of restless water, till Genevra's 
 slumbrous eyes, so lustrous with her maidenly passion, 
 greeted his message of devotion. What he played was 
 new, though it told such an ancient story. Beautiful, 
 vanishing forever into the air, and trailing away on the 
 wake of the ship, it weaved its spell on his hearers with
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 that strange subtle art which characterized all that 
 he did. 
 
 He played again, and yet again, before his fellow- 
 passengers could let him go. He recognized the music- 
 greed, and smiled to himself to see it level the high- 
 held heads and sweep away the looks of social superi- 
 ority. 
 
 But when he escaped, which he managed adroitly, 
 he was not to be found for belated conversations. And 
 when the liner reached her wharf, on the following 
 morning, Roger was glad that Herr Comanche had 
 been spared an earlier discovery. 
 
 After New York City had swallowed the handful 
 of persons with whom he had travelled, Gordon real- 
 ized that he would probably never see so much as one 
 of all those passengers again, unless it might be Jef- 
 ferson. 
 
 320
 
 XII 
 
 A LONG SEARCH 
 
 THE problem of finding Sunshine Gordon some- 
 where in America had not presented itself to Roger 
 in a concrete form on his way across the Atlantic. 
 Indeed, it was not until after his interview with Bil- 
 lings & Strong that he realized fully the possibilities 
 of labor in such a search. 
 
 It was months since the lawyers had been honored 
 by the final visit of Bertha Chichester to their pre- 
 cincts. They were not aware of her present where- 
 abouts ; they doubted whether she still resided in New 
 York City. Of her daughter they knew but little. 
 They had made but one effort to find the mother, whom 
 Billings had thought might be paid to furnish some 
 manner of information concerning George Gordon, but 
 this had been unsuccessful. 
 
 They were able to acquaint Roger with details of 
 Bertha's effort to secure the inheritance, a bit of in- 
 formation which Strong made as vivid as it was con- 
 cise. He then advised the employment of a private 
 detective to conduct the search for Gordon's sister. 
 
 " I shall look around a little by myself," said Roger, 
 " and doubtless I shall get such a man as you men- 
 tion as well." 
 
 21 321
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 Confronted by the necessity for planning some man- 
 ner of campaign, he soon began to realize the largeness 
 of his task. It was something to go on, however, he 
 thought, that Bertha Chichester had once called on the 
 lawyers. At least, it argued that she had been in the 
 city of New York. But then, it was not Bertha Chi- 
 chester that he wished to find. Indeed, the thought 
 of meeting her gave him anything but pleasure. 
 
 She had not, so far as his father had been able to 
 tell him, abandoned Sunshine, as she had himself; 
 nevertheless, it was so long since George Gordon had 
 received any word of the two that almost anything 
 could have happened since that time. The two might 
 not be found together. However, he could not afford 
 to ignore any chances which might lead to a rapid 
 termination of the task he had come so far to per- 
 form. 
 
 Thinking out the features of the case, he compre- 
 hended another possibility which might not tend to 
 simplify his labors. Sunshine might have any one of 
 several names. He hardly thought it probable, still 
 she might have been reared as Sunshine Gordon. It 
 was far more likely, he thought, that her name was 
 Sunshine Chichester. Yet, again, it was possible she 
 might have been married. And if married, she might 
 not reside in New York City, nor even in New York 
 State. 
 
 322
 
 A LONG SEARCH 
 
 He copied down the names and addresses of all the 
 Gordons and Chichesters to be found in the city direc- 
 tory. He rented apartments in a private dwelling. 
 The work commenced. 
 
 The weather was frequently forbidding, for the win- 
 ter seemed to have decided on an early visit. On days 
 when the rain was driven by the wind he remained in- 
 doors. During weeks that were fine, however, he 
 tramped patiently from one address to another, till the 
 Gordons, first, and then the Chichesters written on 
 his list were nearly exhausted. 
 
 He discovered then he had used an old directory. 
 Securing a newer edition, he discovered several new 
 addresses. It was thus that he came at length to that 
 house wherein the Chichesters had given their daugh- 
 ter a wedding reception. 
 
 " They ain't no Chichesters here," said the hall-man, 
 with asperity, when Roger once more put his question. 
 
 " Thank you," said Gordon. " I doubtless made a 
 mistake in copying down the number." 
 
 " No, you didn't make no mistake," corrected the 
 man, less savagely. " They lived here once, but they 
 never paid no rent, and Mr. Chichester kicked the 
 bucket and the woman got the bounce." 
 
 Roger was out of touch with this vernacular. " Do 
 you mean," he asked, " that Mr. Chichester died, and 
 Mrs. Chichester moved elsewhere?" 
 
 323
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " You guessed it right the first crack," said the 
 man. 
 
 The fellow could not supply the particulars. That 
 Chichester had gone in an apoplectic trance, induced 
 by gulping his claret to stifle a particularly aggravating 
 outburst of dyspepsia, could have made no material 
 difference in Gordon's self-appointed task. However, 
 Roger made innumerable inquiries of the hall-man, 
 through none of which could he manage to secure a 
 clue. Mrs. Chichester, when departing, had failed to 
 furnish an address. 
 
 Roger was discouraged. He had begun to realize 
 early that the month he had given himself in which 
 to come, do his work, and return would not suffice. He 
 was obliged to confess, in his letters to Genevra, that 
 he might be obliged to remain at least four weeks 
 where he was, which would make their separation at 
 least of six or seven weeks' duration. 
 
 To add to the difficulties of his work in finding his 
 sister, Billings & Strong required a great amount of 
 his time in the adjustment of his business of inherit- 
 ance. 
 
 He thought of Brooklyn as a portion of New York 
 City which he had heretofore overlooked. Without 
 affecting a change of head-quarters, to which Genevra's 
 letters came with such an encouraging regularity, he 
 went to work as he had done in the larger city, in 
 
 324
 
 A LONG SEARCH 
 
 that vast field of houses across the river. It was at 
 this time that he finally engaged a private detective 
 to aid in the task. Day after day, however, the man 
 reported no results. 
 
 November was gone, December was going. He 
 could write no hopes of success. His time had been 
 spent for nothing. A restlessness grew upon him. 
 The weather drove him to shelter frequently; the 
 hours thus hung heavily on his hands for days at a 
 time. He thought of advertising in the papers for 
 his sister. A personal notice was therefore inserted 
 in several morning journals, but he waited in vain to 
 receive a reply. 
 
 A relaxation became a necessity. Nervous over this 
 maddening wait, so futile in every particular, he at- 
 tended theatres and concerts night after night alone, 
 and walked by the hour along the brilliantly lighted 
 streets. 
 
