David Rossi sat all day in his room in the Vatican reading the letters the Pope had left with him. They were the letters which Roma had addressed to him in London, Paris, and Berlin.
He read them again and again, and save for the tick of the clock there was no sound in the large gaunt room but his stifled moans. The most violently opposed feelings possessed him, and he hardly knew whether he was glad or sorry that thus late, and after a cruel fate had fallen, these messages of peace had reached him.
A spirit seemed to emanate from the thin transparent sheets of paper, and it penetrated his whole being. As heread the words, now gay, now sad, now glowing with joy, now wailing with sorrow, a world of fond and tender emotions swelled up and blotted out all darker passions.
He could see Roma herself, and his heart throbbed as of old under the influence of her sweet indescribable presence. Those dear features, those marvellous eyes, that voice, that smile—they swam up and tortured him with love and with remorse.
How bravely she had withstood his enemies! To think of that young, ardent, brilliant, happy life sacrificed to his sufferings! And then her poor, pathetic secret—how sweet and honest she had been about it! Only a pure and courageous woman could have done as she did; while he, in his blundering passion and mad wrath, had behaved like a foul-minded tyrant and a coward. What loud protestations of heroic love he had made when he imagined the matter affected another man! And when he had learned that it concerned himself, how his vaunted constancy had failed him, and he had cursed the poor soul whose confidence he had invited!
But above all the pangs of love and remorse, Rossi was conscious of an overpowering despair. It took the form of revolt against God, who had allowed such a blind and cruel sequence of events to wreck the lives of two of His innocent children. When he took refuge in the Vatican he must have been clinging to some waif and stray of hope. It was gone now, and there was no use struggling. The nothingness of man against the pitilessness of fate made all the world a blank.
Rossi had rung the bell to ask for an audience with his Holiness when the door opened and the Pope himself entered.
"Holy Father, I wished to speak to you."
"What about, my son?"
"Myself. Now I see that I did wrong to ask for your protection. You thought I was innocent, and there was something I did not tell you. When I said I was guilty before God and man, you did not understand what I meant. Holy Father, I meant that I had committed murder."
The Pope did not answer, and Rossi went on, his voice ringing with the baleful sentiments which possessed him.
"To tell you the truth, Holy Father, I hardly thought of it myself. What I had done was partly in self-defence, and I did not consider it a crime. And then, he whose lifeI had taken was an evil man, with the devil's dues in him, and I felt no more remorse after killing him than if I had trodden on a poisonous adder. But now I see things differently. In coming here I exposed you to danger at the hands of the State. I ask your pardon, and I beg you to let me go."
"Where will you go to?"
"Anywhere—nowhere—I don't know yet."
The Pope looked at the young face, cut deep with lines of despair, and his heart yearned over it.
"Sit down, my son. Let us think. Though you did not tell me of the assassination, I soon knew all about it.... Partly in self-defence, you say?"
"That is so, but I do not urge it as an excuse. And if I did, who else knows anything about it?"
"Is there nobody who knows?"
"One, perhaps. But it is my wife, and she could have no interest in saving me now, even if I wished to be saved.... I have read her letters."
"If I were to tell you it is not so, my son—that your wife is still ready to sacrifice herself for your safety...."
"But that is impossible, your Holiness. There are so many things you do not know."
"If I were to tell you that I have just seen her, and, notwithstanding your want of faith in her, she still has faith in you...."
The deep lines of despair began to pass from Rossi's face, and he made a cry of joy.
"If I were to say that she loves you, and would give her life for you...."
"Is it possible? Do you tell me that? In spite of everything? And she—where is she? Let me go to her. Holy Father, if you only knew! I'll go and beg her pardon. I cursed her! Yes, it is true that in my blind, mad passion I.... But let me go back to her on my knees. The rest of my life spent at her feet will not be enough to wipe out my fault."
"Stay, my son. You shall see her presently."
"Can it be possible that I shall see her? I thought I should never see her again; but I counted without God. Ah! God is good after all. And you, Holy Father, you are good too. I will beg her forgiveness, and she will forgive me. Then we'll fly away somewhere—we'll escape to Africa, India,anywhere. We'll snatch a few years of happiness, and what more has anybody a right to expect in this miserable world?"
Exalted in the light of his imaginary future, he seemed to forget everything else—his crime, his work, his people.
"Is she at home still?"
"She is only a few paces from this place, my son."
"Only a few paces! Oh, let me not lose a moment more. Where is she?"
"In the Castle of St. Angelo," said the Pope.
A dark cloud crossed Rossi's beaming face and his mouth opened as if to emit a startling cry.
"In ... in prison?"
The Pope bowed.
"What for?"
"The assassination of the Minister."
"Roma?... But what a fool I was not to think of it as a thing that might happen! I left her with the dead man. Who was to believe her when she denied that she had killed him?"
"She did not deny it. She avowed it."
"Avowed it? She said that she had...."
The Pope bowed again.
"Then ... then it was ... was it to shield me?"
"Yes."
Rossi's eyes grew moist. He was like another man.
