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end of the text.
A BLACK ADONIS.
by
ALBERT ROSS.
* * * * *
THE
ALBATROSS NOVELS
By ALBERT ROSS
23 Volumes
May be had wherever books are sold at the price you paid for this volume
Black Adonis, A
Garston Bigamy, The
Her Husband's Friend
His Foster Sister
His Private Character
In Stella's Shadow
Love at Seventy
Love Gone Astray
Moulding a Maiden
Naked Truth, The
New Sensation, A
Original Sinner, An
Out of Wedlock
Speaking of Ellen
Stranger Than Fiction
Sugar Princess, A
That Gay Deceiver
Their Marriage Bond
Thou Shalt Not
Thy Neighbor's Wife
Why I'm Single
Young Fawcett's Mabel
Young Miss Giddy
G. W. DILLINGHAM CO.
Publishers :: :: New York
* * * * *
A BLACK ADONIS.
by
ALBERT ROSS.
Author of
"Out of Wedlock," "Speaking of Ellen," "Thou Shalt Not,"
"Why I'm Single," "Love at Seventy," Etc., Etc.
"You see!" he answered, bitterly. "Because I am black I
cannot touch the hand of a woman that is white. And yet you
say the Almighty made of one blood all nations of the
earth!"--Page 212.
New York:
Copyright, 1896, by G. W. Dillingham.
G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers.
[All rights reserved.]
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. A Rejected Manuscript 9
II. "Was my story too bold?" 23
III. "Her feet were pink" 35
IV. With Titian Tresses 49
V. Studying Miss Millicent 65
VI. "How the women stare!" 79
VII. A Dinner at Midlands 93
VIII. Holding Her Hand 99
IX. "Daisy, my darling!" 110
X. "Oh, so many, many maids!" 121
XI. Archie Pays Attention 136
XII. Dining at Isaac's 143
XIII. A Question of Color 155
XIV. "Let us have a betrayal" 166
XV. The Green-Eyed Monster 177
XVI. "I've had such luck!" 190
XVII. A Burglar in the House 198
XVIII. Black and White 204
XIX. "Play out your farce" 215
XX. Like a Stuck Pig 226
XXI. "We want Millie to understand" 238
XXII. Where Was Daisy? 246
XXIII. An Awful Night 254
XXIV. "This ends it, then?" 263
XXV. An Undiscoverable Secret 273
XXVI. "I played, and I lost" 282
XXVII. Absolutely Blameless 292
XXVIII. Trapping a Wolf 301
XXIX. "The Greatest Novel" 309
TO MY READERS.
I do not know how better to use the space that the printer always leaves
me in this part of the book than to redeem the promise I made at the end
of my last novel, and tell you in a few words what became of Blanche
Brixton Fantelli and her husband.
But, do you really need to be told?
Could they have done anything else than live in connubial felicity,
after the man had proved himself so noble and the woman had learned to
appreciate him at his true worth?
Well, whether they could or not, they didn't. Blanche is the happiest of
wedded wives. She still holds to her theory that marriage is based on
wrong principles, and that the contract as ordinarily made is
frightfully immoral; but she says if all men were like "her Jules" there
would be no trouble.
In this she proves herself essentially feminine. She is learning, albeit
a little late, that man was not made to live alone, and that the love a
mother feels for her child is not the only one that brings joy to a
woman's breast.
Fantelli does not claim that Blanche is his property. He is her lover
still, even though he has gained the law's permission to be her master.
He recognizes that she has rights in herself that are inviolable. This
is why they live together so contentedly. She would not be his mate on
any other terms.
If it is not the ideal existence, it is very near it. As near as a man
and woman who care for the world's opinion can live it in these days.
And now, with heartfelt thanks for the continued favor of the reading
public, which I am conscious is far beyond my desert, I bid a temporary
farewell to American shores. By the time this book is on the shelves of
the dealers I shall be on European soil, there to remain, I trust, for
the better part of a year. Wherever I am, my thoughts will always turn
to you who have made these journeys possible, and there as here my pen
will continue devoted to your service.
ALBERT ROSS.
Cambridge, Mass.,
_June 1, 1895._
A BLACK ADONIS.
CHAPTER I.
