Amy Prentice - "Mouser Cats' Story"

Compiled and edited by Elias Lönnrot - "The Kalevala"

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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'
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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




"You hesitate, Miss Dalton," said he at last. "Have you your old fear
about bloodshed?"

"I can not bear to risk such a sacrifice," said Edith.

"But one has a right to fly from slavery, and to destroy any one who
tries to prevent his escape."

"I can not," said Edith. "The blood that might be shed would stain all
my life. Better to endure my misery as best I can. It must become far
worse before I can consent to any thing so terrible as the death of a
fellow-being."

"You may yet consent even to that, may you not?"

"I don't know."

"Well, if you do, you have one on whom you can rely. At any rate, I do
not think there is any reason for you to fear downright cruelty here.
The law protects you from that, just as it protects a child. You are not
a captive in the hands of one of those old feudal barons whom we read
about. You are simply a ward under the control of a guardian--a thing
most odious to one like you, yet one which does not make you liable to
any physical evil. But this is poor comfort. I know that your position
will become more intolerable as time goes on; and, Miss Dalton, whenever
you can bear it no longer, remember that I am ready. Your only danger
would be if I should happen to be ordered out of England. But even then
I would order Barber to watch over you."

Edith sighed. Her future seemed dark indeed. The chance that Dudleigh
might be ordered to America or India filled her with new alarm.

Dudleigh rose to go.

"In six or eight weeks," said he, "I hope to come again. I shall never
forget you, but day and night I shall be planning for your happiness."

He took her hand as he said this. Edith noticed that the hand which held
hers was as cold as ice. He raised her hand and pressed it to his lips.

Soon after he left.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XXVI.


A THREATENING LETTER.

On the day after the departure of Dudleigh, Edith found a letter lying
on her table. It was addressed to her in that stiff, constrained hand
which she knew so well as belonging to that enemy of her life and of her
race--John Wiggins. With some curiosity as to the motive which he might
have in thus writing to her, she opened the letter, and read the
following:

"DEAR MISS DALTON,--I feel myself incapable of sustaining another
interview with you, and I am therefore reduced to the necessity of
writing.

"I have been deeply pained for a long time at the recklessness with
which you receive total strangers as visitors, and admit them to your
confidence. I have already warned you, but my warnings were received by
you in such a manner as to prevent my encountering another interview.

"I write now to inform you that for your own sake, your own future, and
your own good name, it is my fixed intention to put a stop to these
interviews. This must be done, whatever may be the cost. You must
understand from this that there is nothing left for you but to obey.

"If after this you allow these adventurers one single interview more, I
shall be under the unpleasant necessity of limiting your freedom to an
extent that may be painful to you, and even still more so to myself.

"Yours, JOHN WIGGINS."

Edith read this letter over and over again, with many mingled feelings.
Wiggins had left her so much to herself of late that she had begun to
count upon his continued inaction, and supposed that he was too much
afraid of Dudleigh to interfere, or to make any opposition whatever to
his visits. Now, however, she saw that he had made up his mind to
action, and she fully believed that he was not the man who would make
any idle menace.

The thing that offended Edith most in this letter was what she
considered its insolence. Its tone was that of a superior addressing an
inferior--a patron speaking to a dependent. At this all the stubborn
pride of Edith's nature was outraged, and rose in rebellion; but above
all was that pride stimulated by the word "obey."

She also saw in that letter the indications of an unpleasant development
of the policy of Wiggins, which would make her future darker than her
present was. Hitherto he had simply surrounded her with a barrier over
which she could not pass, admitting to her only those whom he wished, or
whom he could not keep away. But now she saw some approach made to a
more positive tyranny. There was a threat of limiting her freedom.
What that meant she could easily conjecture. Wiggins was evidently
dissatisfied with the liberty which she still had of walking over the
grounds. He now intended to confine her within the Hall--perhaps in her
own room.

This showed her what she had to expect in the future. The steps of her
tyrant's progress would be gradual, but terrible. First, perhaps she
would be confined to the Hall, then to her own rooms, and finally
perhaps to some small chamber--some cell--where she would live a living
death as long as her jailer might allow her.

In addition to this open show of tyranny, she also saw what seemed to
her the secret craft by which Wiggins had contrived an excuse for
further restraint. She considered Mowbray and Mrs. Mowbray as direct
agents of his. As for Dudleigh, she now though that Wiggins had not been
so much afraid of him as he had appeared to be, but had allowed him to
come so as to gain an excuse for further coercion. It was evident to
Edith that Dudleigh's transparent integrity of character and his ardent
espousal of her cause must be well known to Wiggins, and that he only
tolerated this visitor so as to gain a plausible pretext for putting her
under restraint.

That letter threw an additional gloom over Edith's life, and lent a
fresh misery to her situation. The prospect before her now was dark
indeed. She was in a prison-house, where her imprisonment seemed
destined to grow closer and closer. There was no reason why Wiggins
should spare her at all. Having so successfully shut her within the
grounds for so long a time, he would now be able to carry out any mode
of confinement which might be desirable to him. She had heard of people
being confined in private mad-houses, through the conspiracy of
relatives who coveted their property. Thus far she had believed these
stories to be wholly imaginary, but now she began to believe them true.
Her own case had shown her the possibility of unjust and illegal
imprisonment, and she had not yet been able to find out any mode of
escape. This place seemed now to be her future prison-house, where her
imprisonment would grow from bad to worse, and where she herself, under
the terrible struggle of feeling to which she would be subject, might
finally sink into a state of madness.

