Bjornstjerne Bjornson - "Poems and Songs"

Lucian of Samosata - "Works, V2"

Lafcadio Hearn - "Japan: An Attempt at Interpretation"

Mary E. Wilkins - "The Heart's Highway"

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 Native Born

I >> I. A. R. Wylie >> The Native Born




Colonel Carmichael bit his lip impatiently. He did not recognize his
own motives of desiring a last hand-to-hand struggle. They were those
of an old man who sees Cheltenham and stagnation looming in the
distance and prays for death. But his common sense conquered the
selfish promptings.

"Who would be likely to undertake the mission with any hope of
success?" he asked.

"Nehal Singh and I were, toward the end, rather more than friendly,"
Nicholson began. "I believe he entertained a real liking for me--"

"If any one goes, I must!" The interruption came from Stafford. His
head was raised. He faced the two men with a stern determination. "No,
Nicholson; I know all you want to say. I have no sort of sympathy with
the natives--I haven't your power over them. But this is different. I
have a power. I may have. Let me go. If I fail, then you can try."

"By the time you have failed it will be too late," Nicholson returned.
He was watching Stafford with almost pitying curiosity. His keen
instinct penetrated the man's strained and nervous bearing to some
conflict which seemed to have had its birth with the first mention of
Nehal Singh's name.

"It will not be too late," Stafford answered persistently. "I ask for
an hour, Colonel. In an hour I shall know--whether--whether I have the
power."

"Captain Stafford, are you mad!" the Colonel said sternly. "This is
not a time for experiments."

"I ask for an hour," Stafford repeated, and there was an emphasis and
earnestness in his voice which cut short Colonel Carmichael's angry
sarcasm. "At the end of that time Nicholson can do what he likes. I am
not mad. I beg of you to ask no questions. I can not answer them. I
can only tell you that I have a great responsibility--toward you all
and toward another."

Colonel Carmichael was silent for a moment. Stafford's manner awed and
troubled him in spite of himself.

"Very well," he said at last. "I give you an hour. During that time we
will make preparations for the worst." He took out his watch. "It is
now eleven. At twelve the matter passes into Nicholson's hands."

Stafford saluted.

"I understand, Colonel."

Nicholson accompanied him toward the door.

"God-speed!" he said simply. Stafford hesitated, his heavy eyes
resting on the fine face of his brother-officer with an almost
passionate gratitude.

"Thank you, Nicholson, thank you. God help me to do what is right!"

He turned and hurried from the room.




CHAPTER V

MURDER


Archibald Travers stood in his favorite attitude by the window, his
shoulder propped against the casement, his arms folded, a smile of
good-natured amusement on his healthy face.

"My dear child," he protested, "what earthly interest can it have for
you to know the pros and cons of the business? You wouldn't
understand, and that small head would ache for a week afterward. Be
content with the outline of the thing. Of course it has all been
frightfully unfortunate. But the Rajah wasn't to be held back. He
believed the mine was going to be the making of Marut--and for a
matter of fact so did I at first, otherwise I shouldn't have put all
my money in it. The fellow had an enthusiasm and confidence which
fairly carried us off our feet. Well, it's done, and it's no use
crying about it. The best thing we can do is to clear out of Marut as
fast as we can. People are bound to be disagreeable about it."

"The Carys are ruined too?" she asked.

"Oh, I don't know--they have lost a bit, I suppose." His voice sounded
unpleasant. "At any rate, I'll say that for them--they behaved as
people of their extraction would behave. First the mother poured out a
torrent of abuse over the poor Rajah which would have been the envy of
a fish-wife, and then the daughter turned on me." He laughed. "It was
a most powerful scene of feminine hysterics. I was glad that you were
not there."

Lois sat silent, her head resting on her hand, her eyes fixed
thoughtfully on the table.

"And what are we going to do?" she asked at last. "You take the matter
so easily, but if we are really ruined--"

He laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder.

"_I_ am ruined, Lois. I did not say that you were. Even with your
rather low opinion of me, you could hardly have supposed that I would
touch your money. You are well enough off to do what you like. As for
me--" he squared his shoulders--"I feel quite capable of starting
things all over again."

His tone touched her. She looked up, and her face softened. There was
nothing that could have made her happier than to have discovered in
her husband some elements of courage and sincerity.

"Of course, Archibald, whatever is mine is yours," she said. "You must
have known that."