A REJECTED MANUSCRIPT.
"A letter for Mr. Roseleaf," he heard his landlady say to the
chambermaid. And he was quite prepared to hear the girl reply, in a tone
of surprise:
"For Mr. Roseleaf! This is the first letter he has had since he came."
The young man referred to stood just within his chamber door, waiting
with some anxiety for the letter to be brought to him. He was about
twenty years of age, of medium height, with rather dark complexion,
curling hair and expressive eyes, and with a natural delicacy of manner
that made him seem almost feminine at first view.
He had the greatest possible interest in the letter that the postman had
just brought, but he was far too polite to disturb the landlady or her
servant, who were not yet through with it.
"You can see that it is from a publishing house," commented Mrs.
Ranning, inspecting the envelope with care. "It is from Cutt & Slashem,
who bring out more novels than any other firm in the city. I told you he
was some kind of a writer. Perhaps they are going to publish a book for
him! If they do he will leave us for finer quarters. Novelists make a
mint of money, I have heard. We must do our best to keep him as long as
we can. Be very polite to him, Nellie. He appears to be an excellent
young man."
Shirley Roseleaf's anxiety to get possession of his letter was not
lessened by this conversation. It seemed as if his entire future hung on
the contents of that envelope tarrying so long in Nellie's hands. The
great publishers, Cutt & Slashem, had had a manuscript of his in their
hands for nearly a fortnight. When they had definitely accepted it, his
path would be perfectly clear. If they rejected it--but he had not got
so far as that.
The manuscript was a romance--a romance of love! Its author had spent a
great deal of time upon it. He had rewritten it with care, and finally
made a neat copy, of which he was very proud. Then he had thought a long
time over the question of a publishing firm. Cutt & Slashem stood at the
top of their profession, and they finally received the preference. With
the MSS. Roseleaf sent a pretty note, in which he included a delicate
compliment on their success. The MSS. and the note were arranged
tastefully in a neat white package and tied with pink twine.
After all of those precautions it is no wonder that the novelist felt
surprise when days passed and no reply was sent to him. But never at any
time was he discouraged. Had they intended to reject the novel, he
reasoned, they could as easily have done so in three days as ten.
He pictured the members of the firm hugging themselves over their good
fortune, passing the manuscript from one to the other, all eager for a
taste of such a marvelous work. He did not think it egotism to believe
they did not get stories like that every day.
His thoughts flew rapidly as Nellie slowly climbed the stairs. Now he
would be famous, he would be courted, he would be envied! He would also
be very, very rich, though that was not of so much account.
As Nellie handed him the letter he responded to her pleasant smile with
one of his own, and even pressed a twenty-five cent piece into her hand.
Then he closed his door behind him, bolting it in his eagerness to be
alone. The morning was foggy, and he sank into a chair by the window,
the only part of the room where he could see to read distinctly.
There was an attraction about the envelope. It was light buff in color,
bearing the address of Cutt & Slashem in large letter on one side of the
front face, besides the names of several of the most famous authors
whose publishers the firm had the happiness to be.
"Shirley Roseleaf!" It would not look so badly in print.
So lost was he in the pleasant pictures which these thoughts conjured
up that it was some minutes before he tore open the envelope. Then his
astounded eyes rested upon these lines:
"Messrs. Cutt & Slashem regret to be obliged to decline
with thanks the MSS. of M. Shirley Roseleaf, and request to
be informed what disposition he desires made of the same."
Roseleaf read this dizzily. For some moments he could not understand
what that sentence meant. "Obliged to decline" was plain enough; but his
confused mind found some grains of comfort in the request of the firm to
know what he wished done with his manuscript. They must, he reasoned,
consider it of value, or they would not respond in that courteous
manner. Still, he could not comprehend how they had had the asininity to
"decline" it at all.
Were they unwilling to add another star to their galaxy?
Could they actually have read the tale?
A firm of their reputation, too!
When Roseleaf emerged from his temporary stupor it was into a state of
great indignation. Why, the men were fools! He wished heartily he had
never gone to them. They would yet see the day when, with tears in their
eyes, they would regret their lack of judgment. His first act should be
to go to their office and express his opinion of their stupidity, and
then he would take his MSS. to some rival house. And never, never in the
world--after he had become famous, and when every publisher on both
sides of the Atlantic were besieging him--never, he said, should these
ignorant fellows get a scrap of his writing, not even if they offered
its weight in gold!
