Alonzo Reed and Brainerd Kellogg - "Higher Lessons in English"

Paul Bourget - "Cosmopolis, v3"

Jean de La Fontaine - "The Tales and Novels, v11: Friar Philip's Geese and Minutolo"

James Allen - "As A Man Thinketh"

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: Opening a Chestnut Burr

E >> Edward Payson Roe >> Opening a Chestnut Burr







CHAPTER XVII

"PROMISE OR DIE"



While they were thus standing irresolute after the accident, suddenly
a light glimmered upon them. It appeared to come from a house standing
a little off from the road. "Shall I leave you here and go for
assistance?" asked Walter.

"I think I would rather go with you. Dolly will stand, and I do not
wish to be left alone."

They soon found a grassy path leading to a small house, from which the
light shone but faintly through closely curtained windows. They met no
one, nor were their footsteps heard till they knocked at the door. A
gruff voice said, "Come in," and a huge bull-dog started up from near
the fire with a savage growl.

They entered. A middle-aged man with his coat off sat at work with his
back toward them. He rose hastily and stared at them with a strangely
blended look of consternation and anger.

"Call off your dog," said Gregory, sharply.

"Down, Bull," said the man, harshly, and the dog slunk growling into a
corner, but with a watchful, ugly gleam in his eyes.

The man's expression was quite as sinister and threatening.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked, sternly.

"We want help," said Gregory, with a quickened and apprehensive glance
around, which at once revealed to him why their visit was so
unwelcome. The man had been counterfeiting money, and the evidences of
his guilt were only too apparent. "We have lost our way, and our wagon
is broken. I hope you have sufficient humanity to act the part of a
neighbor."

"Humanity to the devil!" said the man, brutally, "I am neighbor to no
one. You have come here to pry into what is none of your business."

"We have not," said Gregory, eagerly. "You will find our broken wagon
in the road but a little way from here."

The man's eye was cold, hard, and now had a snake-like glitter as he
looked at them askance with a gloomy scowl. He seemed thinking over
the situation in which he found himself.

Gregory, in his weak, exhausted state, and shaken somewhat by his
fall, was nervous and apprehensive. Annie, though pale, stood firmly
and quietly by.

Slowly and hesitatingly, as if deliberating as to the best course, the
man reached up to the shelf and took down a revolver, saying, with an
evil-boding look at them, "If I thought you had come as detectives,
you would have no chance to use your knowledge. You, sir, I do not
know, but I think this lady is Squire Walton's daughter. As it is, you
must both solemnly promise me before God that you will never reveal
what you have seen here. Otherwise I have but one method of self-
protection," and he cocked his pistol. "Let me tell you," he added, in
a blood-curdling tone, "you are not the first ones I have silenced.
And mark this--if you go away and break this promise, I have
confederates who will take vengeance on you and yours."

"No need of any further threats," said Gregory, with a shrug. "I
promise. As you say, it is none of my business how much of the 'queer'
you make."

Though naturally not a coward, Gregory, in his habit of self-pleasing
and of shunning all sources of annoyance, would not have gone out of
his way under any circumstances to bring a criminal to justice, and
the thought of risking anything in this case did not occur to him. Why
should they peril their lives for the good of the commonwealth? If he
had been alone and escaped without further trouble, he would have
thought of the matter afterward as of a crime recorded in the morning
paper, with which he had no concern, except perhaps to scrutinize more
sharply the currency he received.

But with conscientious Annie it was very different. Her father was a
magistrate of the right kind, who sincerely sought to do justice and
protect the people in their rights. From almost daily conversation her
mind had been impressed with the sacredness of the law. When she was
inclined to induce her father to give a lighter sentence than he
believed right he had explained how the well-being and indeed the very
existence of society depended upon the righteous enforcement of the
law, and how true mercy lay in such enforcement. She had been made to
feel that the responsibility for good order and morals rested on every
one, and that to conceal a known crime was to share deeply in the
guilt. She also was not skilled in that casuistry which would enable
her to promise anything with mental reservations. The shock of their
savage and threatening reception had been severe, but she was not at
all inclined to be hysterical; and though her heart seemed to stand
still with a chill of dread which deepened every moment as she
realized what would be exacted of her, she seemed more self-possessed
than Gregory. Indeed, in the sudden and awful emergencies of life,
woman's fortitude is often superior to man's, and Annie's faith was no
decorous and conventional profession for Sabbath uses, but a constant
and living reality. She was like the maidens of martyr days, who
tremblingly but unhesitatingly died for conscience' sake. While there
was no wavering of purpose, there was an agony of fear and sorrow, as,
after the momentary confusion of mind caused by the suddenness of the
occurrence, the terrible nature of the ordeal before her became
evident.