"But the court ... surely no court will believe her."
"She has been tried and sentenced, my son."
"Sentenced? Do you say sentenced? For a crime she did not commit? And to shield me? Holy Father, would you believe that the last words I spoke to that woman ... but she is an angel. The authorities must be mad, though. Did nobody think of me? Didn't it occur to any one that I had been there that night?"
"There was only one piece of evidence connecting you with the scene of the crime, my son. It was this."
The Pope drew from his breast the warrant he had taken from Roma.
"Shehad it?"
"Yes."
Rossi's emotions whirled within him in a kind of hurricane. The despair which had clamoured so loud looked mean and contemptible in the presence of the mighty passion whichhad put it to shame. But after a while his swimming eyes began to shine, and he said:
"Holy Father, this paper belongs to me and you must permit me to keep it."
"What do you intend to do, my son?"
"There is only one thing to do now."
"What is that?"
"To save her."
There was no need to ask how. The Pope understood, and his breast throbbed and swelled. But now that he had accomplished what he came for, now that he had awakened the sleeping soul and given it hope and faith and courage to face justice, and even death if need be, the Pope became suddenly conscious of a feeling in his own heart which he struggled in vain to suppress.
"Far be it from me to excuse a crime, my son, but the merciful God who employs our poor passions to His own great purposes has used your acts to great ends. The world is trembling on the verge of unknown events and nobody knows what a day may bring forth. Let us wait a while."
Rossi shook his head.
"It is true that a crime will be the same to-morrow as to-day, but the dead man was a tyrant, a ferocious tyrant, and if he forced you in self-defence..."
Again Rossi shook his head, but still the Pope struggled on.
"You have your own life to think about, my son, and who knows but in God's good service..."
"Let me go."
"You intend to give yourself up?"
"Yes."
The Pope could say no more. He rose to his feet. His saintly face was full of a dumb yearning love and pride, which his tongue might never tell. He thought of his years of dark searching, ending at length in this meeting and farewell, and an impulse came to him to clasp the young man to his swelling and throbbing breast. But after a moment, with something of his old courageous calm of voice, he said:
"I am not surprised at your decision, my son. It is worthy of your blood and name. And now that we are parting for the last time, I could wish to tell you something."
David Rossi did not speak.
"I knew your mother, my son."
"My mother?"
The Pope bowed and smiled.
"She was a great soul, too, and she suffered terribly. Such are the ways of God."
Still Rossi did not speak. He was looking steadfastly into the Pope's quivering face and making an effort to control himself.
The Pope's voice shook and his lip trembled.
"Naturally, you think ill of your father, knowing how much your mother suffered. Isn't that so?"
Rossi put one hand to his forehead as if to steady his reeling brain, and said, "Who am I to think ill of any one?"
The Pope smiled again, a timid smile.
"David...."
Rossi caught his breath.
"If, in the providence of God, you were to meet your father somewhere, and he held out his hand to you, would you ... wherever you met and whatever he might be ... would youshake hands with him?"
"Yes," said Rossi; "if I were a King on his throne, and he were the lowest convict at the galleys."
The Pope fetched a long breath, took a step forward, and silently held out his hand. At the next moment the young man and the old Pope were hand to hand and eye to eye.
They tried to speak and could not.
"Farewell!" said the Pope in a choking voice, and turning away he tottered out of the room.
The doctor of the Engineers, not entirely satisfied with his diagnosis of Roma's illness, prescribed a remedy of unfailing virtue—hope. It was a happy treatment. The past of her life seemed to have disappeared from her consciousness and she lived entirely in the future. It was always shining in her eyes like a beautiful sunrise.
The sunrise Roma saw was beyond the veil of this life, but the good souls about her knew nothing of that. They brought every piece of worldly intelligence that was likely to be good news to her. By this time they imagined they knew where her heart lay, and such happiness was in her whiteface when as soldiers of the King they whispered treason that they thought themselves rewarded.
They told her of an attempted attack on the Vatican, with all its results and consequences—army disorganised, the Borgo Barracks shut up, soldiers wearing cockades and marching arm in arm, the Government helpless and the Quirinal in despair.
"I'm sorry for the young King," she said, "but still...."
It was the higher power working with blind instruments. Rossi would come back. His hopes, so nearly laid waste, would at length be realised. And if, as she had told Elena, he had to return over her own dead body, so to speak, there would be justice even in that. It would be pitiful, but it would be glorious also. There were mysteries in life and death, and this was one of them.
She was as gentle and humble as ever, but every hour she grew more restless. This conveyed to her guards the idea that she was expecting something. Notwithstanding her plea of guilty, they thought perhaps she was looking for her liberty out of the prevailing turmoil.
"I will be very good and do everything you wish, doctor. But don't forget to ask the Prefect to let me stay in Rome over to-morrow. And, Sister, do please remember to waken me early in the morning, because I'm certain that something is going to happen. I've dreamt of it three times, you know."
"A pity!" thought the doctor. "Governments may fall and even dynasties may disappear, but judicial authorities remain the same as ever, and the judgment of the court must be carried out."