"My dear generous little woman!" He bent over her and kissed her,
apparently unconscious that she instinctively drew back from his
caress. "If you really will help me, no doubt I shall build things up
again in no time, and this one blunder won't count for much. You are a
worthy comrade for a man."

Perhaps he had accepted her offer too quickly, perhaps his tone jarred
on her as too elated, too satisfied. She got up, pushing her letters
quickly to one side.

"You really wish us to start for Madras to-night?"

"Yes, if you can manage it. It is important that I should get back as
soon as possible, and the business here is finished."

"Very well. I will pack up as much as I can. The rest must be sent on
afterward."

He let her reach the door before he stopped her again.

"By the way, Lois, there is one thing I must ask you. I do not wish
you to have any further intercourse with that Beatrice Cary. She is
not a person with whom I should wish my wife to associate. You were
right about her--she is a bad, unscrupulous woman."

With her hand on the curtain she turned and looked back at him. A
cloud of curious distrust passed over her pale face.

"I never said that she was bad or unscrupulous. I do not believe that
she is. You say that now, but it was not your old opinion."

"I suppose it is possible to see people in different and less
agreeable lights?" he retorted sharply.

"Only too possible. But as she was never a friend of mine, and we are
leaving within the next few hours, the injunction to avoid her is
unnecessary." She paused as though listening. "I hear some one talking
to the syce," she went on hurriedly. "It sounds like Captain
Stafford's voice. Archibald"--she turned and came quickly to his
side--"please let me out of the verandah. I don't want to meet him."

He caught her by the wrist and pushed her back. The movement was
brutal, unlike his usual gentleness, and she saw by the expression of
his face that for the moment he had lost all consciousness of what he
was doing.

"I don't want to see him either. Go and tell him that I am not at
home--that I have started for Madras--quick! Don't stand there
staring."

His extraordinary excitement, apparently unreasonable and entirely
opposed to his calm, easy-going habits, had the effect of setting fire
to her dormant suspicion. She wrenched herself free.

"I am not going to tell him a lie," she said firmly.

"Lois, you are a little fool! Do as I tell you. It isn't a lie--only a
piece of conventional humbug which everybody understands. There,
please!" His tone of entreaty was more disagreeable to her than his
roughness. All the pride and rigidity of her Puritan temperament was
up in arms against the indefinable something which it had long ago
recognized and despised.

"It is not conventional humbug," she retorted--"not in this case. You
are lying because you are afraid, because you have a reason for not
seeing Captain Stafford which you won't tell me."

He had not time to answer. The curtains were pushed on one side, and
Stafford entered hurriedly. He was covered with dust and looked
haggard and exhausted. He did not seem to see Lois, though she stood
immediately in front of him. His eyes passed over her head to Travers.

"I am sorry to come in unannounced," he said, without giving either an
opportunity to speak, "but your servant was making difficulties, and I
have not a minute to lose. I have galloped every inch of the way here
from the Colonel's bungalow. I must speak to you at once, Travers,
alone."

Lois went toward the door. As she passed him she saw him look at her
for the first time. And she went her way blinded with tears that had
no cause save in the stern, unhappy face which had flashed its message
to her. For she knew that his glance had been a message; that he had
tried to explain, and that she had not understood. The curtain fell
behind her, and Stafford crossed the room to Travers' side.

"You have heard what has happened?" he demanded.

Travers had resumed his old attitude of indifference. Only his eyes
betrayed the uneasiness which he was really feeling.

"Do you mean the Rajah? No, I haven't heard anything, but if he is
making himself a nuisance, I am not surprised. I expected it."

"Don't talk like that!" Stafford exclaimed, bringing his clenched hand
down on the table. "How dare you! Have you no sense of responsibility?
For you it was no more than a doubtful speculation, and you took care
that there were no risks; but for Marut it means--Heaven knows what it
means!"

"Nothing!" returned Travers coolly. "Nothing to get heated about. The
Rajah feels sore, no doubt, but that will pass. And that is not my
fault. It would have been all right if Miss Cary had not--well, made
such a fool of herself, and incidentally of us all."

Stafford gazed steadily at the man who smiled at him. He could not
understand a character so absolutely without all moral foundations.

"You are no doubt preparing to start for Madras?" he asked,
controlling his voice with a strong effort.

"Certainly. There is nothing more to be done here."

"Let me tell you that you are not likely to leave Marut alive."

Travers laughed.