He was too excited for delay, and donning his hat, he took his way with
all speed to Cutt & Slashem's office. At that instant he had more faith
in his novel than ever. As he walked rapidly along he compared it with
some of the stories issued by the firm that had rejected it, to the
great disadvantage of the latter.
"I wish to see Mr. Cutt or Mr. Slashem," he said, imperiously, as he
entered the counting room.
"Both are in," said the office boy, imperturbably. "Which will you
have?"
"I will see them together."
Had they been tigers, fresh from an Indian jungle, it would have made no
difference to him.
The boy asked for his card, vanished with it, returned and bade him
follow. Up a flight of stairs they went, then to the left, then to the
right, then across a little hall. A door with the name of the house and
the additional word "Private" loomed before them.
"Come in!" was heard in response to the knock of the office boy.
Roseleaf entered, something slower than a cannon ball, and yet
considerably faster than a snail. The two principal members of the firm
were sitting together, with lighted cigars in their mouths, examining a
lot of paper samples that lay upon a table. They did no more at first
than glance up and nod, not having finished the business upon which
they were engaged.
"Is it any better than the last?" asked Mr. Slashem, referring to the
sample his partner was examining.
"It's just as good, at least," was the answer. "And an eighth of a cent
a pound less. I think we had better order five hundred reams."
"Five hundred reams," repeated the other, slowly, making a memorandum in
a little book that he carried. "And the other lot we'll wait about, eh?
Paper is not very steady. It's gone off a sixteenth since Thursday."
This conversation only served to infuriate still more the visitor who
stood waiting to pour out his wrath. Were these men wasting time over
fractions of a cent in the price of stock, just after they had rejected
one of the greatest romances of modern times!
With the precision of a duplex machine both partners finally looked up
from the table at the young man.
"Mr. Shirley Roseleaf?" said Mr. Slashem, interrogatively, glancing at
the card that the office boy had brought.
"Yes, sir!" was the sharp and disdainful reply.
"We need nothing in your line," interrupted Mr. Cutt. "I suppose Mr.
Trimm has our other order well under way?"
The look of indignant protest that appeared in Roseleaf's face caused
Mr. Slashem to speak.
"This is not Mr. Roseberg," he explained. "My partner took you for an
agent of our bookbinder," he added.
The novelist thought his skin would burst.
"I am quite complimented," he said, in an icy tone. "Let me introduce
myself. I am the author of 'Evelyn's Faith.'"
The partners consulted each other.
"The similarity of names confused me," said Mr. Cutt. "Is your book one
that we have published?"
Saints and angels!
"It is one that was sent to you _for_ publication," replied Roseleaf,
with much heat, "and has been returned this morning--_rejected_!"
"Ah!" said Mr. Cutt.
"We have nothing to do with that department," said Mr. Slashem, coming
to the rescue. "You should see Mr. Gouger, on the second floor above;
though if he has rejected your story a visit would be quite useless. He
never decides a matter without sufficient reason."
"Oh, dear, no!" added Mr. Cutt, feeling again of the paper samples.
Shirley Roseleaf listened with wild incredulity.
"Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that you, the members of the firm of
Cutt & Slashem, have rejected my story without even reading it?"
The partners glanced at each other again.
"We never read books," said Mr. Cutt.
"Never," said Mr. Slashem, kindly. "We have things much more important
to attend to. We pay Mr. Gouger a large salary. Why, my young friend,
there are probably a dozen manuscripts received at our office every
week. If we were to try to _read_ them, who do you think would attend
to the _essential_ points of our business?"
Roseleaf's contempt for the concern was increasing at lightning speed.
He did not care to mince his words, for it could make no difference now.
"I should imagine that the selection of the books you are to print would
be at least as important as the paper you are to use," he retorted.
Mr. Cutt looked at him in great astonishment.
"You are much mistaken," said he.
"Entirely mistaken," confirmed Mr. Slashem.
The author had no desire to remain longer, as it was evident he was
losing his temper to no purpose. If it was Mr. Gouger who had rejected
his work, it was Mr. Gouger that he must see.
