William N. Harben - "The Land of the Changing Sun"

George Bernard Shaw - "Press Cuttings"

Mark Rutherford - "More Pages from a Journal"

Willam Patten (Editor) - "The Junior Classics, V4"

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 Living Link

J >> James De Mille >> The Living Link




Edith was silent.

Mowbray said no more. He turned her horse and led it back. Edith
looked around wildly. Suddenly, as they came near the gates, the
intolerable thought of her renewed imprisonment maddened her, and the
liberty which she had so nearly gained roused her to one more effort;
and so, with a start, she disengaged herself and leaped to the ground.
Mowbray saw it, and, with a terrible oath, in an instant leaped down and
gave chase. The horses ran forward and entered the gates.

Edith held up her long skirts and ran toward the village. But again
Mowbray was too much for her. He overtook her, and seizing her by the
wrist, dragged her back.

Edith shrieked for help at the top of her voice. Mowbray looked
fiercely around, and seeing no one, he took his handkerchief and bound
it tightly around her month. Then, overcome by despair, Edith's
strength gave way. She sank down. She made no more resistance. She
fainted.

Mowbray raised her in his arms, and carried her into the porter's lodge.
The gates were then locked.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XVIII.


A STRANGE CONFESSION.

Edith came to herself in the porter's lodge. Her re-awakened eyes, in
looking up confusedly, saw the hateful face of Mowbray bending over her.
At once she realized the horror of her position, and all the incidents
of her late adventure came vividly before her mind. Starting up as
quickly as her feeble limbs would allow, she indignantly motioned him
away.

Mowbray, without a word, stepped back and looked down.

Edith staggered to her feet.

"Miss Dalton," said Mowbray, in a low voice, "your carriage has been
sent for. It is here, and will take you to the Hall."

Edith made no reply, but looked absently toward the door.

"Miss Dalton," said Mowbray, coming a little nearer, "I implore you to
hear me. I would kneel at your feet if you would let me. But you are
so imbittered against me now that it would be useless. Miss Dalton, it
was not hate that made me raise my hand against you. Miss Dalton, I
swear that you are more dear to me than life itself. A few moments ago
I was mad, and did not know what I was doing. I did not want you to go
away from this place, for I saw that you would be lost to me forever. I
saw that you hated me, and that if you went away just then I should lose
you. And I was almost out of my senses. I had no time to think of any
thing but the bitter loss that was before me, and as you fled I seized
you, not in anger, but in excitement and fear, just as I would have
seized you if you had been drowning."

"Captain Mowbray," said Edith, sternly, "the violence you have offered
me is enough to satisfy even you, without such insult as this."

"Will you not even listen to me?"

"Listen!" exclaimed Edith, in an indescribable tone.

"Then I must be heard. I love you. I--"

"Love!" interrupted Edith, in a tone of unutterable contempt.

"Yes, love," repeated Mowbray, vehemently, "from the first time that I
saw you, when you implored my help."

"And why did you not give me your help?" asked Edith, looking at him in
cold and haughty indignation.

"I will tell you," said Mowbray. "Before I saw you I knew how you were
situated. Wiggins would have kept me away, but dared not. I know that
about him which makes me his master. When I saw you, I loved you with
all my soul. When you appealed to me, I would have responded at once,
but could not. The fact is, Mrs. Mowbray was present. Mrs. Mowbray is
not what she appears to be. Before her I had to pretend an indifference
that I did not feel. In short, I had to make myself appear a base
coward. In fact, I had to be on my guard, so as not to excite her
suspicions of my feelings. Afterward, when I might have redeemed my
character in your eyes, I did not know how to begin. Then, too, I was
afraid to help you to escape, for I saw that you hated me, and my only
hope was to keep you here till you might know me better."

"Captain Mowbray," said Edith, "if you are a captain, which I doubt,
such explanations as these are paltry. After what you have done, the
only thing left is silence."