"Nonsense, my dear Captain! I am not to be frightened with nursery
tales."

"It is not a nursery tale. I give you my word of honor that before
nightfall we shall be overwhelmed by a force a hundred times larger
than anything we can bring on the field for weeks to come."

Travers shifted his position carelessly. Stafford had not succeeded in
frightening him. He did not believe in native rebellions. What he had
seen of the Hindu character convinced him of its fundamental
cowardice and incapability for independent action.

"A few blank cartridges will bring the Rajah very quickly to his
senses," he assured Stafford, with perfect good-humor. "We have
nothing to be afraid of in that quarter."

"You really think that?" Stafford demanded significantly. "Knowing
what you know, you think we have no cause to fear him?"

Travers changed color. The uneasy flicker in his eyes returned.

"What on earth do you mean?"

"You know very well. You know whom we shall be fighting against."

"Of course--a headlong, inexperienced Hindu prince--"

"You are choosing to have a very short memory. Nehal Singh is more
than that."

Travers stood upright. The healthy glow had died out of his cheeks.

"Look here, Stafford," he said roughly, "what is it you want? I can
see you want something."

"Yes. Give me back my promise. I can not keep it any longer."

"Do you think I extort promises that I don't want kept? Are you in
earnest?"

"Yes, terribly in earnest. Look the thing in the face, Travers. Our
lives, and, what is far more, the lives of our women and Heaven knows
how many of our countrymen, hang in the balance. If you don't believe
me, ask Nicholson."

"I shall believe what I like!" Travers began to pace backward and
forward, his mind busy with lightning calculations. Before nightfall
they would be out of Marut. Stafford was exaggerating the danger,
perhaps for his own purposes. The whole thing was nonsense.

"I keep you to your promise," he said obstinately.

Stafford lifted his head. The man's natural reserve and
conventionalism were borne down by the sense of his helplessness. He
was fighting against a giant of egoism, as it seemed to him, of gross
and criminal stupidity, for the lives of untold hundreds.

"You can not realize what you are doing," he said. "It is our one hope
of holding the Rajah's hand, and with every moment the danger is
increasing. As I came along the road I passed crowds of natives on the
way to the palace. Most of them were men from your mine, Travers, and
they had an ugly look. They did not touch me, it is true, but I
believe they are only waiting for Nehal Singh's order, and then it
will be too late. Travers, we must do everything in our power to
prevent him giving that order. I have promised Colonel Carmichael to
do what I could. At twelve I must be back, or--"

Travers swung around. His face was livid.

"You told him--?"

"No, but I must. I can not keep my promise. You must set me free. I
gave it you because you told me that I was not concerned. Now I am
concerned, I dare not keep silence."

"My dear fellow, you must--that is, if you are a man of honor."

"Of what use is the secret to you?"

"That is my affair. There was a time when you were anxious enough to
keep it."

"It was for Lois' sake. The two things were bound up together. She can
not be spared any longer."

"You think not? I am of another opinion. I put my wife's peace of mind
higher than your old-maidish alarms." Travers faced his companion with
the assurance of a man who feels that he has the whip-hand. His
experience taught him that a man of certain orthodox principles has a
very limited sphere of action. He runs in herds with hundreds of other
men of the same mould, and under given circumstances has only one
course of conduct open to him. Had Travers been in Stafford's place,
no one living could have told what he would do. But Stafford had no
choice--at least, so Travers judged.

"You are one of honor's Pharisees, my dear fellow," he said frankly.
"You can't get out of your promise, and you know it. You cling to the
letter of the law. It is your way. You had better go back to the
Colonel and tell him to manage the Rajah in his own style."

The clock on the table chimed the half-hour. It was ten minutes' full
gallop back to the Colonel's bungalow. Stafford set his teeth in a
white heat of despair.

"If you have no consideration for the Station, for your own wife, for
your own country, at least consider yourself!" he exclaimed. "Are you
blind to the danger? We have scarcely fifty men, and up there are
thousands quietly waiting for the Rajah's signal. You must have seen
them with your own eyes pouring through--"

"I saw any amount of dirty pilgrims, and got out of the way as fast as
I could," was Travers' smiling retort.

Stafford stood baffled and helpless. For the first time he was able to
recognize and appreciate a certain type of Englishman to which he
himself to some extent belonged--an arrogant ignoramus who, encamped
behind his wall of superiority, fears nothing because he sees nothing,
and sees nothing because outside the walls there can not possibly be
anything worth looking at. Nicholson had torn down Stafford's imagined
security, and he stood aghast at his old insolent self-confidence as
reflected in Travers' smiling face.

