George Bernard Shaw - "O'Flaherty V. C."

Henry Seton Merriman - "The Last Hope"

Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne - "Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, v15"

George Eliot - "The Mill on the Floss"

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: The King\'s Highway

G >> G. P. R. James >> The King\'s Highway




The young Lord looked up in his friend's countenance with a malicious
smile, replying, "They do, my dear Wilton, they do! and you see I keep
at a respectful distance. But I will do anything to please."

He accordingly rose from his seat, and Wilton saw him first approach
the Duke, speak a few words to him, and then take a seat beside Lady
Laura. Her air was evidently cold and reserved, but what passed more,
Wilton, of course, did not know. The young lord, however, seemed
suddenly struck by something that she said, turned quickly towards
her, and made a rejoinder; she answered, apparently, with perfect
calmness. But the instant after, Lord Sherbrooke rose from his chair,
made her a low bow, and was crossing the room. His father, however,
met him half-way, and they spoke for a moment or two. The Earl's
cheek became very red, and his brow contracted; but Lord Sherbrooke
passed quietly on, and came up to where Wilton stood.

"She has just told me what she thinks of my character, Wilton," said
the young nobleman, "and I have transmitted the same to my father,
who must settle the matter with the Duke as he likes."

"The Earl's plans are certainly in a prosperous condition," thought
Wilton; and though he could not, of course, approve of the
unceremonious means which Lord Sherbrooke took to defeat his father's
intentions, and to cast the burden of refusal on Lady Laura, yet he
could not grieve, it must be admitted, that she should determining
for herself.

During the whole evening her conduct towards Wilton Brown had been
exactly what he had expected--kind, gentle, and courteous. She
evidently treated him more as a friend than any one else in the room;
and though he purposely spoke to her but seldom, and then merely with
the terms of formal respect, yet whenever he did approach her, she
greeted him with a smile, which showed that his society was not at
all unpleasant to her.

To the eyes of Wilton it was very evident that Lord Byerdale was
extremely irritated by what he had heard. No one else perceived it,
however, for, as was usual with him, the irritation of the moment,
though likely to produce very serious effects at an after period,
clothed itself for the time in additional smiles and stately
courtesies, only appearing now and then in an additional drop of
sarcastic bitterness mingling with all the civil things that he said.
As usual, also, he was peculiarly soft and reverential in his manner
towards those with whom he was most angry, and the Duke and Lady
Laura were more the objects of his particular attention than ever.
He sat beside her; he talked to her; he paid her that marked
attention which his son had neglected to offer; and at length, when
the Duke proposed to retire, he himself handed her to the carriage,
paying her some well turned compliment at every step, and relieving
his heart of its bitterness by some stinging sneer at the rest of
womankind.

Thus passed over the evening; and Wilton, it must be acknowledged
with a mind more at ease on account of the decided part that Lady
Laura seemed to have taken, slept soundly and dreamt happily, though
he still resolved, sooner or later, to crush feelings which could
only end in misery.

On the following morning he went to the house of Lord Byerdale at the
usual hour, and proceeded at once to the cabinet of the Earl. It was
already occupied by that nobleman and his son, however; and though
there were no loud words spoken, no angry tones audible, yet there
were sufficient indications of angry feeling, at least on the part of
the Earl, to make Wilton immediately pause and draw back a step.

"Come in, come in," said the Earl--"you know all this affair, and I
believe have done what you could to make this young man reasonable."

Wilton accordingly entered the room, and Lord Byerdale again turned
to his son, laying his finger upon the letter before him. "I repeat,
Sherbrooke," he said, "that you yourself have done all this. I did
not ask you, sir, to be virtuous, I did not ask you to be temperate,
I did not bid you cast away the dice or abandon drunkenness and
revelling, or turn off three or four of your mistresses, or to give
over going to the resort of every sort of vice in the metropolis. I
asked you none of these things, because it would be hard and
ungenerous to require a man to do what his nature and habits render
perfectly impossible. I turn to his vomit again, or the sow to
refrain from wallowing in the mire."

"Savoury similes, my lord," said Lord Sherbrooke--"most worthy of
Solomon and your lordship. May I ask what it is you did demand then?"