 He found himself fascinated by the hundreds of 
 negro, mulatto, and quadroon inhabitants who made 
 of Sixth Avenue, from Thirty-fourth Street to Twenty- 
 fifth Street, an African boulevard. 
 
 He found scores of these persons, male and female, 
 whiter than himself; he recognized the brutal truth 
 which Jefferson had spoken, " Part negro, all negro, 
 in America." 
 
 This thing, together with his apparently never-to- 
 325
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 be-finished task, oppressed him. He had been away 
 from England more than seven weeks already. Ge- 
 nevra was begging him in every letter to give it all 
 over and return. " I am not very well," she wrote in 
 one epistle. " What a dreadful distance it seems be- 
 tween us now." He feared she was dangerously ill. 
 He almost dreaded to remain longer away. He sick- 
 ened at the thought of how he was tempting the fates. 
 In despair he ran his advertisement for " Sunshine 
 Gordon, or Sunshine Chichester" daily for more than 
 a week. He felt he had then exhausted all his re- 
 sources. He would give the affair just one week more. 
 If nothing promised success at the end of that time, 
 he would place the matter entirely in the hands of 
 some trustworthy detective agency and sail again for 
 England. 
 
 3*6
 
 XIII 
 
 THE REWARD OF A SEARCH 
 
 AMERICA'S greatest metropolis, at the time of Gor- 
 don's visit, was teaching reformers to reform their 
 methods. The arch-fanatic, in introducing violent dis- 
 ruptions of the scheme of metropolitan life, had lived 
 to have his day and to witness somewhat of the hor- 
 rors that followed. With moral powder he had 
 wrought his havoc in the meeting-place of vice and 
 human nature. 
 
 Explosions, however, cannot destroy matter. They 
 merely scatter it widely. New York was a field sown 
 broadcast with all the vicious fragments of what had 
 been before the vicious mass of things deplorable. The 
 streets were littered at night with these garish bits of 
 tinsel and paint. 
 
 No man, howsoever impeccable his conduct or 
 thought, could always be certain of escaping, unac- 
 costed, from a stroll in attractive thoroughfares. 
 
 Gordon had found himself submitted to this experi- 
 ence soon after coming to New York City. He had 
 grown to know the signs whereby the birds-of-night 
 advertise their plumage. 
 
 More restless than before, now that at last he had 
 fully decided to admit himself defeated and flee back 
 
 327
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 to Genevra, he paced his room or the streets till he 
 often found himself exhausted. After a day of snow 
 and frost, one of those final nights, which he was count- 
 ing before he should turn his face to the East again, 
 was clear and sharp. The hour was late, but heedless 
 alike of that and the cold, he strode past the glittering 
 shop-windows, decked already for the holidays, past 
 the thinned-out stream of pedestrians, and past the 
 intersecting streets, to the jangle of bells on the Broad- 
 way cars, and so came at last to Herald Square. 
 
 Above him the elevated trains rushed by like noisy 
 comets, their vaporous tails of steam swirling down 
 to the side-walks in great white billows. When he 
 turned, he walked back, by way of Sixth Avenue. He 
 found it less thickly populated to-night, less brilliantly 
 lighted than the busier Broadway. 
 
 Absorbed as he was, nevertheless the man presently 
 halted at the sound of music that came in squalls of 
 melody from one of the side streets, at the corner of 
 which a heap of dirty snow was piled. The wind was 
 tossing the rollicking ditty from violins, banjos, and 
 guitars. There was something barbarously catching in 
 the tune and the lively manner of its execution. 
 
 Another strong breath of the harmony came on the 
 breeze. Gordon turned, hesitated a moment, and then 
 walked down the darker street, in the direction whence 
 the kindling sounds proceeded. The theme was a mad- 
 
 328
 
 THE REWARD OF A SEARCH 
 
 dening invitation to dance. Involuntarily Roger was 
 stepping to the time as he walked along, and swaying 
 his head to the rhythm. He paused at length before a 
 house, through an uncurtained window of which he 
 could see a large number of negroes dancing. 
 
 He stood there on the curb, unconsciously clicking 
 his heels on a bit of ice. His eyes were lighted with 
 pleasure, ungovernable when music called with a beat 
 in such frolicsome measure. 
 
 While this momentary spell was at its height, and 
 Gordon stood there absorbed, a young woman, slender 
 and cold-looking, passed him by, casting a glance half- 
 heartedly at his face as she went. She presently 
 paused, looked at him timidly again, went on a trifle 
 farther, and paused again. Her face was pretty, but 
 a look of alarm was in her eyes, as if she feared her- 
 self. 
 
 As Gordon made no sign that he saw her at all, 
 she moved ahead, casting a backward glance twice of 
 thrice, till at length she came to a shadow, where she 
 once more hesitated. 
 
 Roger had not particularly noticed her, so preoccu- 
 pied had the music made his senses. Up the walk came 
 another, a brisker young woman, however, who was 
 not to be readily ignored. She walked nearly under 
 Gordon's chin. 
 
 "Hello, darling!" she said. 
 329
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 He cast a single look in her face. Almost falling, 
 as he took a backward step from the height of the curb 
 to the street, he turned away abruptly. 
 
 " Say, lovey," began the girl, but he heard no 
 more. 
 
 He left her swiftly behind as he beat a retreat across 
 the way, and down on the farther sidewalk, in the 
 opposite direction to that in which she was strolling. 
 He hastened onward, till the shadow of a darkened 
 building shielded him from view, and there he halted. 
 
 " It served me right," he muttered. " I ought to 
 be at home." 
 
 He saw that bolder young woman go on towards 
 Sixth Avenue, and beheld her stop, to address a word 
 to that other, more timid one, who had paused at the 
 end of the block. The one thus accosted came a little 
 forward and appeared reluctantly to receive something 
 which the other young woman tendered. A moment 
 later she crossed the street, to the side whereon Gordon 
 was standing, and slowly came back alone. 
 
 He waited, aware he would not be seen in the mask 
 of gloom to which he had fled. He watched the girl, 
 who came towards him, as if uncertainly. He noted 
 how slender and supple was her figure, how well she 
 carried her head. She passed beneath the light of a 
 lamp, and even at the distance he could see that her 
 face was sad. He also saw that she shivered with the 
 
 330
 
 THE REWARD OF A SEARCH 
 
 cold. Her face was delicate, refined; above all, it 
 was wistful. He observed her brush a tear from her 
 cheek and compress her lips together as she neared a 
 second street-lamp, flickering in the breeze. 
 
 Nearly in front of where he stood she came to a 
 halt and looked at something which she held in her 
 hand. Gordon could see her features plainly. He felt 
 himself unaccountably affected by her evident distress. 
 She raised her hand to her cheek, in a gesture of resig- 
 nation and despair. She shivered again, and, looking 
 at what she held in her fingers, permitted the object to 
 fall to the ground. Gordon saw that it was money, 
 a paper bill. 
 