Nevertheless he would speak to the Prefect. He would say that in the prisoner's present condition the journey to Viterbo might have serious consequences. As he was setting out on this errand early the following morning, he met Elena in the anteroom, and heard that Roma was paying the most minute attention to the making of her toilet.
"Strange! You would think she was expecting some one," said Elena.
"She is, too," said the doctor. "And he is a visitor who will not keep her long."
The soldier who brought Roma her breakfast that morning brought something else that she found infinitely more appetising. Rossi had returned to Rome! One of the men below had seen him in the street last night. He was goingin the direction of thePiazzaNavona, and nobody was attempting to arrest him.
Roma's eyes flashed like stars, and she sent down a message to the Major, asking to be allowed to see the soldier who had seen Rossi.
He was a big ungainly fellow, but in Roma's eyes who shall say how beautiful? She asked him a hundred questions. His dense head was utterly bewildered.
The doctor came back with a smiling face. The Prefect had agreed to postpone indefinitely the transfer of their prisoner to the penitentiary. The good man thought she would be very grateful.
"Ah, indefinitely? I only wished to remain over to-day! After that I shall be quite ready."
But the doctor brought another piece of news which threw her into the wildest excitement. Both Senate and Chamber of Deputies had been convoked late last night for an early hour this morning. Rumour said they were to receive an urgent message from the King. There was the greatest commotion in the neighbourhood of the Houses of Parliament, and the public tribunes were densely crowded. The doctor himself had obtained a card for the Chamber, but he was unable to get beyond the corridors. Nevertheless, the doors being open owing to the heat and crush, he had heard something. Vaguely, for five minutes, he had heard one of their great speakers.
"Was it ... was it, perhaps...."
"It was."
Again the big eyes flashed like stars.
"You heard him speak?"
"I heard his voice at all events."
"It's a wonderful voice, isn't it? And you really heard him? Can it be possible?"
Elena, the sad figure in the background of these bright pathetic scenes, thought Roma was hoping for a reconciliation with Rossi. She hinted as much, and then the fierce joy in the white face faded away.
"Ah, no! I'm not thinking of that, Elena."
Her love was too large for personal thoughts. It had risen higher than any selfish expectations.
They helped her on to the loggia. The day was warm, and the fresh air would do her good. She looked out over the city with a loving gaze, first towards the Piazza Navona,then towards the tower of Monte Citorio, and last of all towards Trinità de' Monti and the House of the Four Winds. But she was seeing things as they would be when she was gone, not to Viterbo, but on a longer journey.
"Elena?"
"Well?"
"Do you think he will ever learn the truth?"
"About the denunciation?"
"Yes."
"I should think he is certain to do so."
"Why I did it, and what tempted me, and ... and everything?"
"Yes, indeed, everything."
"Do you think he will think kindly of me then, and forgive me and be merciful?"
"I am sure he will."
A mysterious glow came into the pallid face.
"Even if he never learns the truth here, he will learn it hereafter, won't he? Don't you believe in that, Elena—that the dead know all?"
"If I didn't, how could I bear to think of Bruno?"
"True. How selfish I am! I hadn't thought of that. We are in the same case in some things, Elena."
The future was shining in the brilliant eyes with the radiance of an unseen sunrise.
"Dear Elena?"
"Ye-s."
"Do you think it will seem long to wait until he comes?"
"Don't talk like that, Donna Roma."
"Why not? It's only a little sooner or later, you know. Will it?"
Elena had turned aside, and Roma answered herself.
"Idon't. I think it will pass like a dream—like going to bed at night and awaking in the morning. And then both together—there."
She took a long deep breath of unutterable joy.
"Oh," she said, "that I may sleep until he comes—knowing all, forgiving everything, loving me the same as before, and every cruel thought dead and gone and forgotten."
She asked for pen and paper and wrote a letter to Rossi:
"Dearest,—I hear the good news, just as I am on the point of leaving Rome, that you have returned to it, and Iwrite to ask you not to try to alter what has happened. Believe me, it is better so. The world wants you, dear, and it doesn't want me any longer. Therefore return to life, be brave and strong and great, and think of me no more until we meet again.
"You will know by what I have done that what you thought was quite unfounded. Whatever people say of me, you must always believe that I loved you from the first, and that I have never loved anybody but you.
"You were angry with me when we parted, but more than ever I love you now. Don't think our love has been wasted. ''Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.' How beautiful!
Roma."
Having written her letter, and put her lips to the enclosure, she addressed the envelope in a bold hand and with a brave flourish: "All' Illustrissimo Signor Davide Rossi, Camera dei Deputati."
"You'll post this immediately I am gone, Sister," she said.
Elena pretended to put the letter away for that purpose, but she really smuggled it down to the Major, who despatched it forthwith to the Chamber of Deputies.
"And now I'll go to sleep," said Roma.
She slept until mid-day with the sun's reflection from the white plaster of the groined ceiling of the loggia on her still whiter face. Then the twelve o'clock gun shook the walls of the Castle, and she awoke while the church bells were ringing.