"That you should assume a virtue if you had it not," replied Lord
Byerdale; "that you should put a certain cloak of decency over your
vices, and that you should at least be commonly courteous to the
person selected for your future wife: especially when I pointed out
to you the immense, the inconceivable advantages of such an alliance
not only to you but to me."

"Well, but, my dear father," said Lord Sherbrooke, "I will grant all
that you say. It is altogether my fault; I have behaved very
stupidly, very wildly, very rudely, very viciously. But there is no
reason that you should be so angry with the young lady, or with my
good lord duke."

"Ay, sir! think you so?" said the Earl--"you are mighty wise in your
own conceit. You have had your share, certainly; but I do not avenge
myself on my own son. They have had their share, however, too. Their
pride, their would-be importance, their insufferable arrogance,
which makes them think that kings or princes are not too good for
her--these have all had no light share; and if I live for six months
I will bring that pride down to the very lowest pitch. I will degrade
her till she thinks herself a servant wench."

Wilton certainly did feel his blood boil, but he knew that he had
neither any right nor any power to interfere; and he turned to some
papers that were upon the tables, and hid the expression which his
thoughts might communicate to his countenance, by apparent attention
to something else.

Some more words passed between the father and son, but they were few.
Lord Sherbrooke, upon the whole, behaved better than Wilton could
have expected. He neither treated the subject lightly and jocularly
as he was accustomed to do in most cases, nor bitterly and
sarcastically, which his father's evident want of principle in the
whole business gave him but too fair an opportunity of doing. He
acknowledged fairly and straight-forwardly his errors and his vices;
and all that he said in regard to the offence he had given his father
was, that he imagined he could not in honour suffer Lady Laura to
decide without letting her know the character at least of the man who
was proposed for her husband.

"Well, sir," replied his father, sharply, "you have convinced her of
your character very soon. Mine, she may be longer in finding out; but
she shall not fail to be made equally well aware of it in the end."

Thus saying, he turned and quitted the room, giving some casual
directions to Wilton as he passed.

"Well, that business is so far done and over," exclaimed Lord
Sherbrooke, as soon as his father was gone; "and, as it is pleasant,
my dear Wilton, to do a good action now and then, by way of a change,
you and I must enter into a conspiracy together, to prevent my worthy,
subtle, and revengeful father from executing a this poor girl, who
has only done her duty to herself, and to me, and to her father."

"I trust," replied Wilton, "that the Earl's threat was but one of
those bursts of disappointment which will pass away with time. I
cannot imagine that, after a little consideration, he will have any
inclination really to injure either the Duke or his daughter; nor,
indeed, do I see that he could have the means either."

Lord Sherbrooke shook his head with a gloomy air, and answered, "He
will make them, Wilton--he will make the means; and as to
inclination, you do not know him as well as I do. He will not forget
what has occurred this day, as long as he remembers how to write his
own name. This same goodly desire of revenge is henceforth a part of
his nature, and nothing will ever remove it, unless self-interest or
ambition be brought into action against it."

"But what sort of revenge think you he will seek?" demanded
Wilton--"situated as the Duke is, I see no opportunity that your
father can have of injuring him."

"Heaven only knows," replied Lord Sherbrooke. "The fire will go on
smouldering for months, perhaps for years, but it will not go out. He
said, just before you came in, that because she had refused to marry
me, he would make her marry a footman; and, as I really believe his
lordship is occasionally endowed with superhuman powers of executing
what he thinks fit, it would not surprise me at all to see my Lady
Laura led to the altar by John Noakes, our porter's son, dressed up
for the occasion as a foreign prince."

"I do not fear that," replied Wilton with a smile; "I should rather
apprehend that he may entangle the good Duke, who does not seem
overburdened with sense, in some of these sad plots which are daily
taking place. Should we find out that such is the case, we may indeed
aid in preventing it."

Lord Sherbrooke shook his head. "It is the poor girl he will aim at
first, depend upon it," the young nobleman answered. "I wish to
Heaven she had told me her intention of refusing me in such a formal
manner; I would have shown her how to manage the matter without
calling down this storm. But, instead of that, she sits down and
deliberately writes him a letter, which, just in the proportion that
it is honest, true, and straightforward, is the thing best calculated
to excite his wrath. Yet, as if she had some idea of his character,
and wished to shield her father, she takes the whole responsibility
of the thing upon herself, telling him that the Duke had pressed her
much upon the subject, but that she felt it would be utterly
impossible to give her hand to your very humble servant. All this
has, of course, brought the storm more directly upon herself, though
her father will be screened thereby in no degree. I doubt not he has
gone there now."

