Jean de La Fontaine - "The Tales and Novels, v4: The Old Man's Calendar and Others"

Carolyn Wells - "Patty's Suitors"

Amy Prentice - "Mouser Cats' Story"

Ambrose Bierce - "The Parenticide Club"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: He Knew He Was Right

A >> Anthony Trollope >> He Knew He Was Right




'They haven't more than enough to keep body and soul together,' said
Miss Stanbury. 'I don't see why I mightn't have gone to service this
morning, Martha. It's quite warm now out in the Close.'

'You'd better wait, ma'am, till the east winds is over. She was at
Puddock's only the day before yesterday, buying bed-linen the finest
they had, and that wasn't good enough.'

'Psha!' said Miss Stanbury.

'As though Mr Gibson hadn't things of that kind good enough for her,'
said Martha.

Then there was silence in the room for awhile. Miss Stanbury was
standing at one window, and Martha at the other, watching the people as
they passed backwards and forwards, in and out of the Close. Dorothy
had now been away at Nuncombe Putney for some weeks, and her aunt felt
her loneliness with a heavy sense of weakness. Never had she
entertained a companion in the house who had suited her as well as her
niece, Dorothy. Dorothy would always listen to her, would always talk
to her, would always bear with her. Since Dorothy had gone, various
letters had been interchanged between them. Though there had been anger
about Brooke Burgess, there had been no absolute rupture; but Miss
Stanbury had felt that she could not write and beg her niece to come
back to her. She had not sent Dorothy away. Dorothy had chosen to go,
because her aunt had bad an opinion of her own as to what was fitting
for her heir; and as Miss Stanbury would not give up her opinion, she
could not ask her niece to return to her. Such had been her resolution,
sternly expressed to herself a dozen times during these solitary weeks;
but time and solitude had acted upon her, and she longed for the girl's
presence in the house. 'Martha,' she said at last, 'I think I shall get
you to go over to Nuncombe Putney.'

'Again, ma'am?'

'Why not again? It's not so far, I suppose, that the journey will hurt
you.'

'I don't think it'd hurt me, ma'am only what good will I do?'

'If you'll go rightly to work, you may do good. Miss Dorothy was a fool
to go the way she did a great fool.'

'She stayed longer than I thought she would, ma'am.'

'I'm not asking you what you thought. I'll tell you what. Do you send
Giles to Winslow's, and tell them to send in early to-morrow a nice
fore-quarter of lamb. Or it wouldn't hurt you if you went and chose it
yourself.'

'It wouldn't hurt me at all, ma'am.'

'You get it nice not too small, because meat is meat at the price
things are now; and how they ever see butcher's meat at all is more
than I can understand.'

'People as has to be careful, ma'am, makes a little go a long way.'

'You get it a good size, and take it over in a basket. It won't hurt
you, done up clean in a napkin.'

'It won't hurt me at all, ma'am.'

'And you give it to Miss Dorothy with my love. Don't you let 'em think
I sent it to my sister-in-law.'

'And is that to be all, ma'am?'

'How do you mean all?'

'Because, ma'am, the railway and the carrier would take it quite ready,
and there would be a matter of ten or twelve shillings saved in the
journey.'

'Whose affair is that?'

'Not mine, ma'am, of course.'

'I believe you're afraid of the trouble, Martha. Or else you don't like
going because they're poor.'

'It ain't fair, ma'am, of you to say so that it ain't. All I ask is is
that to be all? When I've giv'em the lamb, am I just to come away
straight, or am I to say anything? It will look so odd if I'm just to
put down the basket and come away without e'er a word.'

'Martha!'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'You're a fool.'

'That's true, too, ma'am.'

'It would be like you to go about in that dummy way wouldn't it and you
that was so fond of Miss Dorothy.'

'I was fond of her, ma'am.'

'Of course you'll be talking to her and why not? And if she should say
anything about returning--'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'You can say that you know her old aunt wouldn't wouldn't refuse to
have her back again. You can put it your own way, you know. You needn't
make me find words for you.'

'But she won't, ma'am.'

'Won't what?'

'Won't say anything about returning.'

'Yes, she will, Martha, if you talk to her rightly.' The servant didn't
reply for a while, but stood looking out of the window. 'You might as
well go about the lamb at once, Martha.'

'So I will, ma'am, when I've got it out, all clear.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'Why just this, ma'am. May I tell Miss Dolly straight out that you want
her to come back, and that I've been sent to say so?'

'No, Martha.'

'Then how am I to do it, ma'am?'