"Oh, Miss Dalton, will nothing lead you to listen to me? I would lay
down my life, to serve you."

"You still wish to serve me; then?" asked Edith.

"Most fervently," cried Mowbray.

"Then open that gate," said Edith.

Mowbray hesitated.

"Open that gate," said Edith, "and prove your sincerity. Open it, and
efface these marks," she cried, as she indignantly held up her right
hand, and showed her wrist, all black from the fierce grasp in which
Mowbray had seized it. "Open it, and I promise you I will listen
patiently to all that you may have to say."

"Miss Dalton," said Mowbray, "if I opened that gate I should never see
you again."

"You will never see me again if you do
not."

"At least I shall be near you."

"Near me? Yes, and hated and despised. I will call on Wiggins himself to
help me. He was right; he said the time would come when I would be
willing to trust him."

"Trust him? What, that man? You don't know what he is."

"And what are you, Captain Mowbray?"

"I? I am a gentleman."

"Oh no," said Edith, quietly, "not that--any thing rather than that."

At this Mowbray's face flushed crimson, but with a violent effort he
repressed his passion.

"Miss Dalton," said he, "it is a thing that you might understand. The
fear of losing you made me desperate. I saw in your flight the loss of
all my hopes."

"And where are those hopes now?"

"Well, at any rate, I have not altogether lost you. Let me hope that I
may have an opportunity to explain hereafter, and to retrieve my
character. Miss Dalton, a woman will sometimes forgive offenses even
against herself, when she knows that they are prompted by love."

"You seem to me," said Edith, "to seek the affections of women as you do
those of dogs--by beating them soundly."

The sight of Mowbray's dog, who was in the room, reminded Edith of the
master's maxim which he had uttered before this memorable ride.

"Miss Dalton, you do me such wrong that you crush me. Can you not have
some mercy?"

"Open the gate," said Edith. "Do that one thing, and then you may make
all the explanations you wish. I will listen to anything and everything.
Open the gate, and I will promise to forgive, and even to forget, the
unparalleled outrage that I have suffered."

"But you will leave me forever."

"Open that gate, Captain Mowbray. Prove yourself to be what you say--do
something to atone for your base conduct--and then you will have claims
on my gratitude which I shall always acknowledge."

Mowbray shook his head.

"Can I let you go?" he said. "Do you ask it of me?"

"No," said Edith, impatiently, "I don't ask it. I neither hope nor ask
for any thing from you. Wiggins himself is more promising. At any rate,
he has not as yet used absolute violence, and, what is better, he does
not intrude his society where it is not wanted."

"Then I have no hope," said Mowbray, in what was intended to be a
plaintive tone.

"I'm sure I don't know," said Edith, "but I know this--that the time
will surely come, after all, when I shall get my freedom, and then,
Captain Mowbray, you will rue the day when you dared to lay hands on me.
Yes, I could get my freedom now, I suppose, if I were to parley with
Wiggins, to bribe him heavily enough; and I assure you I am tempted now
to give up the half of my estate, so as to get free and have you
punished."

Mowbray turned pale.

"There were no witnesses," said he, hastily.

"You forget that the porter saw it all. But this is useless," she added;
and passing by Mowbray, she went to the door. Outside was a carriage,
which the porter had brought down from the Hall, into which she got, and
then drove away, while Mowbray stood looking at her till she drove out
of sight.

The effects of this adventure were felt for some time. Excitement,
fatigue, pain, and grief, all affected Edith, so that she could not
leave her room for weeks. Mrs. Dunbar was assiduous in her attentions,
and Edith supposed that both she and Wiggins knew all about it, as the
porter would undoubtedly have informed them; but her communications with
her were limited only to a few words, and she regarded her with nothing
but distrust. In Mrs. Dunbar's manner, also, she saw something which
indicated a fresh trouble, something which had been manifested by her
ever since Mowbray's first appearance, and which Edith now suspected to
be the result of Mowbray's violence. This led to vain speculations on
her part which he had uttered before this memorable as to the mysterious
connection that existed between her jailers. Mowbray professed to be
the enemy and the master of Wiggins. Her remembrance of Wiggins's look
of hate made her think that this was true. But Mrs. Dunbar she did not
believe to be an enemy of Mowbray's; and the porter, who was the
incorruptible servant of Wiggins, seemed equally devoted to Mowbray.