Through her father she had heard a vague rumor of this man before.
Though he lived so secluded and was so reticent, his somewhat
mysterious movements had awakened suspicion. But his fierce dog and
his own manner had kept all obtrusive curiosity at a distance. Now she
saw her father's worst fears and surmises realized.

But the counterfeiter at first gave all his attention to her
companion, thinking that he would have little trouble with a timid
girl; and after Gregory's ready promise, looked searchingly at him for
a moment, and then said, with a coarse, scornful laugh, "No fear of
you. You will keep your skin whole. You are a city chap, and know
enough of me and my tribe to be sure I can strike you there as well as
here. I can trust to your fears, and don't wish to shed blood when it
is unnecessary. And now this girl must make the same promise. Her
father is a magistrate, and I intend to have no posse of men up here
after me to-morrow."

"I can make no such promise," said Annie, in a low tone.

"What?" exclaimed the man, harshly, and a savage growl from the dog
made a kindred echo to his tone.

Deathly pale, but with firm bearing, Annie said, "I cannot promise to
shield crime by silence. I should be a partaker in your guilty
secrets."

"Oh, for God's sake, promise!" cried Gregory, in an agony of fear, but
in justice it must be said that it was more for her than for himself.

"For God's sake I cannot promise."

The man stepped menacingly toward her, and the great dog also advanced
unchecked out of his corner.

"Young woman," he hissed in her ear, "you must promise or die. I have
sworn never to go to prison again if I wade knee-deep in blood."

There came a rush of tears to Annie's eyes. Her bosom heaved
convulsively a moment, and then she said, in a tone of agony, "It is
dreadful to die in such a way, but I cannot make the promise you ask.
It would burden my conscience and blight my life. I will trust to
God's mercy and do right. But think twice before you shed my innocent
blood."

Gregory covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud.

The man hesitated. He had evidently hoped by his threats to frighten
her into compliance, and her unexpected refusal, while it half
frenzied him with fear and anger, made his course difficult to
determine upon. He was not quite hardened enough to slay the
defenceless girl as she stood so bravely before him, and the killing
of her would also involve the putting of Gregory out of the way,
making a double murder that would be hard to conceal. He looked at the
dog, and the thought occurred that by turning them out of doors and
leaving them to the brute's tender mercies their silence might be
effectually secured.

It is hard to say what he would have done, left to his own fears and
evil passions; but a moment after Annie had spoken, the doors opened
and a woman entered with a pail of water, which she had just brought
from a spring at some little distance from the house.

"What does this mean?" she asked, with a quick, startled glance
around.

"It means mischief to all concerned," said the man, sullenly.

"This is Miss Walton," said the woman, advancing.

"Yes," exclaimed Annie, and she rushed forward and sobbed out, "save
me from your husband; he threatened to take my life."

"'My husband!'" said the woman, with intense bitterness, turning
toward the man. "Do you hear that, Vight? Quiet your fears, young
lady. Do you remember the sick, weary woman that you found one hot day
last summer by the roadside? I was faint, and it seemed to me that I
was dying. I often wish to, but when it comes to the point and I look
over into the black gulf, I'm afraid--"

"But, woman--" interrupted the man, harshly.

"Be still," she said, imperiously waving her hand.

"Don't rouse a devil you can't control." Then turning to Annie, she
continued, "I was afraid then; I was in an agony of terror. I was so
weak that I could scarcely do more than look appealingly to you and
stretch out my hands. Most ladies would have said, 'She's drunk,' and
passed contemptuously on. But you got out of your wagon and took my
cold hand. I whispered, 'I'm sick; for God's sake help me.' And you
believed me and said, 'I will help you, for God's sake and your own.'
Then you went to the carriage, and got some cordial which you said was
for another sick person, and gave me some; and when I revived, you
half carried me and half lifted me into your nice covered little
wagon, that kept the burning sun off my head, and you took me miles
out of your way to a little house which I falsely told you was my
home. I heard that you afterward came to see me. You spoke kindly.
When I could speak I said that I was not fit for you to touch, and you
answered that Jesus Christ was glad to help touch any human creature,
and that you were not better than He! Then you told me a little about
Him, but I was too sick to listen much. God knows I've got down about
as low as any woman can. I dare not pray for myself, but since that
day I've prayed for you. And mark what I say, Vight," she added, her
sad, weird manner changing to sudden fierceness, "not a hair of this
lady's head shall be hurt."