 The girl wrung her hands, as a child might have 
 done, looking at the bill where it lay on the snow. A 
 moan escaped from her lips. She moved away, leaving 
 the money. Gordon made a trifling noise. She started, 
 like a doe discovered in the open. He came from the 
 shadow towards her, as one in a dream. 
 
 " You seem to be in trouble," he said, in a voice 
 so husky that it sounded strange to himself. " You 
 have dropped your money." 
 
 The girl glanced timidly up in his face for a second, 
 a dumb light of fear and dread in her eyes. He stood 
 with his back to the light. She was not aware that 
 his skin was dark. 
 
 " It doesn't matter," she said, in a voice that shook 
 33i
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 with her trembling. " Please I don't wish to stay 
 here. I'd rather go alone." 
 
 " I haven't the slightest wish to detain you," said' 
 Gordon. " But you seem so young. I saw you 
 saw that other one give you the money, and you must 
 need it need money. It seems such a pity. You don't 
 seem quite like It seems too bad." 
 
 She looked once more in his face, as if she yearned 
 for sympathy, yearned for some one to trust. Then 
 her head came forward and hung till he could no longer 
 see her face, and she cried, inaudibly. " Please don't 
 stop me," she finally managed to say. " I don't 
 want that kind of money. I didn't wish to take 
 it. She tried to be kind. I would rather go." 
 
 " God help you, I am glad you wish to go," he said. 
 " But there is other money, something might be done. 
 Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me where you are 
 going where " 
 
 " I am going to the river," she answered him, 
 brokenly. " I'd rather I'd rather. Oh, why do you 
 stop to speak to me?" 
 
 " I don't know," Roger said. " It seems too bad, 
 that's all. But don't go to the river. You must have 
 a mother to go to." 
 
 " A mother ?" said the girl, suddenly, in a strange 
 mood. She made a sound of laughing. " I had one 
 a pretty little mother, but she and all the others left 
 
 332
 
 THE REWARD OF A SEARCH 
 
 me to go, they made me go and it wasn't my fault 
 oh, it wasn't ! it wasn't ! It had to be his ! It had to ! 
 And then it died and I was all alone." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," Gordon told her, 
 awed by this half-told story. " Your mother, every- 
 body, left you to go? What was it that wasn't your 
 fault?" 
 
 " Why do you ask me ?" she answered, in a mood 
 of pride, not yet all eliminated from her spirit. " I 
 didn't want to tell you that. I don't want to tell any 
 more. I'll go I wish to go. I don't know who you 
 are. I'd rather go." 
 
 Another gust of that music from up the street came 
 rippling on the wind. But Gordon failed to hear it 
 now. 
 
 " You needn't tell," he said. " I don't know why I 
 asked. I couldn't help it. I don't know why I stay. 
 I'm sorry, though. You needn't tell." 
 
 The girl began again to cry. Her heart was break- 
 ing to tell its story. 
 
 " My husband," she faltered, " said my baby 
 wasn't his, but it was it was ! And they turned me 
 out he drove me away and I nearly starved. I 
 tried to get some work oh, you don't know how hard 
 I fainted on the street and a woman took me in. 
 She wasn't good, but she was kind, the only kind per- 
 son of them all, and she got me well and then I was 
 
 333
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 there in her house. I couldn't help myself, I couldn't 
 go anywhere else, no one would believe me. But I 
 have never been out like this before, and I can't I 
 can't I would rather die! They drove me out they 
 made me do it all and I'd rather go to the river." 
 She sobbed convulsively, but her sobbing still made no 
 sound. 
 
 Roger was frightened at all she had said, in some 
 vague, indefinable way. He had spoken to her ; he had 
 remained there against his will. He could not seem 
 to leave her and go on his own way. 
 
 " But you don't have to go to the river," he told her 
 now. " I wouldn't do that. I'll lend you some money, 
 if that will help you to try again. I don't know why, 
 but I will." 
 
 " Perhaps you wouldn't if you knew what it was," 
 she said, wistfully. " But it wasn't my fault. I was 
 good, and my poor little baby was his. It had to be 
 his! But something terrible was the matter." 
 
 " What was the matter?" he asked her, simply. 
 
 " My baby was black," she answered, obediently. 
 
 " Black !" He put his hand to his cheek as he echoed 
 the word. 
 
 " But it wasn't my fault," she reiterated, wildly ; 
 " it wasn't ! oh, it wasn't ! I knew you wouldn't be- 
 lieve me. I knew you couldn't ! Nobody ever believes 
 me, not even mamma my mother. They called it 
 
 334
 
 THE REWARD OF A SEARCH 
 
 a nigger. He made me take it and go away, they 
 made me go. And I knew you wouldn't believe me. 
 So now I can go." She looked in his face as a child 
 might have done, a serious little pucker between her 
 eyes. 
 
 He could make no reply for the moment. 
 
 " But I would like to say thank you," she faltered. 
 " I'd like to say good-by to to somebody nice. I 
 wanted somebody to know I tried I really tried to 
 be good. Good-by." 
 
 " Wait," said Roger, huskily. " Don't go yet. I 
 do believe you tell the truth. Tell me, what was your 
 husband's name?" 
 
 " I don't wish to tell," she answered. 
 
 " I wish you would," he said, eagerly. " Do you 
 think he might have had any colored blood in h'is 
 veins ?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " No, no, he hadn't. That's why he made me go." 
 
 " Then it might have come down through your 
 parents," he said, speaking in feverish haste, and as if 
 to himself. " Will you tell me your father's name?" 
 
 " No," she said, smiling faintly. " Why should I ? 
 I would rather not?" 
 
 " Nor your mother's ?" 
 
 " Poor pretty little mother," she answered, and she 
 shook her head. 
 
 .335
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 Gordon was suppressing a most intense excitement, 
 amounting to agony. 
 
 " Then, of course, it is of no use to ask your own," 
 he said, hoarsely. 
 
 " My name is so cheerful," she said, a little archly. 
 " It is Sunshine." 
 
 " Sunshine !" he cried out. " Oh, no ! no ! no ! not 
 that! not that! not with all this story! Oh, no! 
 no! no! not Sunshine Gordon! no! no, no, no, 
 
 I couldn't bear But it is it had to be it had 
 
 to be Sunshine Gordon. Oh, why oh, why " 
 
 " Why, what is the name to you ?" she asked, in 
 affright at his anguish. " Of course I am not Sunshine 
 Gordon. I don't understand." 
 
 Roger looked at her hazily. With his hand to his 
 cheek he weaved back and forth, as if in pain. " Sun- 
 shine Chichester, then," he said, patiently. 
 