"I thought it was my dream coming true, Sister," she said.
The doctor came up at that moment in a high state of excitement.
"Great news, Donna Roma. The King...."
"I know!"
"Failing to form a Government to follow that of the Baron, appealed to Parliament to nominate a successor...."
"So Parliament...."
"Parliament has nominated the Honourable Rossi, the King has called for him, the warrant for his arrest has been cancelled, and all persons imprisoned for the recent insurrection have been set at liberty."
Roma's trembling and exultant eyelids told a touching story.
"Is there anything to see?"
"Only the flag on the Capitol."
"Let me look at it."
He helped her to rise. "Look! There it is on the clock tower."
"I see it.... That will do. You can put me down now, doctor."
An ineffable joy shone in her face.
"Itwasmy dream after all, Elena."
After a moment she said, "Doctor, tell the Prefect I am quite ready to go to Viterbo. In fact I wish to go. I should like to go immediately."
"I'll tell him," said the doctor, and he went out to hide his emotion.
The Major came to the open arch of the loggia. He stood there for a moment, and there was somebody behind him. Then the Major disappeared, but the other remained. It was David Rossi. He was standing like a man transfixed, looking in speechless dismay at Roma's pallid face with the light of heaven on it.
Roma did not see Rossi, and Elena, who did, was too frightened to speak. Lying back in her bed-chair with a great happiness in her eyes, she said:
"Sister, if he should come here when I am gone ... no, I don't mean that ... but if you should see him and he should ask about me, you will say that I went away quite cheerfully. Tell him I was always thinking about him. No, don't say that either. But he must never think I regretted what I did, or that I died broken-hearted. Say farewell for me, Elena.Addio Carissima!That's his word, you know.Addio Carissimo!"
Rossi, blinded with his tears, took a step into the loggia, and in a low voice, very soft and tremulous, as if trying not to startle her, he cried:
"Roma!"
She raised herself, turned, saw him, and rose to her feet. Without a word he opened his arms to her, and with a little frightened cry she fell into them and was folded to his breast.
WITH A FRIGHTENED CRY, SHE WAS FOLDED TO HIS BREAST.WITH A FRIGHTENED CRY, SHE WAS FOLDED TO HIS BREAST.
It was ten days later. Rossi had surrendered to Parliament, but Parliament had declined to order his arrest. Then he had called for the liberation of Roma, but Roma had neither been liberated nor removed. "It will not be necessary," was the report of the doctor at the Castle to the officers of the Prefetura. The great liberator and remover was on his way.
At Rossi's request Dr. Fedi had been called in, and he had diagnosed the case exactly. Roma was suffering from an internal disease, which was probably hereditary, but certainly incurable. Strain and anxiety had developed it earlier in life than usual, but in any case it must have come.
At first Rossi rebelled with all his soul and strength. To go through this long and fierce fight with life, and to come out victorious, and then, when all seemed to promise peace and a kind of tempered happiness, to be met by Death—the unconquerable, the inevitable—it was terrible, it was awful!
He called in specialists; talked of a change of air; even brought himself, when he was far enough away from Roma, to the length of suggesting an operation. The doctors shook their heads. At last he bowed his own head. His bride-wife must leave him. He must live on without her.
Meantime Roma was cheerful, and at moments even gay. Her gaiety was heart-breaking. Blinding bouts of headache were her besetting trouble, but only by the moist red eyes did any one know anything about that. When people asked her how she felt, she told them whatever she thought they wished to hear. It brought a look of relief to their faces, and that made her very happy.
With Rossi, during these ten days, she had carried on the fiction that she was getting better. This was to break the news to him, and he on his part, to break the news to her, had pretended to believe the story. They made Elena help the little artifice, and even engaged the doctors in their mutual deception.
"And how is my darling to-day?"
"Splendid! There's really nothing to do with me. It's true I have suffered. That's why I look so pale. But I'm better now. Elena will tell you how well I slept last night. Didn't I sleep well, Elena? Elena.... Poor Elena is going a little deaf and doesn't always speak when she is spoken to.But I'm all right, David. In fact, I'll feel no pain at all before long, and then I shall be well."
"Yes, dear, you'll feel no pain at all before long, and then you'll be well."
It was pitiful. All their words seemed to be laden with double meanings. They could find none that were not.
But the time had come when Roma resolved she must speak plainly. Rossi had lifted her into the loggia. He did so every day, carrying her, not on his arm as a woman carries a child, but against his breast, as a man carries his wife when he loves her. She always put her arms around his neck, pretending it was necessary for her safety, and when he had laid her gently in the bed-chair she pulled down his head and kissed him. The two little journeys were the delight of the day to Roma, but to Rossi they were a deepening trouble.
It was the sweetest day of the sweet Roman spring, and Roma wore a light tea-gown with a coil of white silk about her head such as is seen in the portraits of Beatrice Cenci. The golden complexion was quite gone, there was a hard line along the cheek, a deep shadow under the chin, the nostrils were pinched and the mouth was drawn. But the large eyes, though heavy with pain, were full of joy. They did not weep any more, for all their tears were shed, and the light of another world was reflected in their depths.