Bowing with ironical grace to the examiners of printing paper, he took
leave of them, and mounted to the sanctum of the man who he had been
told was the arbiter of his fate. A girl with soiled hands pointed out
the room, for there was nothing to indicate it upon the dingy panel of
the door; and presently Roseleaf stood in the presence of the individual
he believed at that moment his worst enemy.
There were two men in the room. One of them indicated with a motion of
his hand that the other was the one wanted, and with a second motion
that the caller might be seated. Mr. Gouger was partly hidden behind a
desk, engaged in turning over a heap of manuscript, and it appeared from
the manner of his companion that he did not wish to be disturbed.
Somewhat cooled down by this state of affairs, the young novelist took
the chair indicated and waited several minutes.
"What d--d nonsense they are sending me these days!" exclaimed Mr.
Gouger at last, thrusting the sheets he had been scanning back into the
wrapper in which they had come, without, however, raising his eyes from
his desk. "Out of a hundred stories I read, not three are fit to build a
fire with! This thing is written by a girl who ought to take a term in a
grammar school. She has no more idea of syntax than a lapdog. Her father
writes that he is willing to pay a reasonable sum to have it brought
out. Why, Cutt & Slashem couldn't afford to put their imprint on that
rot for fifty thousand dollars!"
He had finished saying this before he learned that a third person was in
the room. Upon making this discovery he lowered his voice, as if
regretting having exhibited too great warmth before a stranger. The
novelist rose and handed him a card, and as Mr. Gouger glanced at the
name a gleam of recognition lit up his face.
"I am glad to see you, Mr. Roseleaf," he said. "I had half a notion to
ask you to call, when I felt obliged to send you that note yesterday.
There are several things I would like to say to you. Archie, perhaps you
would let us have the room for a few minutes."
The last remark was addressed familiarly to the man who occupied the
third chair, and who looked so disheartened at the prospect of having to
rise therefrom that Roseleaf hastened to express a hope that he would
not do so on his account.
"Very well," said Mr. Gouger, abruptly. "You heard what I said about
this copy I have just read, though it was not my intention that you
should. I supposed I was talking only to Mr. Weil, who is not in the
profession and does not expect to be. Now, let me say at once, Mr.
Roseleaf, that your contribution is not open to any of the objections I
have cited. You have evidently been well educated. Your English is pure
and forcible. It is a real delight to read your pages. Every line shows
the greatest care in construction. I did with your story what I have not
done with another for a long time--I read it through. Why then did I
reject it?"
The question was too great for the one most interested to answer, but in
the glow of pleasure that the compliment brought he forgot for the
moment his bitter feelings.
"Possibly," he suggested, "Cutt & Slashem have more novels on hand than
they feel like producing at present."
"No," responded Mr. Gouger, disposing of that theory in one breath. "A
house like ours would never reject a really desirable manuscript. If you
will reflect that only one or two of this description are produced each
year you will the more readily understand me. Your story has a cardinal
fault for which no excellence of style or finish can compensate. Shall I
tell you what it is, and before this gentleman?"
He indicated Mr. Weil as he spoke. Roseleaf's heart sank. For the first
time he felt a deadly fear.
"Tell me, by all means," he responded, faintly.
Mr. Gouger's face bore its gentlest expression at that moment. He was
taking valuable time, time that belonged to his employers, to say
something that must temporarily disappoint, though in the end it might
benefit his hearer.
"Let me repeat," he said, "that your work is well written, and that I
have read it with the greatest interest. Its fault--an insuperable
one--is that it lacks fidelity to nature. Mr. Roseleaf, I think I could
gauge your past life with tolerable accuracy merely from what that
manuscript reveals."
The novelist shook his head. There was not a line of autobiography in
those pages, and he told his critic so.
"Oh, I understand," replied Mr. Gouger. "But this I have learned: Your
life has been marvelously colorless. Yet, in spite of that, you have
undertaken to write of things of which you know nothing, and about
which, I may add, you have made very poor guesses."
Mr. Weil, leaning back in his chair, began to show a decided interest.
Mr. Roseleaf, sitting upright, in an attitude of strained attention,
inquired what Mr. Gouger meant.