She recalled also Mowbray's words to herself in explanation of his own
course. He had asserted that he had the power over Wiggins from some
knowledge which he possessed, and also that Mrs. Mowbray was not what
she appeared to be. He had spoken as though he was afraid of Mrs.
Mowbray's finding out what he called his love for Edith. Was she his
mother, then, at all? What did it all mean? For Edith, at any rate, it
was not possible to understand it, and the character, motives, and
mutual relationship of all those with whom she had come in contact
remained an impenetrable mystery.

To the surprise of Edith, the Mowbrays called several times to make
inquiries about her, and after her recovery they still visited her. At
first she refused to see them, but one day Mrs. Mowbray came alone, and
Edith determined to see her, and get rid of her effectually.

Mrs. Mowbray rose as she entered, and advancing to greet her, held out
her hand with a cordial smile. Edith did not take it, yet Mrs. Mowbray
took no offense, but, on the contrary, met her in the most effusive
manner.

"Oh, my dear Miss Dalton," said she, "what an age it has been since we
met! It seems like years! And when I wanted to see you so
par--tic--u--lar-ly! And are you quite well? Have you quite recovered?
Are you sure? How glad I am!"

"Mrs. Mowbray," said Edith, as soon as she could make herself heard, "I
have sent word to you several times that I do not wish to see you again.
You know the reason why as well as I do. I can only say that I am
surprised at this persistence, and shall in future be under the
necessity of shutting my doors against you."

Thus Edith, in spite of her severe afflictions, could still speak of the
place as hers, and under her orders.

"Oh, my dear Miss Dalton," burst forth Mrs. Mowbray, "that is the very
reason why I have so in--sist--ed on seeing you. To explain, you
know--for there is nothing like an explanation."

"You may spare yourself the trouble," said Edith. "I do not want any
more explanations."

"Oh, but you positively must, you know," said Mrs. Mowbray, in her most
airy manner.

"Pardon me. I wish to hear nothing whatever about it."

"It's that sad, sad boy," said Mrs. Mowbray, coolly ignoring Edith's
words, "and deeply has he repented. But do you know, dear, it was only
his fondness for you. Pos--i--tive--ly nothing else, dear, but his
fondness for you. Oh, how he has talked about it! He says he is willing
to give up his right eye, or hand--I really forget which--to recall the
past. My poor dear boy is very impetuous."

"Mrs. Mowbray, I do not wish to be unkind or rude, but you really force
me to it."

"He's impetuous," said Mrs. Mowbray, without noticing Edith, "but he's
warm-hearted. He's a most affectionate son, and he is so affectionate
toward you. It's all his fondness for you."

"Mrs. Mowbray, this is intolerable."

"Oh, Miss Dalton, you don't know--you really don't know. He has loved
you ever since he first saw you--and so true! Why, he dotes on you. He
was afraid that he would lose you. You know, that was the reason, why he
interfered. But he says now most distinctly that he thinks his
interference was quite un--war--rant--a--ble--quite, I assure you; my
dear Miss Dalton."

Edith sat looking at this insolent woman with a clouded brow, not
knowing whether to order her out of the house or not. But Mrs. Mowbray
seemed beautifully unconscious of any offense.

"The only thing that he has been talking about ever since it happened,"
she continued, "is his sorrow. Oh, his sorrow! And it is deep, Miss
Dalton. I never saw such deep sorrow. He really swears about it in a
shocking manner; and that with him is a sign that his feelings are
concerned very strongly. He always swears whenever he is deeply moved."