Rossi sat by her side, and she took one of his hands and held it on her lap between both her own. Sometimes she looked at him and then she smiled. She, who had lost him for a little while, had got him back at last. It was only just in time. A little break, and they would continue this—there. Ah, she was very happy!
Rossi's free hand was supporting his head, and he was trying to look another way. Do what he would to conquer it, the spirit of rebellion was rising in his heart again. "O God, is this just? Is this right?"
They were alone on the loggia. Above was the cloudless blue sky, below was the city, hardly seen or heard.
"David," she began, in a faint voice.
"Dearest?"
"I have been so happy in having you with me again that there is something I have forgotten to tell you."
"What is it, dear?"
"Promise me you will not be shocked or startled."
"What is it, dearest?" he repeated, although he knew too well.
"It is nothing.... Yes, hold my hands tight. So!... Really it's nothing. And yet it is everything. It is ... it is death."
"Roma!"
Her eyelids trembled, but she tried to laugh.
"Yes, dear. True! Not immediately. Oh, no! not immediately. But signed and sealed, you know, and not to be put aside that anybody may be happy much longer."
She was laughing almost gaily. But all the same she was watching him closely, and now that her word was spoken she suddenly became conscious of a secret desire which she had not suspected. She wanted him to contradict her, to tell her she was quite wrong, to convince and defeat her.
"Poor little me! Pity, isn't it? It would have been so sweet to go on a little longer—especially after this reconciliation. And when one has kept one's heart under bolt and bar so long...."
Her sad gaiety was breaking down. "But it's better so, isn't it?"
He did not reply.
"Ah, yes, it's better so when you come to think of it."
"It's terrible!" said Rossi.
"Don't say that. It's a thing of every day. Here, there, everywhere. God wouldn't allow it to go on if it were terrible."
"It's bitterly cruel for all that."
"Not so cruel as life. Not nearly. For instance, if I lived you would have to put me away, and that would be harder to bear than death—far harder."
"My darling! What are you saying?"
"It's true, dear. You know it's true. God can forgive a woman even if she's a sinner, but the world can't if she's only a victim of sin. It's part of the cruelty of things, but there's no use repining."
"Roma," said Rossi, "I take God to witness that if that were all that stood between us nothing and nobody should separate you and me. I should tell the world that you had every virtue and every heroism, and without you I could do nothing."
Her eyes filled with a fresh joy.
"You set me too high still, dear. Yet you know that Iwas far too small and weak for your great work. That was why I failed you at the end. It wasn't my fault that I betrayed you..."
"Don't speak of my betrayal. I thank God for it, and see now that it was the best that could have happened."
She closed her eyes. "Is it your own voice, dearest? Really yours? Hush! I shall wake and the dream will pass."
A little jet from his heart of flame burst out in spite of his warning brain, and he was carried away for the moment.
"My poor darling, you must get well for my sake. You must think of nothing but getting well. Then we'll go away somewhere—to Switzerland, as you said in your letter. Or perhaps to England, where you were born, and where your father lived his years of exile. Dear old England! Motherland of liberty! I'll show you all the places."
She was dizzy with the beautiful vision.
"Oh, if I could only go on like this for ever! But I mustn't listen to you, dearest. It's no use, you know. Now, is it?"
The spirit which had exalted him for a moment took flight, and his heart rose into his throat.
"Now, is it?" she repeated.
He did not answer, and she dropped back with a sigh. Ah, it was cruel fencing. Every word was a sword, and it was cutting a hundred ways.
At that moment a band of music passed down the street. Roma, who loved bands of music, asked Rossi to lift her up that she might look at it. A little drummer boy was marching at the head of a procession, gaily rolling his rataplan.
"He reminds me of little Joseph," she said, and she laughed heartily. Strange mystery of life that robs death of all its terrors!
He put his arm about her to support her as they stood by the parapet, and this brought a new tremor of affection, as well as a little of the old physical thrill and a world of fond and tender memories. She looked into his eyes, he looked into hers; they both looked across to Trinità de' Monti, and in the eye-asking between them she said plainly, "Do you remember—over there?"
Roma was assisted back to the bed-chair, and then, conversation being impossible, Rossi began to read. Every day he had read something. Roma had made the selections.They were always about the great lovers—Francesca and Paolo, Dante and Beatrice, even Alfred de Musset and poor John Keats, with the skull cap which burnt his brain. To-day it was Roma's favourite poem:
"Teach me, only teach, Love!As I oughtI will speak thy speech, Love,Think thy thought...."
His right hand held the book. His left was between Roma's hands, lying blue-veined in her lap. She was looking out on the sunlit city as if taking a last farewell of it. He stopped to stroke her glossy black hair and she reached up to his lips and kissed them. Then she closed her eyes to listen. His voice rose and swelled with the ocean of his love, and he felt as if he were pouring his life into her frail body.
"Meet, if thou require it,Both demands,Laying flesh and spiritIn thy hands."