 She sounded a little cry. " But who are you what 
 do you mean?" she suddenly asked. 
 
 A burst of that soulless music came dancing joyously 
 on the wind. 
 
 " I mean," he said resignedly, " that I know you 
 better than you know yourself. Your mother was 
 Bertha Neuville; your father was George Gordon 
 quadroon. Your baby was black for the very same 
 reason that I am black, because of the blackness in 
 the blood." 
 
 336
 
 THE REWARD OF A SEARCH 
 
 " I can't believe it," she said, as she looked at him 
 wildly. " How could you know ? Tell me who you 
 are." 
 
 He heard nothing distinctly. 
 
 " Put your hand on my arm," he said, huskily, " and 
 let us go. I came to find you." 
 
 " But I can't. You must tell me who you are," she 
 repeated, drawing away in alarm and awe. 
 
 " I am your brother," he said. " Come, Sunshine, 
 you are trembling with the cold." 
 
 22 337
 
 XIV 
 
 CAUSE AND EFFECT COME FACE TO FACE 
 
 WHEN the morning broke Gordon was sitting at a 
 desk in his room, gazing vacantly at a letter he had 
 written to Genevra. He had also telegraphed to Doctor 
 Pingle to bring Teresa to care for his sister. His head 
 was still troubled with schemes for Sunshine's life and 
 future. 
 
 His lips were drawn and thin; his features were 
 retaining, for a long time, that rechiselled appearance 
 that came to them now and again, but seldom with such 
 a look of chill as now. 
 
 At last he arose from the chair and paced the room. 
 Reaction broke in upon him abruptly. He burst into 
 laughter, fearful to hear. Peal after peal rang out, 
 mockingly. His muscular frame was shaken in a long 
 succession of shivers. The sound, when it ended, went 
 like the chatter of despair. 
 
 In silence again he continued his pacing up and down 
 the floor. His gaze wandered blankly from one dull 
 object to another in the place. The room was cold, 
 but he felt nothing. The world was stirring again out- 
 side, its roar increasing steadily ; he heard no sounds. 
 He paced up and down till the hour for breakfast came 
 and went; he knew no hunger. 
 
 338
 
 CAUSE AND EFFECT 
 
 How long he had walked he could never have told. 
 How long he might have continued so to stride up and 
 down could not have been determined. His state of 
 mind was invaded at last when for the third time a 
 loud knock was repeated on his door. 
 
 When he swung the barrier open he found himself 
 confronted as if by a picture. The hall was slightly 
 dark. Projected on its dim, uncertain wall, and framed 
 about by the lintels, was a daintily pretty woman, petite 
 and smiling. She had soft, silvery masses of hair 
 about a round, animated face. Her laughing eyes were 
 of the deepest violet blue. 
 
 " Good-morning," she said, in a bright, winsome 
 voice. " I am delighted to see you," and she came in 
 the room. " You must be you are Mr. Gordon." 
 
 " My name is Gordon," Roger replied, a puzzled 
 expression on his face. " But I fear I do not " 
 
 " Oh, dear, don't you know me ?" cried the lady, 
 laughing in the mellowest of voices. " Oh, how very 
 ungrateful not to guess how you came to be so hand- 
 some for you are oh, you are. I think you are 
 charming. I am ever so proud of you, really." She 
 held out her hand engagingly. 
 
 Gordon intended no slight, but he failed to see her 
 hand. His eyes could not apparently leave her face. 
 
 " Oh, you naughty, handsome boy," she pouted. 
 " You've got to know your own little mamma." 
 
 339
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 He started. He winked his eyes rapidly. He passed 
 his hand across his forehead. 
 
 " Yes," he finally said, as if to himself, " I know 
 you now. I remember the mocking face, and the laugh, 
 without any laugh inside. I wonder what you want." 
 
 " What do I want?" echoed Bertha, slightly shrink- 
 ing back from his cold, hard gaze, but laughing ner- 
 vously. " Oh, Roger, you mean, mean boy, to treat 
 your poor little mother like that, when she comes to 
 see you so sweetly, and wants to love you so dearly." 
 
 He looked at her steadily, out of his deep-set eyes. 
 His gaze seemed to pierce her through. She felt a 
 horrible sense of discomfort. He seemed about to 
 speak several times. And then he merely uttered the 
 one word, 
 
 "You!" 
 
 " Oh, you cruel boy," she pouted, complainingly, 
 masking as best she could the fear he compelled in her 
 breast. " To think of my own dear boy talking like 
 that to his mother, when she comes so early in the 
 morning and tries to be cheerful and pretty. Oh, I 
 know you never meant to be so cruel. I forgive you, 
 dear. I have been away from town, but I came to 
 answer your advertisement there. So you couldn't 
 help loving me just a little." 
 
 He stared at her, saying nothing. There was so 
 much that he wished to say that he could not begin. 
 
 340
 
 CAUSE AND EFFECT 
 
 Where the tale of wrongs commenced was so far, far 
 back. 
 
 " Don't you want me to tell you where Sunshine is ?" 
 she asked, weakly. 
 
 " I found her, where all of you put her, on the 
 street, last night/' he said. " You abandoned me. I 
 could almost have forgiven you that. Perhaps you 
 did me a kindness, I think you did. But to let that 
 child bear all that infamy, to cast her out, when you 
 knew you were responsible yourself for that black little 
 face that you were the one that married negro blood 
 oh, that was a monstrous thing to do ! You never 
 told her she had a right to have a black little baby. 
 You knew it ! You knew it, and yet you shut her out, 
 with such a blot of shame as that, to bear alone. I 
 thought I despised you for myself, for what you did 
 to me ! O God, what shall I say to this woman ? You 
 can come to tell me where she is, without a blush of 
 shame?" 
 
 Bertha suddenly hated as much as she feared him. 
 Her face was no longer smiling. Something hideously 
 malignant burned in her eyes. " What do you mean 
 by this?" she demanded. "How dare you speak to 
 me like this ? What you say is all a lie a nasty lie !' 
 
 " But at least I know who her husband was," he 
 resumed, unheeding her interruption. " I can let him 
 know what you are. I can tell him what you did. He 
 
 34i
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 shall know you were married to a quadroon. He shall 
 realize it was not her fault that her child was black. 
 But neither he nor you shall see her again. Go away 
 leave me. I cannot bear to see you. I might have 
 forgiven for myself. I have hoped that I could. O 
 God, I have hoped it so! But you you pariah of 
 motherhood you soulless creature what an outcast 
 you are from all chance of filial affection !" 
 
 "You nigger!" she cried. "You nigger! How 
 dare you! Beast! I hate you! I loathe you nig- 
 ger !" She choked with impotent rage. 
 