'Do it out of your own head, just as it comes up at the moment.'

'Out of my own head, ma'am?'

'Yes just as you feel, you know.'

'Just as I feel, ma'am?'

'You understand what I mean, Martha.'

'I'll do my best, ma'am, and I can't say no more. And if you scolds me
afterwards, ma'am why, of course, I must put up with it.'

'But I won't scold you, Martha.'

'Then I'll go out to Winslow's about the lamb at once, ma'am.'

'Very nice, and not too small, Martha.'



Martha went out and ordered the lamb, and packed it as desired quite
clean in a napkin, and fitted it into the basket, and arranged with
Giles Hickbody to carry it down for her early in the morning to the
station, so that she might take the first train to Lessborough. It was
understood that she was to hire a fly at Lessborough to take her to
Nuncombe Putney. Now that she understood the importance of her mission
and was aware that the present she took with her was only the customary
accompaniment of an ambassadress entrusted with a great mission, Martha
said nothing even about the expense. The train started for Lessborough
at seven, and as she was descending from her room at six, Miss Stanbury
in her flannel dressing-gown stepped out of the door of her own room.
'Just put this in the basket,' said she, handing a note to her servant.
'I thought last night I'd write a word. Just put it in the basket and
say nothing about it.' The note which she sent was as follows:



'The Close, 8th April, 186-.

MY DEAR DOROTHY

As Martha talks of going over to pay you a visit, I've thought that I'd
just get her to take you a quarter of lamb, which is coming in now very
nice. I do envy her going to see you, my dear, for I had gotten somehow
to love to see your pretty face. I'm getting almost strong again; but
Sir Peter, who was here this afternoon, just calling as a friend, was
uncivil enough to say that I'm too much of an old woman to go out in
the east wind. I told him it didn't much matter for the sooner old
women made way for young ones, the better.

I am very desolate and solitary here. But I rather think that women who
don't get married are intended to be desolate; and perhaps it is better
for them, if they bestow their time and thoughts properly as I hope you
do, my dear. A woman with a family of children has almost too many of
the cares of this world, to give her mind as she ought to the other.
What shall we say then of those who have no such cares, and yet do not
walk uprightly? Dear Dorothy, be not such a one. For myself, I
acknowledge bitterly the extent of my shortcomings. Much has been given
to me; but if much be expected, how shall I answer the demand?

I hope I need not tell you that whenever it may suit you to pay a visit
to Exeter, your room will be ready for you, and there will be a warm
welcome. Mrs MacHugh always asks after you; and so has Mrs Clifford. I
won't tell you what Mrs Clifford said about your colour, because it
would make you vain. The Heavitree affair has all been put off of
course you have heard that. Dear, dear, dear! You know what I think, so
I need not repeat it.

Give my respects to your mamma and Priscilla and for yourself, accept
the affectionate love of

Your loving old aunt,

JEMIMA STANBURY.

P.S. If Martha should say anything to you, you may feel sure that she
knows my mind.'



Poor old soul. She felt an almost uncontrollable longing to have her
niece back again, and yet she told herself that she was bound not to
send a regular invitation, or to suggest an unconditional return.
Dorothy had herself decided to take her departure, and if she chose to
remain away so it must be. She, Miss Stanbury, could not demean herself
by renewing her invitation. She read her letter before she added to it
the postscript, and felt that it was too solemn in its tone to suggest
to Dorothy that which she wished to suggest. She had been thinking much
of her own past life when she wrote those words about the state of an
unmarried woman, and was vacillating between two minds whether it were
better for a young woman to look forward to the cares and affections,
and perhaps hard usage, of a married life; or to devote herself to the
easier and safer course of an old maid's career. But an old maid is
nothing if she be not kind and good. She acknowledged that, and,
acknowledging it, added the postscript to her letter. What though there
was a certain blow to her pride in the writing of it! She did tell
herself that in thus referring her niece to Martha for an expression of
her own mind after that conversation which she and Martha had had in
the parlour she was in truth eating her own words. But the postscript
was written, and though she took the letter up with her to her own room
in order that she might alter the words if she repented of them in the
night, the letter was sent as it was written postscript and all.

She spent the next day with very sober thoughts. When Mrs MacHugh
called upon her and told her that there were rumours afloat in Exeter
that the marriage between Camilla French and Mr Gibson would certainly
be broken off, in spite of all purchases that had been made, she merely
remarked that they were two poor, feckless things, who didn't know
their own minds. 'Camilla knows her's plain enough,' said Mrs MacHugh
sharply; but even this did not give Miss Stanbury any spirit. She
waited, and waited patiently, till Martha should return, thinking of
the sweet pink colour which used to come and go in Dorothy's cheeks
which she had been wont to observe so frequently, not knowing that she
had observed it and loved it.