"To be quite honest with you," the latter went on, after a moment's
pause, "I have very little faith in our dreadful danger. Admitted that
I led the Rajah on a more than doubtful speculation, admitted that
Miss Cary went further than she need have done, it is still most
unlikely that his injured feelings are going to lead him to such a
desperate step as to enter into conflict with the whole Empire.
Believe me, Stafford, the idea is ridiculous, and I have not the least
intention of throwing up my own hard-won security--"

It was a bad slip, and he knew it. Stafford, who had stood with his
face half averted, in an attitude of irresolution, swung round.

"Your security?" he echoed.

Travers shrugged his shoulders. He had made a mistake, but he saw no
reason to be afraid of Stafford or of any one in Marut.

"I said 'my security,'" he repeated.

Stafford clenched his fists. The expression on his gaunt, rugged face
showed that he had understood the full import of Travers' words.

"You blackguard!" he said under his breath.

Travers turned scarlet.

"Mind yourself, Captain Stafford. You may find yourself outside the
door quicker than you care for it!"

"You blackguard!" Stafford repeated furiously. "I haven't a better
name for you. You have simply humbugged me with your lies about Lois
and your devotion to her--"

Travers strode at him.

"How dare you!"

"Don't bluster, Travers! It can't hide what I see. You married Lois
for her money--"

"Hold your infernal tongue!"

"And now you are afraid. Well, you shall have some cause." He picked
up his helmet, which lay on the table. "I gave you my promise because
you assured me it was for Lois' happiness, and I believed you.
According to my ideas, both of them were better left in ignorance. I
did not know that you had your own motives--silly fool that I am!" He
turned to hurry from the room. Travers barred his way.

"What are you going to do?"

"I shall tell the Colonel the truth!"

"It will break his heart."

"I do not believe it. Out of the way, Travers!"

"And then?"

"Rajah Nehal Singh shall be told."

"Have you considered the consequences?"

"I have."

"Lois will be ruined!"

"_You_ will be ruined. Lois will have my protection, thank God!"

The two men faced each other an instant in silence. Travers' face
betrayed a curious complex emotion of desperation and shame. He had
been called a blackguard, and the word had stung like the cut of a
horse-whip. He had never believed it possible that any man should have
the right to use such a term--to him, the embodiment of geniality,
good-humor and good-nature. He did not believe even now that any
one had the right. He was not an unprincipled man--not in the sense
that he had ever consciously done wrong. He did not know what wrong
was--his one conception being an act putting him within reach of the
law; and of such an indiscretion he had never been guilty. Throughout
his scheming he had always pictured himself as a complaisant Napoleon
of finance, combining business with pleasure. His conduct toward Lois
had been based on this standpoint. He was genuinely fond of her, and is
there any law forbidding a man to lay firm hold upon his wife's money?
Yet Stafford had called him a blackguard, and Stafford was the world--the
world of respectability of which Travers had believed himself a gifted
member. For the moment the incomprehensible insult was more to him than
the coming danger to which his plans were put.

"You look at me as though I had committed a crime!" he exclaimed, in a
tone of injured protest.

"You have," Stafford answered steadily. "You have fooled me, playing
on my prejudices, and God knows what other weaknesses. I won't say
anything of that. I deserve my share of blame. But you have tricked
and deceived a woman. You have deceived an honorable man into a
dishonorable venture. You have brought disaster on your own country.
You are no more than a common adventurer. You are the parasite to whom
we owe all our misfortunes, and--"

"Stafford, take care!"

"Out of the way! I am going to put an end to it all!"

Travers flung the excited man back. Shame is a dangerous poison in the
blood of base natures. It is merely the precursor to a state of
absolute license where self-control, self-respect are flung to the
winds and the devil is set free to work his full, unchecked will.
Travers glared at Stafford, hating his upright bearing, his upright
indignation with a violence to which murder would have been the only
true expression.

"You are not going till I have your promise to hold your tongue!" he
said between his teeth.

Stafford flung the other's detaining hand from him. Freed from his
laming diseased conscience, and roused to activity, he acted like a
man of lightning determination and iron will.

"That you will never have, and you are a scoundrel to ask for it. As
you like--there are other exits than the door." He swung round and
made for the open window.