Edith at this started to her feet with a look in her eyes which showed
Mrs. Mowbray that she would not be trifled with any longer.

"Mrs. Mowbray," said she, "I came down for the sole purpose of telling
you that in future I shall dispense with the pleasure of your calls."

Mrs. Mowbray rose from her chair.

"What!" she exclaimed, with a gesture of consternation; "and live in
complete seclusion? Not receive calls? No, no; you really must not think
of such a thing. We are your friends, you know, and you must not deny us
an occasional sight of you. My poor boy will positively die if he
doesn't see you. He's pining now. And it's all for you. All."

"Mrs. Mowbray," said Edith, in a severe tone, "I do not know whether you
give offense intentionally or not. You seem unable to take a hint,
however strongly expressed, and you force me to speak plainly, although
I dislike to do so. You must not, and you shall not, come here any
more."

"Oh, my dear Miss Dalton, you really are quite excited," said Mrs.
Mowbray, with a pleasant smile.

"I mean what I say," said Edith, coldly. "You are not--to come here
again."

Mrs. Mowbray laughed lightly.

"Oh, you really can't keep us away. We positively must come. My son
insists. These lovers, you know, dear, are so pertinacious. Well," she
added, looking hastily at Edith, "I suppose I must say good--morning;
but, Miss Dalton, think of my boy. Good--morning, my dear Miss Dalton."

And so Mrs. Mowbray retired.

She called again four times, twice alone, and twice in company with the
captain, but Edith refused to see her. Yet, after all, in spite of her
scorn for these people, and her conviction that they were in league with
Wiggins--in spite of the captain's brutality--it was not without sorrow
that Edith dismissed Mrs. Mowbray; for she looked upon her as a kind of
tie that bound her to the outer world, and until the last she had hoped
that some means might arise through these, if not of escape, at least of
communication with friends.

But she was cut off from these now more than ever; and what remained?

What? A prison-house!

* * * * *




CHAPTER XIX.


A NEW-COMER.

It seemed now to Edith that her isolation was complete. She found
herself in a position which she had thought impossible in free
England--a prisoner in the hands of an adventurer, who usurped an
authority over her to which he had no right. His claim to exercise this
authority in his office of guardian she did not admit for a moment.
She, the mistress of Dalton Hall, was nothing more than a captive on her
own estates.

She did not know how this could end or when it could end. Her hopes had
one by one given way. The greatest blow of all was that which had been
administered through the so-called letter of Miss Plympton. That letter
she believed to be a forgery, yet the undeniable fact remained that Miss
Plympton had done nothing. That Miss Plympton should write that letter,
however, and that she should leave her helpless at the mercy of Wiggins,
seemed equally improbable, and Edith, in her vain effort to comprehend
it, could only conclude that some accident had happened to her dear
friend; that she was ill, or worse. And if this was so, it would be to
her the worst blow of all.

Other hopes which she had formed had also been doomed to destruction.
She had expected something from the spontaneous sympathy of the outside
world; who, whatever their opinion about her father, would stir
themselves to prevent such an outrage upon justice as that which Wiggins
was perpetrating. But these hopes gradually died out. That world, she
thought, was perhaps ignorant not only of her situation, but even of her
very existence. The last hopes that she had formed had been in the
Mowbrays, and these had gone the way of all the others.

Nothing appeared before her in the way of hope, and her despondency was
often hard to endure. Still her strong spirit and high-toned nature
rendered it impossible for her to be miserable always. Added to this was
her perfect health, which, with one interruption, had sustained her
amidst the distresses of her situation. By her very disposition she was
forced to hope for the best. It must not be supposed that she was at
all like "Mariana in the moated grange." She did not pine away. On the
contrary, she often felt a kind of triumph in the thought that she had
thus far shown the spirit of a Dalton.