"But these two will go and blab on us," said the man, angrily. "At
least the girl will. She won't promise to keep her secret. I have no
fears for the man; I can keep him quiet."

"Why won't you promise?" asked the woman, gently, but with surprise.

"Because I cannot," said Annie, earnestly, though her voice was still
broken by sobs. "When we hide crime, we take part in it."

"And would you rather die than do what you thought wrong?"

"It were better," said Annie.

"Oh that I had had such a spirit in the fatal past!" groaned the
woman.

"But won't you protect me still?" exclaimed Annie, seizing her hand.
"It would kill my poor old father too, if I should die. I cannot
burden my soul with your secrets, but save me--oh, save me, from so
dreadful a death!"

"I have said it, Miss Walton. Not a hair of your head shall be hurt."

"What do you advise then, madam?" asked the man, satirically. "Shall
we invite Mr. Walton and the sheriff up to-morrow to take a look at
the room as it now stands?"

"I advise nothing," said the woman, harshly. "I only say, in a way you
understand, not a hair of this girl's head shall be hurt."

"Thank God, oh, thank God," murmured Annie, with a feeling of
confidence and inexpressible relief, for there was that in the woman's
bearing and tone which gave evidence of unusual power over her
associate in crime.

Then Annie added, still clinging to a hand unsanctified by the
significant plain ring, "I hope you will keep my companion safe from
harm also."

During the scene between Annie and her strange protector, who was
evidently a sad wreck of a beautiful and gifted woman, Gregory had
sunk into a chair through weakness and shame, and covered his face
with his hands.

The woman turned toward him with instinctive antipathy, and asked,
"How is it, sir, you have left a young girl to meet this danger
alone?"

Gregory's white, drawn face turned scarlet as he answered, "Because I
am like you and this man here, and not like Miss Walton, who is an
angel of truth and goodness."

"'Like _us_,' indeed!" said she, disdainfully. "I don't know that you
have proved us _cowards_ yet. And could you be bad and mean enough to
see this brave maiden slain before your eyes, and go away in silence
to save your own miserable self?"

"For aught I know I could," answered he, savagely. "I would like to
see what mean, horrible, loathsome thing, this hateful, hated thing I
call myself could not do."

Gregory showed, in a way fearful to witness, what intense hostility
and loathing a spirit naturally noble can feel toward itself when
action and conscience are at war.

"Ah," said the woman, bitterly, "now you speak a language I know well.
Why should I fear the judgment-day?" she added, with a gloomy light in
her eyes, as if communing with herself. "Nothing worse can be said of
me than I will say now. But," she sneered, turning sharply to Gregory,
"I do not think I have fallen so low as you."

"Probably not," he replied, with a grim laugh, and a significant shrug
which he had learned abroad. "I will not dispute my bad pre-eminence.
Come, Vight, or whatever your name is," he continued, rising, "make up
your mind quickly what you are going to do. I am a weak man, morally
and physically. If you intend to shoot me, or let your dog make a meal
of me, let us have it over as soon as possible. Since Miss Walton is
safe, I am as well prepared now as I ever shall be."

"I entreat you," pleaded Annie, still clinging to the woman, "don't
let any harm come to him."

"What is the use of touching him?" said the man, gruffly. Then turning
to Gregory he asked, "Do you still promise not to use your knowledge
against me? You might do me more harm in New York than here."

"I have promised once, and that is enough," said Gregory, irritably.
"I keep my word for good or evil, though you can't know that, and are
fools for trusting me."

"I'll trust neither of you," said the man, with an oath. "Here,
Dencie, I must talk with you alone. I'm willing to do anything that's
reasonable, but I'm not going to prison again alive, mark" that (with
a still more fearful imprecation). "Don't leave this room or I won't
answer for the consequences," he said, sternly to Gregory and Annie,
at the same time looking significantly at the dog.