"Well, for instance, this," responded the critic: "You attempt to depict
the sensations of love, though you have never had a passion. Can you
expect to know how it feels to hold a beautiful girl in your arms, when
you never had one there? You put words of temptation into the mouth of
your villain which no real scamp would think of using, for their only
effect would be to alarm your heroine. You talk of a planned seduction
as if it were part of an oratorio. And you make your hero so
superlatively pure and sweet that no woman formed of flesh and blood
could endure him for an hour."
The color mounted to Roseleaf's face. He felt that this criticism was
not without foundation. But presently he rallied, and asked if it were
necessary for a man to experience every sensation before he dared write
about them.
"Do you suppose," he asked, desperately, "that Jules Verne ever traveled
sixty thousand leagues under the sea or made a journey to the moon?"
Mr. Weil could not help uttering a little laugh. Mr. Gouger struck his
hands together and clinched them.
"No," said he. "But he could have written neither of those wonderful
tales without a knowledge of the sciences of which they treat."
"He has read, and I have read," responded Roseleaf. "What is the
difference?"
"He has studied, and you have not," retorted the critic. "That makes all
the difference in the world. He has a correct idea of the structure of
the moon and what should be found in the unexplored caverns of the
ocean; while you, in total ignorance, have attempted to deal in a
science to which these are the merest bagatelles! You know as little of
the tides that control the heart of a girl as you do of the personal
history of the inhabitants of Jupiter! Your powers of description are
good; those of invention feeble. Either throw yourself into a love
affair, till you have learned it root and branch, or never again try to
depict one."
Mr. Archie Weil smiled and nodded, as if he entirely agreed with the
speaker.
"What a novel _I_ could make, my dear fellow!" he exclaimed, "if I only
had the talent. I have had experiences enough, but I could no more write
them out than I could fly."
"It is quite as well," was the response, "your women would all be
Messalinas and fiction has too many now."
"Not _all_ of them, Lawrence," was the quick and meaning reply.
"In that case," said Gouger, "I wish heartily you could write. The world
is famishing for a real love story, based on modern lines, brought up to
date. I tell you, there has been nothing satisfactory in that line since
Goethe's day."
Mr. Weil suggested Balzac and Sand.
"Why don't you include George William Reynolds?" inquired Gouger, with a
sneer. "Neither of them wrote until they were depraved by contract with
humanity. If we could get a young man of true literary talent to see
life and write of it as he went along, what might we not secure? But I
have no more time to spare, Mr. Roseleaf. I was sorry to be obliged to
reject your story. Some day, when you have seen just a little of the
world, begin again on the lines I have outlined, and come here with the
result."
Quite dispirited, now that the last plank had slipped from under him,
the novelist walked slowly down the stairs. He did not even ask for his
manuscript. After what he had heard, it did not seem worth carrying to
his lodgings. His plans were shipwrecked. Instead of the fame and
fortune he had hoped for, he felt the most bitter disappointment. All
his bright dreams had vanished.
A step behind him quicker than his own, made him aware that some one was
following him, and presently a voice called his name. It was Mr. Archie
Weil, who had put himself to unusual exertion, and required some seconds
to recover his breath before he could speak further.
"I want you to come over to my hotel and have a little talk with me," he
said. "Gouger has interested me in you immensely. I believe, as he says,
that you have the making of a distinguished author, and I want to
arrange a plan by which you can carry out his scheme."
Mr. Roseleaf stared doubtfully at his companion.
"What scheme?" he said, briefly.
"Why, of imparting to you that knowledge of the world which will enable
you to draw truthful portraits. You have the art, he says, the talent,
the capacity--whatever you choose to call it. All you lack is
experience. Given that, you would make a reputation second to none. What
can be plainer than that you should acquire the thing you need without
delay?"
"The 'thing I need'?" repeated Roseleaf, dolefully.
Mr. Weil laughed, delightfully.
"Yes!" he explained. "What you need is a friend able to interest you, to
begin with. Pardon me if I say I may be described by that phrase. Come
to my hotel a little while and let us talk it over."
It was not an opportunity to be refused, in Roseleaf's depressed
condition, and the two men walked together to the Hoffman House, where
Mr. Weil at that time made his home.