There was an old legend in the Dalton family upon which great stress had
been laid for many generations, and this one stood out prominently among
all the stories of ancestral exploits which she had heard in her
childhood. One of the first Daltons, whose grim figure looked down upon
her now in the armor of a Crusader, had taken part in the great
expedition under Richard Coeur de Lion. It happened that he had the ill
luck to fall into the hands of the infidel, but as there were a number
of other prisoners, there was some confusion, and early one morning he
managed to seize a horse and escape. Soon he was pursued. He dashed over
a wide plain toward some hills that arose in the distance, where he
managed to elude his pursuers for a time, until he found refuge upon a
cliff, where there was a small place which afforded room for one or two.
After some search his pursuers discovered him, and ordered him to come
down. He refused. They then began an attack, shooting arrows from a
distance, and trying to scale the cliff. But Dalton's defense was so
vigorous that by the end of that day's fight he had killed eight of his
assailants. Then the contest continued. For two days, under a burning
sun, without food or drink, the stern old Crusader defended himself.
When summoned to surrender he had only one word, and that was, "Never!"
It happened that a band of Crusaders who were scouring the country
caught sight of the Saracens, and made an attack upon them, putting them
to flight. They then sought for the object of this extraordinary siege,
and, climbing up, they saw a sight which thrilled them as they gazed.
For there lay stout old Michael Dalton, with many wounds, holding a
broken sword, and looking at them with delirious eyes. He recognized no
one, but tried to defend himself against his own friends. It was with
difficulty that they restrained him. They could not remove him, nor was
it necessary, for death was near; but till the last his hand clutched
the broken sword, and the only word he said was, "Never!" The Crusaders
waited till he was dead, and then took his remains to the camp. The
story of his defense, which was gathered from their prisoners, rang
through the whole camp, and always afterward the crest of the Daltons
was a bloody hand holding a broken sword, with the motto, "Never!"

And so Edith took to her heart this story and this motto, and whenever
she looked at the grim old Crusader, she clinched her own little hand
and said, "Never!"

She determined to use what liberty she had; and since Wiggins watched
all her movements, to show him how unconcerned she was, she began to go
about the grounds, to take long walks in all directions, and whenever
she returned to the house, to play for hours upon the piano. Her
determination to keep up her courage had the effect of keeping down her
despondency, and her vigorous exercise was an unmixed benefit, so that
there was a radiant beauty in her face, and a haughty dignity that made
her look like the absolute mistress of the place.

What Wiggins felt or thought she did not know. He never came across her
path by any chance. Occasional glimpses of the ever-watchful Hugo showed
her that she was tracked with as jealous a vigilance as ever. She hoped,
however, that by her incessant activity something might result to her
advantage.

One day while she was strolling down the grand avenue she saw a stranger
walking up, and saw, to her surprise, that he was a gentleman. The face
was altogether unknown to her, and, full of hope, she waited for him to
come up.

"Have I the honor of addressing Miss Dalton?" said the stranger, as he
reached her. He spoke in a very pleasant but somewhat effeminate voice,
lifting his hat, and bowing with profound courtesy.

"I am Miss Dalton," said Edith, wondering who the stranger might be.

He was quite a small, slight man, evidently young; his cheeks were
beardless; he had a thick dark mustache; and his small hands and feet
gave to Edith the idea of a delicate, fastidious sort of a man, which
was heightened by his very neat and careful dress. On the whole,
however, he seemed to be a gentleman, and his deep courtesy was grateful
in the extreme to one who had known so much rudeness from others.

His complexion was quite dark, his eyes were very brilliant and
expressive, and his appearance was decidedly effeminate. Edith felt a
half contempt for him, but in a moment she reflected how appearances may
mislead, for was not the magnificent Mowbray a villain and a coward?

"Allow me, Miss Dalton," said he, "to introduce myself. I am Lieutenant
Dudleigh, of ---- ----."