 He opened the door. " Go away," he said. " You 
 have made some mistake. We never had a mother." 
 
 She could not remain and face his gaze. She was 
 blazing with wrath, as she backed out at the door. But 
 some one was passing in the hall, a man who roomed 
 in the house. She looked at the stranger, smiling at 
 once. " I must really be going," she said, for the other 
 man to hear. " By-by." And the man turned to see 
 who it was that had such a sweet, mellow voice. 
 
 342
 
 XV 
 NEWS FROM ENGLAND 
 
 IT had been a something akin to instinct that 
 prompted Roger to send for Teresa to care for his 
 sister. He had thought of no one else; there was 
 no one so appropriate, so reliable, so certain to re- 
 spond. He knew she would come. 
 
 Without procuring a breakfast he went to his sister. 
 Sunshine had read the paper left by George Gordon. 
 She knew what Roger had told her was the truth; 
 she was only too well convinced of who and what she 
 was. She accepted it all in patience and without com- 
 plaint, but she was shrinkingly ashamed and burning 
 with mortification whenever her brother's eyes were 
 directed towards her face. He noted this presently, 
 and talked with his gaze averted. 
 
 The girl's countenance was one of those human sor- 
 row-coins, stamped with the ineradicable signs which 
 mental and physical anguish design. Yet its girlish 
 sweetness and innocence were still in a manner un- 
 touched. Her family resemblance to Roger was 
 marked, particularly about her brow and the contour 
 of her cheek. 
 
 Already she felt for him all that sense of attachment 
 which protection compels. To have found a brother, 
 
 343
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 at a time when there was no one absolutely no one 
 in her life to whom to turn, would have been sufficient 
 to awaken her child-like affection, but Roger had been 
 kind before he knew. Whenever he turned his serious, 
 half-sad eyes away, she was watching him, wistfully, 
 earnestly, with that odd little pucker between her 
 brows. 
 
 He told her of what he had done to provide her 
 with a woman companion, and explained who Teresa 
 and Doctor Pingle were. Of the morning's interview 
 with their mother he said nothing. She supplied him 
 with Robert Dunn's address, and he wrote to that gen- 
 tleman a letter of explanation to account for all that 
 had happened. Sunshine would have shrunk from this, 
 but she thanked him and knew he was right. 
 
 Doctor Pingle and Teresa could not arrive, as Gor- 
 don knew, before two days or more. In the mean time 
 he moved to a small hotel and secured apartments for 
 Sunshine and Teresa, as well as a room for himself 
 and another for Doctor Pingle. 
 
 On the following day a telegram arrived, announcing 
 that the two were half-way there. 
 
 That same afternoon he received a cable from Eng- 
 land. 
 
 "Health not good," it read. "We sail for New 
 York to-day. Genevra." 
 
 He held the paper in his hand, reading it time after 
 344
 
 NEWS FROM ENGLAND 
 
 time. At length a peculiar little smile appeared on his 
 face. He folded the message and placed it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 There was nothing to do but to wait, in patience, 
 for his friends from the West to arrive. When the 
 hour was come he went to the station alone. They 
 had never known anything about his sister; he much 
 preferred to have them meet her more quietly than was 
 possible at the train. 
 
 He was walking rapidly towards the platform at 
 which the train would stop, when some one quietly 
 grasped his arm. He turned about and saw his fellow- 
 ocean-traveller, Jefferson, walking beside him and 
 smiling in the pleasure of the meeting. 
 
 " Not going my way again by any chance, are you, 
 Mr. Gordon?" said the man. 
 
 " No, only to meet some friends," answered Roger. 
 " Where are you bound for now ?" 
 
 " New Haven and Bridgeport, only for one or two 
 days," said Jefferson. " I am winding up the last few 
 details of the business. Our ship is in port, getting 
 ready. She sails in two weeks from to-morrow." 
 
 " I am glad you have been so successful," said Gor- 
 don. He spoke clearly enough, but his thoughts were 
 wandering. He preferred, for some reason of his own, 
 not to have his friend Jefferson see him meet Teresa. 
 " I wish you luck," he added. 
 
 345
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Perhaps we shall meet again," said his friend. 
 " If not, good-by." 
 
 " Good-by," said Roger, and, taking the hand that 
 Jefferson extended, he hastened on to where a train 
 came rolling in and halted. 
 
 He saw them then presently, struggling with hand- 
 baggage, climbing down the steps of the car and 
 looking about them in that way of new arrivals, con- 
 fused and uncertain as to which way to turn. 
 
 " Here we are, Dosser," he said, as he came upon 
 them before they had even so much as looked in his 
 direction. " I am so glad to see you you and Teresa." 
 
 The two turned at once. The doctor was staring at 
 him in amazement over the rims of his glasses. 
 
 "Well!" he said. "Well! well, bless my soul! 
 Well, you well, I declare, you big fellow! Well, 
 God bless you, laddie ! Is it really you ?" 
 
 For the moment Roger was a boy again. He held 
 his hat in his hand and with the other shook the doc- 
 tor's hand as if he could never get enough of that good, 
 warm clasp. He looked at them both, one after an- 
 other, as he tried to laugh and to talk and to hold 
 his emotions all in check at once. 
 
 Teresa was looking at him shyly, but with eyes that 
 burned. Her breath came fast ; the color mounted in 
 her cheeks. She had grown up tall, slender, lady-like, 
 and attractive. Her face was not so dark as Roger's, 
 
 346
 
 NEWS FROM ENGLAND 
 
 but her features, while pleasant, were not at all of that 
 classical mould which had been a characterization of 
 Gordon's always. She had steady brown eyes, an oval 
 face, abundant black hair that was almost straight, 
 and an air of modesty which Roger observed with a 
 feeling of profound relief and thankfulness. 
 
 " I was glad to come, Mr. Gordon," she said, timidly, 
 as she placed her hand in Roger's for a second ; " but 
 I didn't realize how far it was." 
 
 He clutched up their bags and bundles as they talked 
 of these nothings of greeting, and led them away to 
 a carriage. 
 
 347
 
 XVI 
 
 THE RIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 DAYS of suspense, like those of suffering, are more 
 than twenty-four hours in length. The knowledge of 
 this was not at all new to Gordon. Nevertheless, the 
 week went by, and the steamer with Harberton and 
 Genevra was due at last. 
 
 The meeting down at the pier afforded a happy 
 little moment for Genevra, whom sea-air and hope 
 and this sight of Roger had restored to all her 
 health and brightness and life once more, as if by 
 magic. 
 
 She seemed to Roger more beautiful than ever. The 
 color glowed in her face as if from vestal-virgin fires, 
 made rosier by the consciousness of love. Her lus- 
 trous, warm-gray eyes were ablaze with joy. Her 
 nugget-gold hair, with the winter's afternoon sun upon 
 it, seemed but the halo due to her beauty. Through 
 her red, fresh lips her little hot catches of breath 
 fanned swiftly. She had never seemed so happy, so 
 sure of love's favor as now. 
 