CHAPTER LXVII - RIVER'S COTTAGE

Three days after Hugh Stanbury's visit to Manchester Street, he wrote a
note to Lady Rowley, telling her of the address at which might be found
both Trevelyan and his son. As Bozzle had acknowledged, facts are
things which may be found out. Hugh had gone to work somewhat after the
Bozzlian fashion, and had found out this fact. 'He lives at a place
called River's Cottage, at Willesden,' wrote Stanbury. 'If you turn off
the Harrow Road to the right, about a mile beyond the cemetery, you
will find the cottage on the left hand side of the lane, about a
quarter of a mile from the Harrow Road. I believe you can go to
Willesden by railway but you had better take a cab from London.' There
was much consultation respecting this letter between Lady Rowley and
Mrs Trevelyan, and it was decided that it should not be shown to Sir
Marmaduke. To see her child was at the present moment the most urgent
necessity of the poor mother, and both the ladies felt that Sir
Marmaduke in his wrath might probably impede rather than assist her in
this desire. If told where he might find Trevelyan, he would probably
insist on starting in quest of his son-in-law himself, and the distance
between the mother and her child might become greater in consequence,
instead of less. There were many consultations; and the upshot of these
was, that Lady Rowley and her daughter determined to start for
Willesden without saying anything to Sir Marmaduke of the purpose they
had in hand. When Emily expressed her conviction that if Trevelyan
should be away from home they would probably be able to make their way
into the house so as to see the child, Lady Rowley with some hesitation
acknowledged that such might be the case. But the child's mother said
nothing to her own mother of a scheme which she had half formed of so
clinging to her boy that no human power should separate them.

They started in a cab, as advised by Stanbury, and were driven to a
point on the road from which a lane led down to Willesden, passing by
River's Cottage. They asked as they came along, and met no difficulty
in finding their way. At the point on the road indicated, there was a
country inn for hay-waggoners, and here Lady Rowley proposed that they
should leave their cab, urging that it might be best to call at the
cottage in the quietest manner possible; but Mrs Trevelyan, with her
scheme in her head for the recapture of their child, begged that the
cab might go on and thus they were driven up to the door.

River's Cottage was not a prepossessing abode. It was a new building,
of light-coloured bricks, with a door in the middle and one window on
each side. Over the door was a stone tablet, bearing the name River's
Cottage. There was a little garden between the road and the house,
across which there was a straight path to the door. In front of one
window was a small shrub, generally called a puzzle-monkey, and in
front of the other was a variegated laurel. There were two small
morsels of green turf, and a distant view round the corner of the house
of a row of cabbage stumps. If Trevelyan were living there, he had
certainly come down in the world since the days in which he had
occupied the house in Curzon Street. The two ladies got out of the cab,
and slowly walked across the little garden. Mrs Trevelyan was dressed
in black, and she wore a thick veil.

She had altogether been unable to make up her mind as to what should be
her conduct to her husband should she see him. That must be governed by
circumstances as they might occur. Her visit was made not to him, but
to her boy.

The door was opened before they knocked, and Trevelyan himself was
standing in the narrow passage.

Lady Rowley was the first to speak. 'Louis,' she said, 'I have brought
your wife to see you.'

'Who told you that I was here?' he asked, still standing in the
passage.

'Of course a mother would find out where was her child,' said Lady
Rowley.

'You should not have come here without notice,' he said. 'I was careful
to let you know the conditions on which you should come.'

'You do not mean that I shall not see my child,' said the mother. 'Oh,
Louis, you will let me see him.'