Then he and the woman went into the back room, and there was an
earnest and somewhat angry consultation.

Gregory sat down and leaned his head on the table in a manner that
showed he had passed beyond despondency and fear into despairing
indifference as to what became of him. He felt that henceforth he must
be simply odious to Miss Walton, that she would only tolerate his
presence as long as it was necessary, veiling her contempt by more
politeness. In his shame and weakness he would almost rather die than
meet her true, honest eyes again.

Annie had the courage of principle and firm resolve, rather than that
which is natural and physical. The thought of sudden and violent death
appalled her. If her impulsive nature were excited, like that of a
soldier in battle, she could forget danger. If in her bed at home she
were wasting with disease, she would soon submit to the Divine will
with childlike trust. But her whole being shrunk inexpressibly from
violent and unnatural death. Never before did life seem so sweet.
Never before was there so much to live for. She could have been a
martyr in any age and in any horrible form for conscience' sake, but
she would have met her fate tremblingly, shrinkingly, and with intense
longings for life. And yet with all this instinctive dread, her trust
in God and His promises would not fail. But instead of standing calmly
erect on her faith, and confronting destiny, it was her nature, in
such terrible emergencies, to cling in loving and utter dependence,
and obey.

She therefore in no respect shared Gregory's indifference, but was
keenly alive to the situation.

At first, with her hand upon her heart to still its wild throbbings,
she listened intently, and tried to catch the drift of the fateful
conference within. This being vain, her eyes wandered hurriedly around
the room. Standing thus, she unconsciously completed a strange picture
in that incongruous place, with her dejected companion on one side,
and the great dog, eying her savagely, on the other. Gregory's
despairing attitude impressed her deeply. In a sudden rash of pity she
felt that he was not as cowardly as he had seemed. A woman with
difficulty forgives this sin. His harsh condemnation and evident
detestation of himself impelled her generous nature instinctively to
take the part of his weak and wronged spirit. She had early been
taught to pity rather than to condemn those whom evil is destroying.
In all his depravity he did not repel her, for, though proud, he had
no petty, shallow vanity; and the evident fact that he suffered so
deeply disarmed her.

Moreover, companionship in trouble which she felt was partly her
fault, drew her toward him, and, stepping to his side, she laid her
hand on his shoulder and said, gently, "Cheer up, my friend; I
understand you better than you do yourself. God will bring us safely
through."

He shrunk from her hand, and said, drearily, "With better reason than
younder woman I can say, 'I am not fit for you to touch.' As for God,
He has nothing to do with me."

She answered, kindly, "I do not think that either of those things is
true. But, Mr. Gregory, what will they do with us? They will not
dare--"

She was interrupted by the entrance of the strangely assorted couple
into whose crime-stained hands they had so unexpectedly fallen. Both
felt that but little trust could be placed in such perverted and
passion-swept natures--that they would be guided by their fears,
impulses, and interests. Annie's main hope was in the hold she had on
the woman's sympathies; but the latter, as she entered, wore a sullen
and disappointed look, as if she had not been given her own way. Annie
at once stepped to her side and again took her hand, as if she were
her best hope of safety. It was evident that her confidence and
unshrinking touch affected the poor creature deeply, and her hand
closed over Annie's in a way that was reassuring.

"I suppose you would scarcely like to trust yourselves to me or my
dog," said the man, with a grim laugh. "What's more, I've no time to
bother with you. Since my companion here feels she owes you something,
Miss Walton, she can now repay you a hundred-fold. But follow her
directions closely, as you value your lives;" and he left the house
with the dog. Soon after, they heard in the forest what seemed the
note of the whippoorwill repeated three times, but it was so near and
importunate that Annie was startled, and the woman's manner indicated
that she was not listening to a bird. After a few moments she said,
gloomily: "Miss Walton, I promised you should receive no harm, and I
will keep my word. I hoped I could send you directly home to-night,
but that's impossible. I can do much with Vight, but not everything.
He has sworn never to go to prison again alive, and none of our lives
would be worth much if they stood in the way of his escape. We meant
to leave this region before many months, for troublesome stories are
getting around, and now we must go at once. I will take you to a place
of safety, from which you can return home to-morrow. Come."

"But father will be wild with anxiety," cried Annie, wringing her
hands.

"It is the best I can do," said the woman, sadly. "Come, we have no
time to lose."