 Roger looked at her yearningly. The beat of his 
 heart had quickened when she put her two little hands 
 in his and cried to him out of her sweet delight. To 
 Gordon all eternity passed while he lived for that 
 
 348
 
 THE RIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 moment of looking in her eyes, where love was so 
 silently eloquent. 
 
 " Roger, I believe I missed you more than Genevra 
 did, upon my word," said Harberton, candidly glad to 
 see him again. " Now, sir, can you book on this 
 steamer back to England again with us when she 
 sails?" 
 
 Gordon came back to realities at once. He made a 
 laughing answer that was apparently a natural and not 
 an intended evasion of the question. 
 
 " The first thing to do," he added, " is to get your 
 luggage under way to the hotel." 
 
 He therefore left them for the moment, and hustling 
 about, with his unforgotten American celerity of move- 
 ment and resource, at length returned to tell them that 
 all was arranged. 
 
 As they drove away from the landing, Genevra's 
 hand fell softly down on Roger's and rested there, 
 content. He left them, when they were finally lodged, 
 with a promise to Genevra to return so soon as he 
 knew she had taken a rest. 
 
 " If you don't make haste coming back," she warned 
 him, " the rest will not be a rest at all." 
 
 " I shall have no rest myself till I come," he told 
 her, smiling oddly, but it was long after dark before he 
 turned his footsteps towards the hotel where she 
 waited. 
 
 349
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 The night was cold and wet. The wind blew fit- 
 fully. The sky was sullenly low and dark. What 
 rain fell froze on the streets, buildings, and sidewalks. 
 
 Gordon, as he walked, seemed insensible to the cold. 
 His face appeared re-refined by the chill and bite in 
 the air. 
 
 But a semitropical warmth and fragrance breathed 
 from the parlor, when at length the door was opened 
 and Genevra stood before him, her eyes ablaze with 
 welcome and love, her bosom heaving with her happi- 
 ness and deeply stirred emotions. 
 
 He closed the door behind him. She had stepped a 
 little back, to let him enter. Now she came towards 
 him slowly, prolonging that moment more of separa- 
 tion, a happy one at last. But her love had leaped 
 from her eyes, unleashed, and she followed it swiftly, 
 running to his arms with a glad little cry from her 
 beating heart. 
 
 " Oh dearest, dearest, dearest," she crooned, and, 
 laughing and crying together, she nestled to his shoul- 
 der and patted his hands, and kissed him and nestled 
 again, and twined her arms about his neck to draw 
 his cold cheek down to her own soft, hot one, so burn- 
 ing for caresses. " Oh, dearest love," she sighed. " At 
 last at last." 
 
 Roger could not speak at first. Then presently he 
 called her name, over and over again, as he held her 
 
 350
 
 THE RIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 fast in his arms and looked in her eyes. His yearn- 
 ing was something she felt. It almost awed her. It 
 made her quiet. It made her take his face in her hands 
 and kiss him fondly. 
 
 " It is I, dear," she whispered, as if she compre- 
 hended something in his mood. " All yours forever. 
 Oh, my love, my dearest, I had to come. I couldn't 
 endure it any longer." 
 
 Her arms crept about his neck once more and she 
 lay close to his heart, her joy made absolute thus to 
 have him hold her fast. 
 
 At last she clasped both his hands in hers and, hold- 
 ing herself away the length of her arms, gave herself 
 the long, long look for which she had so hungered and 
 thirsted since their parting. And still Roger could 
 hardly say more than her name. 
 
 " Oh, dearest, you didn't expect me to come," she 
 said. " But I wasn't well, really, big boy. I was so 
 lonesome for you. And papa proposed it, bless him ! 
 so we came. And I am so glad we did. Dearest, I 
 was so afraid something might happen. I want you 
 to tell me you are glad to see me, dearest boy, as I 
 am to have you so close again." 
 
 For his answer he held her once more to his heart 
 and kissed her, and looked in her eyes with a yearning 
 greater than infinity. 
 
 " Forgive me for being so selfish," she said to him
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 then. " I haven't asked you anything about your long, 
 long search. Tell me, dear, have you found your sister 
 since you wrote to me last?" 
 
 The moment in his life had come. 
 
 " Dearest," he said, huskily, " I have found my sister 
 at last. But it's a long unhappy story. You must 
 sit by the fire and let me tell you. It is hard to 
 tell." 
 
 " But, Roger, dear," she said, " it isn't terrible ? Oh, 
 nothing has happened, that you smile like that ? Dear- 
 est, you are glad to see me?" glad I came?" 
 
 " You are the one glimpse of heaven I never ex- 
 pected to see again," he told her, simply. 
 
 " Roger ! Never expected to see me again ?" she 
 cried, in sudden fear. " But, dearest, what have I 
 done?" 
 
 " You, precious ? Oh, don't say such a thing as that. 
 You have done nothing nothing but to give me a 
 happiness too great to last and a hope too good to be 
 true." 
 
 " But tell me tell me," she said, in affright, " what 
 does it mean ? Your sister isn't dead ?" 
 
 "No not dead." 
 
 " Then what can it be ? Have you lost your fortune ? 
 Dearest, what do we care for that? I don't mind any 
 sort of poverty with you." 
 
 " I wish it were that," he said. " It isn't the for- 
 352
 
 THE RIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 tune. Oh, if it had only been that ! No, it is far more 
 than that I have lost. I have lost the right to make 
 you mine. Not the right to love you no, no I shall 
 never lose that! but the right to make you my wife. 
 That has gone forever." 
 
 " Roger !" she cried. " Oh, I don't know what you 
 mean ! There isn't any right in the world but my wish 
 my love. There couldn't be anything else but that ! 
 Nothing nobody has any rights for us but you and 
 me!" 
 
 " Dearest, wait," he pleaded. " I must tell you all 
 about it, how I found my sister a few days ago. I 
 wrote you a letter, but it couldn't arrive in time. I'll 
 tell you everything, and then you will know I have 
 lost my right. I know I might have written it all 
 again to you here, but I couldn't. I had to see you 
 this one time more. I had to hear your voice. I had 
 to hold you in my arms this once. I had to tell you 
 I love you, and love you forever." 
 
 " Oh, Roger," she said, in a new terror of his 
 stern, set face, " tell me what it means. It's a terrible 
 dream. It can't be true when we love each other so. 
 Tell me, dearest, you are joking?" 
 
 " Sit here and let me kneel beside you on the floor," 
 he said. " I can tell you better." 
 