"Do you think there is any chance of an actual and open quarrel
between them?" demanded Wilton.

"Not in the least," answered Lord Sherbrooke with a scoff: "my dear
Wilton, you must be as blind as a mole, if you do not see that my
father, though as brave as a lion, is not a man to quarrel with any
one. He is a great deal too good a politician for that; he knows that
in quarrelling with any one he hates, he must suffer something
himself, and may suffer a good deal. No, no, he takes a better plan,
and contrives to make his enemies suffer while he suffers not at all.
In general, if you see him particularly civil to anybody, you may
suppose that he looks upon them as an enemy, and is busy in getting
them quietly into his power. Quarrel with the Duke? Oh no, a thousand
to one, ere half an hour be over, he will be shaking him cordially by
the hand, putting him quite at his ease, begging him to let the
matter be forgotten altogether, saying that it was natural he should
seek so illustrious an alliance, which, indeed, he had scarcely a
right to hope for. Then he will see the lady herself, and say that he
perfectly enters into her feelings, that a person so richly gifted as
herself, and having already all that wealth and rank can give, has a
right to consult, before all other things, the feelings of her own
heart. It would not surprise me at all if he were to offer to send me
abroad again, lest my presence in London, after the pretensions which
have been formed, should prove, in any degree, annoying to her."

The conversation continued for some time longer in the same strain:
and Wilton could not but feel that Lord Sherbrooke gave an accurate
though a terrible picture of his father's character.

At length, the young nobleman rose as if to depart; but standing ere
he did so before the table at which his young friend was seated, he
gazed upon his face earnestly and silently for a minute or two, and
then said,--

"I don't know why, Wilton, but I have a great and a strong regard for
you, and I have been dreaming dreams for you, that I see you are
unwilling to dream for yourself: However, you must have the same
regard for me; and--even if you are not inclined, in any degree, to
take advantage of what I must say is evident regard on the part of
this young lady towards you--yet, for my sake, you must let me know,
aid me, and assist me, if you should see any scheme forming against
her happiness or peace. I am not so bad, Wilton, even as I seem to
you. I am sorry for this girl--really sorry for her. I ought to have
taken the burden upon my own shoulders, instead of casting it upon
hers; for I could have removed all these difficulties by speaking one
single word. But that word would have cost me much to speak, and I
shrunk from saying it. If, however, I find that through my fault she
is likely to suffer, I will speak that word, Wilton, at all risks, so
you must give me help and support, at least in doing what is right."

"That I will, Sherbrooke," replied Wilton, grasping his hand, "that I
will most zealously. But in regard to what you say of Lady Laura's
kind feeling towards me, depend upon it you are wholly mistaken. The
only reason, be you sure, why she makes any difference in her manner
towards me, and towards men of higher rank than myself; is, that she
knows the difference of our station and fortunes must ever prevent my
entertaining any of those hopes which others might justly feel."

Before Wilton concluded, Lord Sherbrooke had cast himself into a
chair; his eyes were fixed on the ground, his brow had become
contracted. It was one of those moments when, as he said, his evil
spirit was upon him; and seeing that such was the case, Wilton left
him to his own meditations and proceeded to write the letters which
the Earl had directed him to despatch.

In about half an hour, the young nobleman roused himself from his
reverie, with a light laugh, apparently causeless; and without
speaking another word to Wilton, quitted the room.

Wilton only saw the Earl for a few minutes during the rest of the
day, and with him the statesman was so captious, irritable, and
sneering, that, reading his feelings by the key his son had given,
Wilton had every reason to believe himself to be in high favour.
Various matters of business, however, occurred to keep him late at
the Earl's house, and night had fallen when he returned to his own
lodgings.

In about an hour after, however, one of the Earl's servants brought
him a note in Lord Sherbrooke's handwriting, and marked "In haste."
Wilton tore it open immediately, and read,--

"MY DEAR WILTON,

"My father directs me to request your immediate return.
The Duke is now here. Lady Laura has been carried off,
or, at all events, has disappeared; and we want your wise
head to counsel, perhaps your strong hand to execute. Come
directly, for we are all in agitation.