Her blanched lips moved. She took a deep breath and made a faint cry. He rose softly, and bent over her with a trembling heart. Her breathing seemed to have ceased. Had sleep overtaken her? Or had the tender flame expired?
"Roma!"
She opened her eyes and smiled.
"Not yet, dear—soon," she said.
THE END
The illustrations in this book are from scenes of the play as produced by Messrs. LIEBLER & COMPANY, and photographed by Mr. BYRON.
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An island in the South Sea is the setting for this entertaining tale, and an all-conquering hero and a beautiful princess figure in a most complicated plot. One of Mr. McCutcheon's best books.
TOLD BY UNCLE REMUS. By Joel Chandler Harris. Illustrated by A. B. Frost, J. M. Conde and Frank Verbeck.
Again Uncle Remus enters the fields of childhood, and leads another little boy to that non-locatable land called "Brer Rabbit's Laughing Place," and again the quaint animals spring into active life and play their parts, for the edification of a small but appreciative audience.
THE CLIMBER. By E. F. Benson. With frontispiece.
An unsparing analysis of an ambitious woman's soul—a woman who believed that in social supremacy she would find happiness, and who finds instead the utter despair of one who has chosen the things that pass away.
LYNCH'S DAUGHTER. By Leonard Merrick. Illustrated by Geo. Brehm.
A story of to-day, telling how a rich girl acquires ideals of beautiful and simple living, and of men and love, quite apart from the teachings of her father, "Old Man Lynch" of Wall St. True to life, clever in treatment.
Grosset&Dunlap, 526West26thst.,New York
A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP'SGreat Books at Little Prices
QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. A Picture of New England Home Life. With illustrations by C. W. Reed, and Scenes Reproduced from the Play.
One of the best New England stories ever written. It is full of homely human interest * * * there is a wealth of New England village character, scenes and incidents * * * forcibly, vividly and truthfully drawn. Few books have enjoyed a greater sale and popularity. Dramatized, it made the greatest rural play of recent times.
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF QUINCY ADAMS SAWYER. By Charles Felton Pidgin.
Illustrated by Henry Roth.
All who love honest sentiment, quaint and sunny humor, and homespun philosophy will find these "Further Adventures" a book after their own heart.
HALF A CHANCE. By Frederic S. Isham. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
The thrill of excitement will keep the reader in a state of suspense, and he will become personally concerned from the start, as to the central character, a very real man who suffers, dares—and achieves!
VIRGINIA OF THE AIR LANES. By Herbert Quick. Illustrated by William R. Leigh.
The author has seized the romantic moment for the airship novel, and created the pretty story of "a lover and his lass" contending with an elderly relative for the monopoly of the skies. An exciting tale of adventure in midair.
THE GAME AND THE CANDLE. By Eleanor M. Ingram. Illustrated by P. D. Johnson.
The hero is a young American, who, to save his family from poverty, deliberately commits a felony. Then follow his capture and imprisonment, and his rescue by a Russian Grand Duke. A stirring story, rich in sentiment.
Grosset&Dunlap, 526West26thSt., New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP'SDRAMATIZED NOVELS
A Few that are Making Theatrical History
MARY JANE'S PA. By Norman Way. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
Delightful, irresponsible "Mary Jane's Pa" awakes one morning to find himself famous, and, genius being ill adapted to domestic joys, he wanders from home to work out his own unique destiny. One of the most humorous bits of recent fiction.
CHERUB DEVINE. By Sewell Ford.
"Cherub," a good hearted but not over refined young man, is brought in touch with the aristocracy. Of sprightly wit, he is sometimes a merciless analyst, but he proves in the end that manhood counts for more than ancient lineage by winning the love of the fairest girl in the flock.
A WOMAN'S WAY. By Charles Somerville. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A story in which a woman's wit and self-sacrificing love save her husband from the toils of an adventuress, and change an apparently tragic situation into one of delicious comedy.
THE CLIMAX. By George C. Jenks.
With ambition luring her on, a young choir soprano leaves the little village where she was born and the limited audience of St. Jude's to train for the opera in New York. She leaves love behind her and meets love more ardent but not more sincere in her new environment. How she works, how she studies, how she suffers, are vividly portrayed.
A FOOL THERE WAS. By Porter Emerson Browne. Illustrated by Edmund Magrath and W. W. Fawcett.
A relentless portrayal of the career of a man who comes under the influence of a beautiful but evil woman; how she lures him on and on, how he struggles, falls and rises, only to fall again into her net, make a story of unflinching realism.
THE SQUAW MAN. By Julie Opp Faversham and Edwin Milton Royle. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A glowing story, rapid in action, bright in dialogue with a fine courageous hero and a beautiful English heroine.
THE GIRL IN WAITING. By Archibald Eyre. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A droll little comedy of misunderstandings, told with a light touch, a venturesome spirit and an eye for human oddities.
THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL. By Baroness Orczy. Illustrated with scenes from the play.
A realistic story of the days of the French Revolution, abounding in dramatic incident, with a young English soldier of fortune, daring, mysterious as the hero.