 He dared not wait to let her speak again. He told 
 her, swiftly, plainly, of the shame which had come to 
 23 353
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 his sister come in her innocence come from the 
 thoughtlessness, the selfishness of one vain woman 
 who had once had her way. 
 
 " Genevra," he said, when the brief history was 
 ended, " how could I be a man and make you my wife 
 after this? How could I so tarnish you taint you 
 and start a new line of such misery and crime ? No, 
 no, no, I couldn't I couldn't not while I love you 
 as I love you now !" 
 
 " But oh, oh, Roger," she said, crying, " I love you 
 so. You don't understand. I love you with all my life, 
 and all my honor, and all my right to live ! And if I 
 don't mind, who in all the world can say we haven't 
 the right? Hasn't love any rights? Dearest, when 
 I tell you I would rather lose heaven and God than 
 to lose you now, is there anything else that can say 
 we haven't the right?" 
 
 " There is God help us there is," he groaned. 
 " We are two responsible creatures. We can't live 
 only for ourselves we can't. We haven't the right to 
 thrust existence on any creature that chance might 
 damn that way again. God knows how far from 
 us that woolly hair, that black little face, might come 
 again, and bring its shame. Oh, no, no, no! Is all 
 this anguish to go for nothing ? Is more of this shame 
 to hound the innocent again? Not from me! not 
 from me ! I can die I can even live, and suffer but 
 
 354
 
 THE RIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 this thing never! Genevra, I love you so much I 
 can let you go, so much I can suffer, so much it will 
 last through time itself, so much that God might be 
 jealous, but I have lost the right I never, never had 
 the right to make you mine!" 
 
 Genevra was awed. Her heart sank. She realized 
 something which thought could not have formulated. 
 She loved him more than she ever had. She could 
 not believe he was tearing out his heart like this. 
 
 " Dearest," she said, in a voice that faltered, " I 
 never thought of all that, because I love you so. 
 It would be very hard to say good-by. How could 
 I say that, dearest? I love you so I love you so." 
 Clinging to him, with a little shiver, she placed her 
 cheek against his arm and cried for the burden that 
 lay thus so soon upon her heart. 
 
 At length he lifted her gently into the hold of her 
 chair and stood before her, looking sadly into her 
 eyes. His face had taken on an older expression, not 
 as of age, but rather as of maturity in sorrow. 
 
 " Dearest, I must go," he said, with a wan smile 
 playing on his lips. " I have hurt your life. I have 
 killed the greatest hope that a man ever had. Now 
 there is nothing left but good-by. Oh, Genevra, 
 some time try to forgive me; some time remember I 
 didn't wish to do it that I love you love you love 
 you till my heart will break!" 
 
 355
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Oh, my big boy please," she sobbed, " please don't 
 please don't say anything like that." 
 
 " God bless you, sweetheart," he murmured. He 
 knelt down and kissed her hand. She seemed so help- 
 less, so stricken, as she sat there gazing at him wildly, 
 dumbly. 
 
 " Good-by, Genevra," he said, in a moment. 
 
 She started up and clung to him fondly, in despair. 
 " Oh Roger," she said to him, " I don't know how I 
 can let you go. It does seem as if in England we might 
 still be happy be right in our love. No one there 
 could care as they might over here. It does seem as 
 if there is some way some way we could make it 
 right. I don't know what I shall do. I can't let you 
 go never never to have you again. I love you 
 so. Dearest, I would follow you anywhere, bare- 
 footed hungry anything only to see you to know 
 that you love me. Oh, Roger, I can't I can't I can't 
 give you up. I would rather die !" 
 
 He tried to speak, but failed. At length he said, 
 hoarsely, 
 
 " Yes, I know. Oh, God, I have thought of that ! 
 It would be so easy to die. It takes so much courage 
 to live." 
 
 She looked at him in the awe of a fearful thought. 
 
 " We could die together," she whispered, in af- 
 fright at herself. 
 
 356
 
 THE RIGHT OF LOVE 
 
 " No, no we mustn't !" he said, passionately. " Ge- 
 nevra, help me to do what I must do, and help me to 
 live to wish to live. Shame me for my faltering- 
 manhood. Shame me, dear, shame me. Save me from 
 that. Don't let me lose this struggle. Help me now 
 now, when I need it most." 
 
 She was psychically driven to obey psychically 
 purged of her dreadful thought. She went to the table 
 unsteadily, and took up his hat. She kissed it, as she 
 came blindly towards him. 
 
 " Oh, dearest our love," she said, brokenly. " I 
 don't see how I can. Our love our hopes 
 and ' Paradise Regained' you promised that you 
 promised you'd come back to me and write me 
 that." 
 
 " I can never never write it now," he said. 
 " Oh, God, oh, Genevra, both of you send me 
 away. Help me, help me! If you love me, send 
 me now." 
 
 She steadied herself, peculiarly. She came and 
 kissed him on the forehead. 
 
 " Go, dearest," she whispered. " Go, dear love, with 
 all my heart and my life forever." 
 
 He held her tenderly for a moment, waiting till he 
 could speak again. 
 
 " Good-by, precious," he said, at last, and he kissed 
 her on the lips. 
 
 357
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 " Good-by," she whispered, and let him slip from her 
 clinging arms. Then she grasped the chair. 
 
 At the door he looked back, for one second of silence. 
 Then he closed it behind him and was gone. 
 
 She looked for a moment on the blank surface of 
 the panels. 
 
 " Oh, Roger, I can't let you go !" she cried, in an- 
 guish, and, staggering forward to call him back, she 
 sank to the floor. 
 
 358
 
 XVII 
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 ROGER GORDON knew when he boarded the huge Li- 
 berian ship that he was doing the only thing there was 
 to do. And yet to him the vessel was a great black 
 monster, straining at her moorings as if eager to part 
 him forever from Genevra. From the funnel a cloud 
 of smoke was pouring so dense that it blotted out the 
 sun from time to time, casting prodigious shadows on 
 the mass of humanity gathered on the pier. 
 
 The shadow fell on Genevra's face, as she stood 
 there looking so steadfastly upward to where he was. 
 Focussed as all of Gordon's senses were, on her sweet, 
 dilated eyes, he noted, sub-consciously, what a vast 
 majority of the faces to be seen were black. He saw 
 what a motley throng it was that surrounded her, gath- 
 ered together for the last good-bys. Old men were 
 there, in heterogeneous garb, beside stylish young 
 women. A bent old colored woman, leaning on a huge 
 umbrella, cried. Next her in the crowd three stout 
 young negroes were dancing and laughing. 
 
 Eagerness and questioning of fate dominated all 
 about where Gordon stood on the deck. Hope for the 
 race of blacks, sense of prophecy, ambition for the 
 project, wrought a thousand expressions. Liberia, 
 
 359
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 something of their own, a land in which they should 
 prove their worth and found a new republic, was the 
 dream of this handful of earnest men and women. 
 