Travers did not stop him. He stood rooted to the spot, his hand on the
revolver which he carried at his side. The revolver had not been meant
for Stafford. Travers' quick eyes had caught sight of something
creeping slowly and stealthily up the verandah steps. He had seen the
flash of a knife, and a cry of warning had rushed to his lips. The cry
was never uttered. Devil and angel fought their last battle over
Travers' drifting, rudderless nature. The word "scoundrel" had been
the devil's winning cast.

"Go, then, and be damned to you!" Travers shrieked.

He saw Stafford reach the verandah steps. The stalwart khaki-clad figure
was photographed on his reeling brain. He heard the clank of a sword
against the first stone step. He tried to cry out--afterward he tried
to believe that he had cried out--but it was too late. The hidden
something which had crouched behind the heavy creepers sprang up--for
a short second seemed to tower above the unconscious officer--then a
gleam of light flashed down with the black hand. Stafford flung up his
arms, swung around, and fell face downward on the verandah. There was a
short, stifled groan, and then--and then only--Travers fired.

[Illustration: Then--and then only--Travers fired.]




CHAPTER VI

CLEARING AWAY THE RUBBISH


All the night following the momentous meeting of the Marut Diamond
Company Mrs. Cary had kept to her room, the door locked against her
daughter, and had sobbed and wailed in a manner befitting the victim
of a hard and undeserved fate.

But in reality hers was the rage of a clumsy workman who has cut
himself with his own tools. Her own child, her partner and co-worker,
had upset the erection of years. She saw themselves cast out of Marut;
she saw the desolate wandering over the earth's surface, this time
without the consolation and protection of wealth. For she knew that
Beatrice's confession was to go further. Beatrice had made the
announcement of her plans quietly but firmly as they had driven home
from the club-house.

"To-morrow everybody shall know everything there is to know," she had
said, and had remained obdurate to all her mother's commands and
pleadings. "I do consider you. I consider you even now. I mean to save
you and myself. But this time it must be in another way. Your scheming
has only brought us into deeper trouble. We must start afresh."

"But how? But how?" her mother had said, wringing her hands in
uncontrolled despair. "Where are we to start? How are we ever going to
make people believe in us, now we have no money?"

"It does not matter what people believe," Beatrice had replied. "With
our money and our lies we have been building mud-hovels, and now we
are going to build palaces. That's all that matters."

Mrs. Cary had not understood. She thought Beatrice had gone mad, and
knowing that with madness, reasoning is in vain, she shut herself up
in her room, pulled down the blinds, and believed by this ostrich-like
proceeding that she could keep off the inevitable moment when they
would have to be pulled up again and the cold, pitiless reality faced.

But Beatrice went her way undeterred. From Stafford's bungalow she
drove to the Travers'. The place was little more than an ill-cared-for
shanty, the garden overgrown with weeds, the rooms damp, ill-aired and
badly furnished, its reputation for misfortune phenomenal. Travers had
taken it as the only bungalow to be had for such a short period as he
intended to stay in Marut, and Lois had made no objection. Her energy
and determined striving after everything that was graceful and
beautiful was systematically crushed out of sight. She never
protested, never laid any difficulties in Travers' path. She seemed to
shrink into herself and live an invisible life of her own, leaving him
to go his way. She could not help him. She could build up nothing on a
character whose foundations were of shifting sand.

And never had she been more fully convinced of her own powerlessness
and of his absolute independence than after their brief and stormy
interview before Stafford's entry. She had felt how for a moment their
two diametrically opposed natures had faced each other. She had felt a
brief joyful satisfaction in at last coming to a hand-to-hand struggle
with him; but then, as usual, with a smile and an easy word he had
eluded her. So it had always been--so it would always be. Too late she
realized that she had thrown away her life upon a man who had no need
of her devotion. Too late she realized that all sacrifices are wasted
unless the ennobling of the sacrificer's character be considered. For
true happiness, true content and goodness can not be given. They must
be self-won, or they are no more than hothouse plants which shrivel
together in the cold blast of an east wind. Lois had sacrificed herself
to bring true happiness and content and goodness into Travers' life,
and had failed. She had failed all the more signally because she had
never loved him. She had loved Stafford--extraordinary and terrible as
it seemed to her, she still loved him. She could not root him out of her
life, and though his image was overshadowed by a greater and more noble
figure he retained his place.