Grosset&Dunlap, 526West26thSt., New York
A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP'SGreat Books at Little Prices
BRUVVER JIM'S BABY. By Philip Verrill Mighels.
An uproariously funny story of a tiny mining settlement in the West, which is shaken to the very roots by the sudden possession of a baby, found on the plains by one of its residents. The town is as disreputable a spot as the gold fever was ever responsible for, and the coming of that baby causes the upheaval of every rooted tradition of the place. Its christening, the problems of its toys and its illness supersede in the minds of the miners all thought of earthy treasure.
THE FURNACE OF GOLD. By Philip Verrill Mighels, author of "Bruvver Jim's Baby." Illustrations by J. N. Marchand.
An accurate and informing portrayal of scenes, types, and conditions of the mining districts in modern Nevada.
The book is an out-door story, clean, exciting, exemplifying nobility and courage of character, and bravery, and heroism in the sort of men and women we all admire and wish to know.
THE MESSAGE. By Louis Tracy. Illustrations by Joseph C. Chase.
A breezy tale of how a bit of old parchment, concealed in a figurehead from a sunken vessel, comes into the possession of a pretty girl and an army man during regatta week in the Isle of Wight. This is the message and it enfolds a mystery, the development of which the reader will follow with breathless interest.
THE SCARLET EMPIRE. By David M. Parry. Illustrations by Hermann C. Wall.
A young socialist, weary of life, plunges into the sea and awakes in the lost island of Atlantis, known as the Scarlet Empire, where a social democracy is in full operation, granting every man a living but limiting food, conversation, education and marriage.
The hero passes through an enthralling love affair and other adventures but finally returns to his own New York world.
THE THIRD DEGREE. By Charles Klein and Arthur Hornblow. Illustrations by Clarence Rowe.
A novel which exposes the abuses in this country of the police system.
The son of an aristocratic New York family marries a woman socially beneath him, but of strong, womanly qualities that, later on, save the man from the tragic consequences of a dissipated life.
The wife believes in his innocence and her wit and good sense help her to win against the tremendous odds imposed by law.
THE THIRTEENTH DISTRICT. By Brand Whitlock.
A realistic western story of love and politics and a searching study of their influence on character. The author shows with extraordinary vitality of treatment the tricks, the heat, the passion, the tumult of the political arena, the triumph and strength of love.
Grosset&Dunlap, 526West26thSt., New York
A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP'SGreat Books at Little Prices
THE MUSIC MASTER. By Charles Klein. Illustrated by John Rae.
This marvelously vivid narrative turns upon the search of a German musician in New York for his little daughter. Mr. Klein has well portrayed his pathetic struggle with poverty, his varied experiences in endeavoring to meet the demands of a public not trained to an appreciation of the classic, and his final great hour when, in the rapidly shifting events of a big city, his little daughter, now a beautiful young woman, is brought to his very door. A superb bit of fiction, palpitating with the life of the great metropolis. The play in which David Warfield scored his highest success.
DR. LAVENDAR'S PEOPLE. By Margaret Deland.
Illustrated by Lucius Hitchcock.
Mrs. Deland won so many friends through Old Chester Tales that this volume needs no introduction beyond its title. The lovable doctor is more ripened in this later book, and the simple comedies and tragedies of the old village are told with dramatic charm.
OLD CHESTER TALES. By Margaret Deland. Illustrated by Howard Pyle.
Stories portraying with delightful humor and pathos a quaint people in a sleepy old town. Dr. Lavendar, a very human and lovable "preacher," is the connecting link between these dramatic stories from life.
HE FELL IN LOVE WITH HIS WIFE. By E. P. Roe.
With frontispiece.
The hero is a farmer—a man with honest, sincere views of life. Bereft of his wife, his home is cared for by a succession of domestics of varying degrees of inefficiency until, from a most unpromising source, comes a young woman who not only becomes his wife but commands his respect and eventually wins his love. A bright and delicate romance, revealing on both sides a love that surmounts all difficulties and survives the censure of friends as well as the bitterness of enemies.
THE YOKE. By Elizabeth Miller.
Against the historical background of the days when the children of Israel were delivered from the bondage of Egypt, the author has sketched a romance of compelling charm. A biblical novel as great as any since "Ben Hur."
SAUL OF TARSUS. By Elizabeth Miller. Illustrated by André Castaigne.
The scenes of this story are laid in Jerusalem, Alexandria, Rome and Damascus. The Apostle Paul, the Martyr Stephen, Herod Agrippa and the Emperors Tiberius and Caligula are among the mighty figures that move through the pages. Wonderful descriptions, and a love story of the purest and noblest type mark this most remarkable religious romance.
Grosset&Dunlap, 526West26thSt.,New York
A FEW OF GROSSET & DUNLAP'SGreat Books at Little Prices
HAPPY HAWKINS. By Robert Alexander Wason. Illustrated by Howard Giles.
A ranch and cowboy novel. Happy Hawkins tells his own story with such a fine capacity for knowing how to do it and with so much humor that the reader's interest is held in surprise, then admiration and at last in positive affection.