 A white-faced fellow, with features more negroesque 
 than those of many of the darker men, was the one 
 who, at a signal, tossed the last big hawser from a 
 stanchion, as the other lines were hauled aboard. 
 
 The ship swung off. 
 
 Genevra's anguish shot through her heart. She saw 
 nothing but Roger, modelled in bold relief against the 
 background of a thousand men. On his right was 
 Teresa, on his left was his sister, she so fair, they 
 two so dark, and all three so serious and wistful. 
 
 His hat was in his hand. The sun shone warmly on 
 his glossy black hair. He looked as once before he had 
 looked, when about to commence his recital of " Para- 
 dise Lost." His eyes were answering Genevra's as if 
 his guiding star were clear to see. 
 
 She stood apart from the throng, with her father 
 and old Doctor Pingle. How pale she was ! She wa- 
 vered where she stood, unsteadily. Her eyes were 
 blazing with love's unspeakable despair. It seemed to 
 her then, as she looked at Roger, that she should see 
 those deep-set, saddened eyes gazing straight into hers 
 for all eternity. It was almost too much to support. 
 
 As the boat swung away from the pier she pressed 
 her hand to her heart to still its pain. 
 
 360
 
 THE INEVITABLE 
 
 Farther and farther away drifted the ship. The 
 gulf of water widened. Genevra was leaning oddly 
 forward. The tie to her heart was being so strained 
 that she felt as if something were about to break. The 
 dread, irreparable loss she was then sustaining, the 
 soul-sickening desolation which her life was about to 
 become, were borne in upon her ruthlessly, vividly, all 
 in one agonizing second. 
 
 There was the water, so darkly seething beneath 
 her, the water to answer it all, and to end it all ! But 
 across the abyss came Roger's great strength, to pacify 
 her soul, to bring her heroic endurance. As if on the 
 breeze that blew from where he was, she heard him 
 speaking : 
 
 " It would be so easy to die, it takes so much cour- 
 age to live." 
 
 She held up her face, in the bravery of all its tears. 
 A something of sublimity crept to her heart. 
 
 The ship commenced slowly to turn its prow towards 
 the great uncertainty of the open sea. Still Genevra 
 saw him where he stood in his manhood; still Roger 
 beheld her, as if she lingered alone on the pier. 
 
 They knew that, though a thousand years of time 
 and a million miles of distance should intervene, that 
 last long look would bridge the space forever. 
 
 THE END 
 
 361
 
 JACK 
 
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 I2tno. Cloth, ornamental, $1.50. 
 
 " This is a story of the days of Cromwell. The scene is laid partly 
 in England and partly among the mountain fastnesses of Wales. The 
 1 Red Men' are not Indians, but are Englishmen, driven by the un- 
 quiet times to become a party of bandits. The hero is a soldier of the 
 King's, of good birth, who seeks refuge among them, after the over- 
 throw of the King's court. A strong and exciting story." Brooklyn 
 Eagle. 
 
 By WILLIAM LE QUEUX. 
 
 THE SIGN OF THE SEVEN SINS. 
 I2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 "A story of Monte Carlo, and is told in the author's very best 
 style. Mysterious and thrilling adventures follow very closely, the 
 situations are startling, the surprises are many. It is well worth read- 
 ing." Commercial, Buffalo. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
 
 By WILLIAM JASPER NICOLLS. 
 
 GRAYSTONE. 
 Illustrated. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 " The most exciting incidents take place in a town in the coal 
 regions of Pennsylvania. ... It is told with much charm of style 
 and manner. The characters are well and clearly drawn, and the 
 narrative has a sustained and cumulative interest that is none too 
 common in these latter days." Philadelphia Times. 
 
 By LOUISA PARR. 
 
 DOROTHY FOX. 
 Illustrated, izmo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "The heroine is a charming little Quaker whose upbringing forbids 
 her marrying the fascinating English officer who loves her. There is 
 a pleasing mixture of worldly society mingled with the quaint atmos- 
 phere which surrounds the Fox family." Indianapolis Journal. 
 
 By JAMES O. G. DUFFY. 
 
 GLASS AND GOLD, 
 xamo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 "A strong story. The presentation of Miranda is done with 
 broad charity and keen insight." Evening Telegraph. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
 
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 WILLIAM LE QUEUX. 
 The Sign of the Seven Sins. $1.25 ; paper, 50 cents. 
 
 JOHN LUTHER LONG. 
 
 Miss Cherry-Blossom of T6ky6. $1.25. 
 
 The Fox-Woman. $1.25.* 
 
 H. c. MACILWAINE. 
 
 Fate the Fiddler. $1.50. 
 
 W. C. MORROW. 
 
 The Ape, The Idiot, and Other People. $1.25. 
 
 A Man: His Mark. $1.25.* 
 
 B. E. STEVENSON. 
 At Odds with the Regent. $1.50.* 
 
 MAURICE THOMPSON. 
 Sweetheart Manette. $1.25.* 
 
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 The Price of a Wife. $1.25. The Magic Wheel. $1.25. 
 A Blaze of Glory. $1.25. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
 
 THE "TRUE" BIOGRAPHIES 
 
 THE TRUE GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 
 By PAUL LEICESTER FORD. 
 
 With twenty-four full-page illustrations. Crown octavo. 
 Cloth, $1.00; half levant, $5.00. 
 
 THE TRUE BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 By SYDNEY GEORGE FISHER. 
 
 With numerous illustrations. Crown octavo. Cloth, $a.oo ; 
 half levant, $5.00. 
 
 THE TRUE WILLIAM PENN. 
 
 By SYDNEY GEORGE FISHER. 
 
 With numerous hitherto unpublished illustrations, portraits, 
 and fac-similes. Crown octavo. Cloth, $2.00 ; half levant, 
 $5.00. 
 
 THE TRUE THOMAS JEFFERSON. 
 
 By WILLIAM ELEROY CURTIS. 
 
 With numerous illustrations. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00, 
 net ; half levant, $5.00, net. Postage 13 cents extra. 
 
 " The house of Lippincott started the ' true portrait' order of 
 biography, in contradistinction to the garbled eulogy style of hero- 
 chronicling, with Paul Leicester Ford's 'True George Washington. 1 
 The next season, Mr. Sydney George Fisher, favorably known as a 
 writer on colonial history and on the making of Pennsylvania, was 
 brought forward as the biographer of ' The True Benjamin Franklin.' 
 Then ' The True William Penn' from the same source, and certainly 
 Mr. Fisher was well equipped far this task." The Interior, Chicago. 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA
 
 000 137272