Trevelyan hesitated a moment, still keeping his position firmly in the
doorway. By this time an old woman, decently dressed and of comfortable
appearance, had taken her place behind him, and behind her was a slip
of a girl about fifteen years of age. This was the owner of River's
Cottage and her daughter, and all the inhabitants of the cottage were
now there, standing in the passage. 'I ought not to let you see him,'
said Trevelyan; 'you have intruded upon me in coming here! I had not
wished to see you here till you had complied with the order I had given
you.' What a meeting between a husband and a wife who had not seen each
other now for many months between a husband and a wife who were still
young enough not to have outlived the first impulses of their early
love! He still stood there guarding the way, and had not even put out
his hand to greet her. He was guarding the way lest she should, without
his permission, obtain access to her own child! She had not removed her
veil, and now she hardly dared to step over the threshold of her
husband's house. At this moment, she perceived that the woman behind
was pointing to the room on the left, as the cottage was entered, and
Emily at once understood that her boy was there. Then at that moment
she heard her son's voice, as, in his solitude, the child began to cry.
'I must go in,' she said; 'I will go in;' and rushing on she tried to
push aside her husband. Her mother aided her, nor did Trevelyan attempt
to stop her with violence, and in a moment she was kneeling at the foot
of a small sofa, with her child in her arms. 'I had not intended to
hinder you,' said Trevelyan, 'but I require from you a promise that you
will not attempt to remove him.'

'Why should she not take him home with her?' said Lady Rowley.

'Because I will not have it so,' replied Trevelyan. 'Because I choose
that it should be understood that I am to be the master of my own
affairs.'

Mrs Trevelyan had now thrown aside her bonnet and her veil, and was
covering her child with caresses. The poor little fellow, whose mind
had been utterly dismayed by the events which had occurred to him since
his capture, though he returned her kisses, did so in fear and
trembling. And he was still sobbing, rubbing his eyes with his
knuckles, and by no means yielding himself with his whole heart to his
mother's tenderness as she would have had him do. 'Louey,' she said,
whispering to him, 'you know mamma; you haven't forgotten mamma?' He
half murmured some little infantine word through his sobs, and then put
his cheek up to be pressed against his mother's face. 'Louey will
never, never forget his own mamma will he, Louey?' The poor boy had no
assurances to give, and could only raise his cheek again to be kissed.
In the meantime Lady Rowley and Trevelyan were standing by, not
speaking to each other, regarding the scene in silence.

She Lady Rowley could see that he was frightfully altered in
appearance, even since the day on which she had so lately met him in
the City. His cheeks were thin and haggard, and his eyes were deep and
very bright and he moved them quickly from side to side, as though ever
suspecting something. He seemed to be smaller in stature withered, as
it were, as though he had melted away. And, though he stood looking
upon his wife and child, he was not for a moment still. He would change
the posture of his hands and arms, moving them quickly with little
surreptitious jerks; and would shuffle his feet upon the floor, almost
without altering his position. His clothes hung about him, and his
linen was soiled and worn. Lady Rowley noticed this especially, as he
had been a man peculiarly given to neatness of apparel. He was the
first to speak. 'You have come down here in a cab?' said he.

'Yes in a cab, from London,' said Lady Rowley.

'Of course you will go back in it? You cannot stay here. There is no
accommodation. It is a wretched place, but it suits the boy. As for me,
all places are now alike.'

'Louis,' said his wife, springing up from her knees, coming to him, and
taking his right hand between both her own, 'you will let me take him
with me. I know you will let me take him with me.'

'I cannot do that, Emily; it would be wrong.'

'Wrong to restore a child to his mother? Oh, Louis, think of it, What
must my life be without him or you?'

'Don't talk of me. It is too late for that.'

'Not if you will be reasonable, Louis, and listen to me. Oh, heavens,
how ill you are!' As she said this she drew nearer to him, so that her
face was almost close to his. 'Louis, come back; come back, and let it
all be forgotten. It shall be a dream, a horrid dream, and nobody shall
speak of it.' He left his hand within hers and stood looking into her
face. He was well aware that his life since he had left her had been
one long hour of misery. There had been to him no alleviation, no
comfort, no consolation. He had not a friend left to him. Even his
satellite, the policeman, was becoming weary of him and manifestly
suspicious. The woman with whom he was now lodging, and whose resources
were infinitely benefited by his payments to her, had already thrown
out hints that she was afraid of him. And as he looked at his wife, he
knew that he loved her. Everything for him now was hot and dry and poor
and bitter. How sweet would it be again to sit with her soft hand in
his, to feel her cool brow against his own, to have the comfort of her
care, and to hear the music of loving words! The companionship of his
wife had once been to him everything in the world; but now, for many
months past, he had known no companion. She bade him come to her, and
look upon all this trouble as a dream not to be mentioned. Could it be
possible that it should be so, and that they might yet be happy
together perhaps in some distant country, where the story of all their
misery might not be known? He felt all this truly and with a keen
accuracy. If he were mad, he was not all mad. 'I will tell you of
nothing that is past,' said she, hanging to him, and coming still
nearer to him, and embracing his arm.