COMRADES. By Thomas Dixon, Jr. Illustrated by C. D. Williams.
The locale of this story is in California, where a few socialists establish a little community.
The author leads the little band along the path of disillusionment, and gives some brilliant flashes of light on one side of an important question.
TONO-BUNGAY. By Herbert George Wells.
The hero of this novel is a young man who, through hard work, earns a scholarship and goes to London.
Written with a frankness verging on Rousseau's, Mr. Wells still uses rare discrimination and the border line of propriety is never crossed. An entertaining book with both a story and a moral, and without a dull page—Mr. Wells's most notable achievement.
A HUSBAND BY PROXY. By Jack Steele.
A young criminologist, but recently arrived in New York city, is drawn into a mystery, partly through financial need and partly through his interest in a beautiful woman, who seems at times the simplest child and again a perfect mistress of intrigue. A baffling detective story.
LIKE ANOTHER HELEN. By George Horton. Illustrated by C. M. Relyea.
Mr. Horton's powerful romance stands in a new field and brings an almost unknown world in reality before the reader—the world of conflict between Greek and Turk on the Island of Crete. The "Helen" of the story is a Greek, beautiful, desolate, defiant—pure as snow.
There is a certain new force about the story, a kind of master-craftsmanship and mental dominance that holds the reader.
THE MASTER OF APPLEBY. By Francis Lynde.
Illustrated by T. de Thulstrup.
A novel tale concerning itself in part with the great struggle in the two Carolinas, but chiefly with the adventures therein of two gentlemen who loved one and the same lady.
A strong, masculine and persuasive story.
A MODERN MADONNA. By Caroline Abbot Stanley.
A story of American life, founded on facts as they existed some years ago in the District of Columbia. The theme is the maternal love and splendid courage of a woman.
Grosset & Dunlap, 526West26thSt., New York
THE NOVELS OFGEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
GRAUSTARK.
A story of love behind a throne, telling how a young American met a lovely girl and followed her to a new and strange country. A thrilling, dashing narrative.
BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK.
Beverly is a bewitching American girl who has gone to that stirring little principality—Graustark—to visit her friend the princess, and there has a romantic affair of her own.
BREWSTER'S MILLIONS.
A young man is required to spendonemillion dollars in one year in order to inheritseven. How he does it forms the basis of a lively story.
CASTLE CRANEYCROW.
The story revolves round the abduction of a young American woman, her imprisonment in an old castle and the adventures created through her rescue.
COWARDICE COURT.
An amusing social feud in the Adirondacks in which an English girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young American, forms the plot.
THE DAUGHTER OF ANDERSON CROW.
The story centers about the adopted daughter of the town marshal in a western village. Her parentage is shrouded in mystery, and the story concerns the secret that deviously works to the surface.
THE MAN FROM BRODNEY'S.
The hero meets a princess in a far-away island among fanatically hostile Musselmen. Romantic love making amid amusing situations and exciting adventures.
NEDRA.
A young couple elope from Chicago to go to London traveling as brother and sister. They are shipwrecked and a strange mix-up occurs on account of it.
THE SHERRODS.
The scene is the Middle West and centers around a man who leads a double life. A most enthralling novel.
TRUXTON KING.
A handsome good natured young fellow ranges on the earth looking for romantic adventures and is finally enmeshed in most complicated intrigues in Graustark.
Grosset&Dunlap, 526West26thSt.,New York
LOUIS TRACY'SCAPTIVATING AND EXHILARATING ROMANCES
THE STOWAWAY GIRL. Illustrated by Nesbitt Benson.
The story of a shipwreck, a lovely girl who shipped stowaway fashion, a rascally captain, a fascinating young officer and thrilling adventure enroute to South America.
THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS.
A story of love and the salt sea—of a helpless ship whirled into the hands of cannibal Fuegians—of desperate fighting and a tender romance. A story of extraordinary freshness.
THE MESSAGE. Illustrated by Joseph Cummings Chase.
A bit of parchment many, many years old, telling of a priceless ruby secreted in ruins far in the interior of Africa is the "message" found in the figurehead of an old vessel. A mystery develops which the reader will follow with breathless interest.
THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.
The pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cutoff inhabitants and introduces the charming comedy of a man eloping with his own wife.
THE RED YEAR: A Story of the Indian Mutiny.
The never-to-be-forgotten events of 1857 form the background of this story. The hero who begins as lieutenant and ends as Major Malcolm, has as stirring a military career as the most jaded novel reader could wish. A powerful book.
THE WHEEL O'FORTUNE. With illustrations by James Montgomery Flagg.
The story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing the particulars of the hiding of some of the treasures of the Queen of Sheba. The glamour of mystery added to the romance of the lovers, gives the novel an interest that makes it impossible to leave until the end is reached.
THE WINGS OF THE MORNING.
A sort of Robinson Crusoeredivivus, with modern settings and a very pretty love story added. The hero and heroine are the only survivors of a wreck, and have adventures on their desert island such as never could have happened except in a story.
Grosset&Dunlap, 526West26thSt.,New York