"Yours, SHERBROOKE."

Written below, in smaller characters, and marked "Private," two lines
to the following effect:--

"This business is not my father's doing. It is too coarse for his
handiwork. He may, perhaps, take advantage of it, however, if he
finds an opportunity. Burn this instantly."



CHAPTER XVII.

Having now run on for some time, following almost entirely the course
and history of one individual, painting none but the characters with
whom he was brought into immediate contact, and making him, as it
were, a lantern in the midst of our dark story, all the characters
appearing in bright light as long as they were near him, and sinking
back into darkness as soon as they were removed from him, we must
follow our old wayward and wandering habits; and just at the moment
when we have contrived to create the first little gleam of interest
in the reader's breast, must leave our hero entirely to his fate,
open out new scenes, introduce new personages, and devote a
considerable space to matters which have APPARENTLY not the slightest
connexion whatsoever with that which went before.

About thirty miles from London, towards the sea-coast, there then
stood a small ancient house, built strongly of brick. It was not
exactly castellated in its appearance, but yet in the days of
Cromwell it had endured a short siege by a small body of the
parliamentary troops, and had afforded time, by the resistance which
it offered, for a small body of noblemen and gentlemen attached to
the cause of King Charles to make their escape from a superior party
of pursuers. It was built upon the edge of a very steep slope, so
that on one side it was very much taller than the other. It was
surrounded by thick trees also; and though by no means large, it had
contrived to get into a small space as many odd corners as a Chinese
puzzle. The walls were very thick, the windows few and small, the
chimneys numerous, and the angles innumerable.

Into one of the small rooms of this house, at about eleven o'clock at
night, I must now introduce the reader.

In that chamber, with her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed
upon a wood-fire that was burning before her, one small and beautiful
foot stretched out towards it, while the other was concealed by the
drapery of her long robe; and with the whole graceful line of her
figure thrown back in the large arm-chair which she occupied--except,
indeed, the head, which was bent slightly forward--sat a very lovely
young woman, perhaps of two or three and twenty years of age, in
meditations evidently of a somewhat melancholy cast. The hand on
which her head leaned, and which was very soft, round, and fair, was
covered with rings, while the other was quite free from such
ornaments, with the exception of one small ring of gold upon the
slender third finger. In that hand she had been holding an open
letter; but, buried in meditation, she had suffered the paper to drop
from her hold, and it had fallen upon the ground beside her.

We had said that she was very beautiful, but her beauty was of a
different sort and character altogether from that of the lady whom we
have described under the name of Lady Laura Gaveston. Her hair was of
the richest, brightest, glossy black, as fine as silk, yet bending,
wherever it escaped, into rich and massy curls. There was one of
these which fell upon the back of her fair neck, and another upon
either temple. Upon the forehead, as was then customary, the hair was
divided into smaller curls, and cut much shorter, which fashion was a
great disfigurement to beauty, and certainly left her less handsome
than she otherwise would have appeared. Still, however, she was very,
very lovely; and the fine lines of her features, the clear rich brown
of her complexion, the glorious light of her large dark eyes,
softened by the long thick lashes that overshadowed them, the full
and rounded beauty of every limb, left it impossible even for human
heart to do away what nature's cunning hand had done.

There are certainly moments in which, as every one must have
remarked, a beautiful human countenance is more beautiful than at any
other period, when it acquires, from some accidental circumstance, a
temporary and extraordinary degree of loveliness. Sometimes it is the
mere disposition of light and shade that produces this effect--the
background behind it, the objects that surround it. Sometimes it is
that the tone of the mind at the moment gives the peculiar expression
which harmonizes best with the lines of the features and the
colouring of the complexion, and which is in perfect accord with all
those expectations which fine, indistinct, but sweet associations
produce in our mind from every particular style of beauty that we
see. Associations are, in fact, the bees of the imagination, and,
wandering through all nature, may be said to distil honey from every
fair object on which they light. Why does a rich and warm complexion,
and a glowing cheek, call up instantly in our mind the idea of joyous
health and pleasant-heartedness? Less because we have been
accustomed to see that complexion attended by such qualities than
because it connects itself with the idea of summer, gay summer and
all its fruits and flowers, and merry sports and light amusements,
and a thousand memories of happy days, and thousands upon thousands
still of other things of which we have no consciousness, but which are
present to sensation though not to thought, all the while that we are
gazing upon a ruddy cheek, and thinking that the pleasure is derived
from the white and red alone.