She put on a woollen hood, and taking a long, slender staff, led the
way out into the darkness.

They felt that there was nothing to do but follow, which they did in
silence. They did not go back toward their broken wagon, but continued
down the wheel-track whereon their accident had occurred. Suddenly the
woman left this, taking a path through the woods, and after proceeding
with difficulty some distance, stopped, and lighted a small lantern
she had carried under her shawl. Even with the aid of this their
progress was painful and precarious in the steeply descending rocky
path, which had so many intricate windings that both Annie and Gregory
felt that they were indeed being led into a _terra incognita_. Annie
was consumed with anxiety as to the issue of their strange adventure,
but believed confidence in her guide to be the wisest course. Gregory
was too weary and indifferent to care for himself, and stumbled on
mechanically.

At last he said, sullenly, "Madam, I can go no further. I may as well
die here as anywhere."

"You _must_ go," she said, sharply; "for my sake and Miss Walton's, if
not for your own. Besides, it's not much further. What I do to-night
must be done rightly."

"Well, then, while there is breath left, Miss Walton shall have the
benefit of it."

"May we not rest a few minutes?" asked Annie. "I too am very tired."

"Yes, before long at the place where you must pass the night."

The path soon came out in another wheel-track, which seemed to lead
down a deep ravine. Descending this a little way, they reached an
opening in which was the dusky outline of a small house.

"Here we part," said their guide, taking Annie's hand, while Gregory
sank exhausted on a rock near. "The old woman and her son who live in
that house will give you shelter, and to-morrow you must find your
best way home. This seems poor return for your kindness, but it's in
keeping with my miserable life, which is as dark and wild as the
unknown flinty path we came. After all, things have turned out far
better than they might have done. Vight was expecting some one, and so
had the dog within doors. He would have torn you to pieces had he been
without as usual."

"Lead this life no longer. Stay with us, and I will help you to better
things," said Annie, earnestly.

The look of intense longing on the woman's face as the light of the
flickering lantern fell on it would haunt Annie to her dying day.

"Oh that I might!" she groaned. "Oh that I might! A more fearful
bondage never cursed a human soul!"

"And why can you not?" pleaded Annie, putting her hand on the
trembling woman's shoulder. "You have seen better days. You were meant
for a good and noble life. You can't sin unfeelingly. Then why sin at
all? Break these chains, and by and by peace in this life and heaven
in the life to come will reward you."

The woman sat down by the roadside, and for a moment her whole frame
seemed convulsed with sobs. At last she said, brokenly, "You plead as
my good angel did before it left me--but it's no use--it's too late. I
have indeed seen better days, pure, happy days; and so has he. We once
stood high in the respect of all. But he fell, and I fell in ways I
can't explain. You cannot understand, that as love binds with silken
cords, so crime may bind with iron chains. No more--say no more. You
only torment me," she broke in, harshly, as Annie was about to speak
again. "You cannot understand. How could you? We love, hate, and fear
each other at the same time, and death only can part us. But that may
soon--that may soon;" and she clenched her hands with a dark look.

"But enough of this. I have too much to do to tire myself this way.
You must go to that house; I cannot. Old Mrs. Tompkins and her son
will give you shelter. I don't wish them to get into trouble. There
will be a close investigation into all this. I know what your father's
disposition is. And now farewell. The only good thing about me is, I
shall still pray for you, the only one who has ever treated me like a
woman since--since--since I fell into hell," she said in a low, hoarse
tone, and printing a passionate kiss on Annie's hand, she blew out her
light, and vanished in the darkness.

It seemed to swallow her up, and become a type of the mystery and fate
that enshrouded the forlorn creature. Beyond the bare fact that she
took the train the following morning with the man she called "Vight,"
Annie never heard of her again. Still there was hope for the wretched
wanderer. However dark and hidden her paths, the eyes of a merciful
God ever followed her, and to that God Annie prayed often in her
behalf.

NOTE--This chapter has some historic basis. The man called "Vight" is
not altogether an imaginary character, for a desperate and successful
counterfeiter dwelt for a time among the mountains on the Hudson,
plying his nefarious trade. It is said that he took life more than
once to escape detection.




CHAPTER XVIII

IN THE DEPTHS



After the departure of their strange guide, who had befriended them as
best she could, Gregory at once went to the house and knocked. There
was a movement within, and a quavering voice asked, "Who's there?"