"Dudleigh!" cried Edith, in great excitement. "Are you any relation to
Sir Lionel?"

"Well, not very close. I belong to the same family, it is true; but Sir
Lionel is more to me than a relation. He is my best friend and
benefactor."

"And do you know any thing about him?" cried Edith, in irrepressible
eagerness. "Can you tell me any thing?"

"Oh yes," said Dudleigh, with a smile. "I certainly ought to be able to
do that. I suppose I know as much about him as any one. But what is the
meaning of all this that I find here," he continued, suddenly changing
the conversation--"that ruffian of a porter--the gates boarded up and
barred so jealously? It seems to me as if your friends should bring
pistols whenever they come to make a call."

Dudleigh had a gay, open, careless tone. His voice was round and full,
yet still it was effeminate. In spite of this, however, Edith was, on
the whole, pleased with him. The remote relationship which he professed
to bear to Sir Lionel, his claim that Sir Lionel was his friend, and the
name that he gave himself, all made him seem to Edith like a true
friend. Of Sir Lionel and his family she knew nothing whatever; she knew
not whether he had ever had any children or not; nor did she ever know
his disposition; but she had always accustomed herself to think of him
as her only relative, and her last resort, so that this man's
acquaintance with him made him doubly welcome.

"What you mention," said she, in answer to his last remark, "is a thing
over which I have not the smallest control. There is a man here who has
contrived to place me in so painful a position that I am a prisoner in
my own grounds."

"A prisoner!" said Dudleigh, in a tone of the deepest surprise. "I do
not understand you."

"He keeps the gates locked," said Edith, "refuses to let me out, and
watches every thing that I do."

"What do you mean? I really can not understand you. No one has any right
to do that. How does he dare to do it? He couldn't treat you worse if he
were your husband."

"Well, he pretends that he is my guardian, and declares that he has the
same right over me as if he were my father."

"But, Miss Dalton, what nonsense this is! You can not be in
earnest--and yet you must be."

"In earnest!" repeated Edith, with vehemence. "Oh, Lieutenant Dudleigh,
this is the sorrow of my life--so much so that I throw myself upon the
sympathy of a perfect stranger. I am desperate, and ready to do any
thing to escape--"

"Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, solemnly, "your wrongs must be great
indeed if this is so. Your guardian! But what then? Does that give him
the right to be your jailer?"

"He takes the right."

"Who is this man?"

"His name is Wiggins."

"Wiggins? Wiggins? Why, it must be the steward. Wiggins? Why, I saw him
yesterday. Wiggins? What! That scoundrel? that blackleg? that villain
who was horsewhipped at Epsom? Why, the man is almost an outlaw. It
seemed to me incredible when I heard he was steward here; but when you
tell me that he is your guardian it really is too much. It must be some
scoundrelly trick of his--some forgery of documents."

"So I believe," said Edith, "and so I told him to his own face. But how
did you get in here? Wiggins never allows any one to come here but his
own friends."

"Well," said Dudleigh, "I did have a little difficulty, but not much--it
was rather of a preliminary character. The fact is, I came here more
than a week ago on a kind of tour. I heard of Dalton Hall, and
understood enough of Sir Lionel's affairs to know that you were his
niece; and as there had been an old difficulty, I thought I couldn't do
better than call and see what sort of a person you were, so as to judge
whether a reconciliation might not be brought about. I came here three
days ago, and that beggar of a porter wouldn't let me in. The next day I
came back, and found Wiggins, and had some talk with him. He said
something or other about your grief and seclusion and so forth; but I
knew the scoundrel was lying, so I just said to him, 'See here now,
Wiggins, I know you of old, and there is one little affair of yours that
I know all about--you understand what I mean. You think you are all safe
here; but there are some people who could put you to no end of trouble
if they chose. I'm going in through those gates, and you must open
them.' That's what I told him, and when I came to-day the gates were
opened for me. But do you really mean to say that this villain prevents
your going out?"