When the expression is perfectly suited to the style of beauty, it is
natural to suppose that it will add to the charm; but there is a case
where the cause of the increase is not so easily discovered--I mean
when the mind gives to the countenance a temporary-expression totally
opposed to the style of beauty itself. Yet this is sometimes the
case: for how often do we see high and majestic features soften into
playful smiles, and seem to gain another grace. In the lady we have
mentioned, the whole style of the countenance and of the form gave
the idea of joyous gaiety, of happy, nay, exuberant life and
cheerfulness; but the expression was now all sad; and from the
contrast--which produced deeper associations than perfect harmony
would have called forth--her beauty itself was heightened. It was
like some gay and splendid scene by moonlight.

She had remained in this meditating attitude for some time, when the
door quietly opened, and a personage entered the room, of whom we
must say a few words, though he is not destined to play any very
prominent part in our tale. Monsieur Plessis was a Frenchman, a
soi-disant Protestant. One thing, at all events, is certain, that
his father had been so, and had been expelled from France many years
before by persecution. The gentleman before us exercised many trades,
by which, perhaps, he had not acquired so much wealth as his father
had by one. His father's calling had been that of cook and major domo
to a fat, rich, gluttonous, careless English peer; and as he employed
his leisure time in distilling various simples, he had classed his
noble patron under that head, and distilled from him what he himself
would jocosely have called "Golden Water."

Amongst the various trades which, as we have said, were carried on by
the son, was smuggling, under which were included the conveyance of
contraband men, women, and children, as well as other sorts of
merchandise; swindling a little, when occasion presented itself;
clipping the golden coin of the kingdom, which at that time was a
great resource to unfortunate gentlemen; not exactly forging
exchequer tallies, and other securities of the same kind, but aiding
by a certain dexterity of engraving in the forging, which he did not
choose actually to commit; and over and above all these several
occupations, callings, and employments, he was one of the best
reputed spies which the French court had in England, as well as the
most industrious agent which England had in obtaining intelligence
from France. In fact, he sold each country to the other with the
greatest possible complaisance. The great staple of the intelligence
that he gave to both was false; but he took care to mingle a
sufficient portion of truth with what he told, to acquire a
considerable degree of reputation. He was, indeed, much too well
versed in the practices of coiners, not to know that a bad piece of
money is best passed off between two good ones; and though he was a
sort of bonding warehouse, where an immense quantity of manufactured
intelligence lay till it was wanted, yet he had means of obtaining
better information, which he did not fail to make use of when he
judged it needful.

Strange, however, are the perversities of human character: this
practical betrayer of trust was not without certain good points in
his character. The cheating a king or a statesman had a touch of
grandeur in it, which suited his magnificent ideas; a little robbery
on the King's Highway seemed to him somewhat chivalrous; and he could
admire those who did it, though he did not meddle with the business
himself: but there was a certain class of persons whom he would as
soon have cheated, betrayed, or deceived, even to keep himself in
practice, which he considered one of the most legitimate excuses for
anything he liked to do, as he would have cut his hand off. These
were the poor French emigrants in England, and the unfortunate
adherents of the House of Stuart in France.

As is now well known, though it was only suspected at the time,
thousands of these men were daily coming and going between France and
Britain, in the very midst of the war; and they were always sure to
find at the house of Plessis kind and civil treatment, perfect
security, and the most accurate intelligence which could be procured
of all that was taking place.

In cases of danger he had a thousand ways of secreting them or
favouring their escape. If ever, as was frequently the case, they
wished to communicate with some kind friend, who was willing to
relieve them, or to frighten some timid enemy upon whom they had some
hold, Plessis could generally find them the means; and in cases where
some one in danger required to be brought off speedily and secretly,
Plessis had often been known to spend very large sums, and risk even
life itself, rather than suffer an enterprise to fail in which he had
taken a part.