Could she have condescended to ask him not to tell her of the past had
it occurred to her so to word her request she might perhaps have
prevailed. But who can say how long the tenderness of his heart would
have saved him from further outbreak and whether such prevailing on her
part would have been of permanent service? As it was, her words wounded
him in that spot of his inner self which was most sensitive on that
spot from whence had come all his fury. A black cloud came upon his
brow, and he made an effort to withdraw himself from her grasp. It was
necessary to him that she should in some fashion own that he had been
right, and now she was promising him that she would not tell him of his
fault! He could not thus swallow down all the convictions by which he
had fortified himself to bear the misfortunes which he had endured. Had
he not quarrelled with every friend he possessed on this score; and
should he now stultify himself in all those quarrels by admitting that
he had been cruel, unjust, and needlessly jealous? And did not truth
demand of him that he should cling to his old assurances? Had she not
been disobedient, ill-conditioned, and rebellious? Had she not received
the man, both him personally and his letters, after he had explained to
her that his honour demanded that it should not be so? How could he
come into such terms as those now proposed to him, simply because he
longed to enjoy the rich sweetness of her soft hand, to feel the
fragrance of her breath, and to quench the heat of his forehead in the
cool atmosphere of her beauty? 'Why have you driven me to this by your
intercourse with that man?' he said. 'Why, why, why did you do it?'

She was still clinging to him. 'Louis,' she said, 'I am your wife.'

'Yes; you are my wife.'

'And will you still believe such evil of me without any cause?'

'There has been cause horrible cause. You must repent repent repent.'

'Heaven help me,' said the woman, falling back from him, and returning
to the boy who was now seated in Lady Rowley's lap. 'Mamma, do you
speak to him. What can I say? Would he think better of me were I to own
myself to have been guilty, when there has been no guilt no slightest
fault? Does he wish me to purchase my child by saying that I am not fit
to be his mother?'

'Louis,' said Lady Rowley, 'if any man was ever wrong, mad, madly
mistaken, you are so now.'

'Have you come out here to accuse me again, as you did, before in
London?' he asked. 'Is that the way in which you and she intend to let
the past be, as she says, like a dream? She tells me that I am ill. It
is true. I am ill and she is killing me, killing me, by her obstinacy.'

'What would you have me do?' said the wife, again rising from her
child.

'Acknowledge your transgressions, and say that you will amend your
conduct for the future.'

'Mamma, mamma what shall I say to him?'

'Who can speak to a man that is beside himself?' replied Lady Rowley.

'I am not so beside myself as yet, Lady Rowley, but that I know how to
guard my own honour and to protect my own child. I have told you,
Emily, the terms on which you can come back to me. You had better now
return to your mother's house; and if you wish again to have a house of
your own, and your husband, and your boy, you know by what means you
may acquire them. For another week I shall remain here after that I
shall remove far from hence.'

'And where will you go, Louis?'

'As yet I know not. To Italy I think or perhaps to America. It matters
little where for me.'

'And will Louey be taken with you?'

'Certainly he will go with me. To strive to bring him up so that he may
be a happier man than his father is all that there is now left for me
in life.' Mrs Trevelyan had now got the boy in her arms, and her mother
was seated by her on the sofa. Trevelyan was standing away from them,
but so near the door that no sudden motion on their part would enable
them to escape with the boy without his interposition. It now again
occurred to the mother to carry off her prize in opposition to her
husband but she had no scheme to that effect laid with her mother, and
she could not reconcile herself to the idea of a contest with him in
which personal violence would be necessary. The woman of the house had,
indeed, seemed to sympathise with her, but she could not dare in such a
matter to trust to assistance from a stranger. 'I do not wish to be
uncourteous,' said Trevelyan, 'but if you have no assurance to give me,
you had better leave me.'

Then there came to be a bargaining about time, and the poor woman
begged almost on her knees that she might be allowed to take her child
upstairs and be with him alone for a few minutes. It seemed to her that
she had not seen her boy till she had had him to herself, in absolute
privacy, till she had kissed his limbs, and had her hand upon his
smooth back, and seen that he was white and clean and bright as he had
ever been. And the bargain was made. She was asked to pledge her word
that she would not take him out of the house and she pledged her word,
feeling that there was no strength in her for that action which she had
meditated. He, knowing that he might still guard the passage at the
bottom of the stairs, allowed her to go with the boy to his bedroom,
while he remained below with Lady Rowley. A quarter of an hour was
allowed to her, and she humbly promised that she would return when that
time was expired.