Such a prospect was terrible beyond words. It filled her with horror,
and she regarded her future with the most gloomy forebodings. In the
face of all this she had a sense of the most utter helplessness, and the
disappointments which she had thus far encountered only served to deepen
her dejection.

In the midst of all this there was one hope for her, and one only.

That solitary hope rested altogether on her friend Dudleigh. When he
last left her he had promised to come to her again in six or eight
weeks. This, then, was the only thing left, and to his return she looked
forward incessantly, with the most eager and impatient hope.

To her it now seemed a matter of secondary importance what might be her
own feelings toward Dudleigh. She felt confident of his love toward her,
and in the abhorrence with which she recoiled from the terrible future
which Wiggins was planning for her she was able to contemplate
Dudleigh's passion with complacency. She did not love the little man,
but if he could save her from the horror that rose before her, she
resolved to shrink from no sacrifice of feeling, but grant him whatever
reward he might claim.

Time passed. Six weeks were over, but there were no signs of Dudleigh.
The suspense of Edith now became terrible. She began to fear that
Wiggins had shut him out, and had refused to allow him to enter again.
If this were so, and if Dudleigh had submitted to such exclusion, then
all was indeed lost. But Edith would not yet believe it. She clung to
hope, and since he had said "six or eight weeks," she thought that she
might wait the extreme limit mentioned by him before yielding to
despair.

Eight weeks passed.

On the day when those weeks had expired Edith found herself in a fever
of suspense, devoured by the most intolerable impatience, with all her
thoughts and feelings now centred upon Dudleigh, and her last hope fixed
upon him only.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XXVII.


THE PROPOSAL.

Eight weeks passed.

Edith's impatience was uncontrollable. Thus far she had passed most of
the time in her own room; but now the confinement was more than she
could endure. She went out into the grounds, where she wandered day
after day, watching and listening, restlessly and feverishly, for the
approach of her friend. At length one day, as she was walking down the
avenue, a well-known figure came up advancing toward her, at sight of
which a thrill of joy passed through her. It was he. At last Little
Dudleigh!

In her great joy she did not seek to conceal her feelings, or to
maintain that reserve which thus far she had manifested in her
interviews with him. All this was thrown aside. Here stood at last her
one true friend, the one whose loss she had lamented, whose return she
had looked for so eagerly; the one friend coming to her through the
enemies who intervened. With a rapid step she advanced toward him. She
held out her hands, and pressed his warmly. Her lips quivered, tears
started to her eyes, but she did not speak.

"I am back again, Miss Dalton," said Little Dudleigh, joyously. "But how
changed you are! You have suffered. I see it in your face. What is the
matter? Has any thing new happened? Has that villain dared to offer
insult? Ah, why was I not here before? But I could not come. I came as
soon as I could."

Edith murmured a few words in reply, and then they walked together at a
slow pace along the avenue. Edith did not care to go back to the Hall,
where all was so gloomy, but preferred the fresh pure air, and the
cheering face of nature.

As they walked on together Edith recounted the events of her life since
she had last seen him. Now all her long pent-up feelings burst forth
without restraint. At last she had some one to whom she could confide
her sorrows, and she found it sweet to talk to one whom she knew to be
so full of sympathy. To all this Dudleigh listened with the profoundest
attention, and with visible agitation.

In all that she said and in all her manner Edith freely expressed the
joy that she felt at once more meeting with a friend so tried, so true,
so valued, in whom she could trust so implicitly, and from whom she
could find sympathy. She had struggled so long in silence and in
loneliness that Dudleigh's sympathy seemed doubly sweet.

When she ceased a long silence followed. Dudleigh's agitation still
continued. Several times he looked at her wistfully, inquiringly,
doubtfully, as if about to speak, and each time he hesitated. But at
last, with a strong effort, he spoke.

"I must say it, Miss Dalton," said he. "I am compelled to. I came here
this day--for the sole purpose of saying--something which--you--may be
unwilling to hear. I have hesitated long, and staid away longer on this
account, yet I must say it now. You are in a fearful position, Miss
Dalton. You are in the power of an unprincipled and a desperate man. I
feel for you most deeply. You are always in my thoughts. In order to
assist you I have done all that I could. I do not wish to make any
allusions to what I have done, but rather to what I have felt, and shall
feel. You have become very dear to me. I know I am not worthy of you.
You are above me. I am only a humble lieutenant; you are the lady of
Dalton Hall; but I can not bear to--to go away and leave one whom I love
in the power of a villain. Dare I offer you my protection? Will it be
too much to ask you to be mine? I do not hope that you can look upon me
just yet with any such feelings as love, but I see that you treat me as
a friend, and you have honored me with your confidence. I have never
said any thing about my love to you, but perhaps you have not been
altogether without suspicion about it. Had I found Sir Lionel, or had I
thought that he was at all accessible, I would never have made my humble
confession until you were in a different position. I am ashamed to make
it now, for though I know that you would not suspect me of any thing
base, yet it looks as if I were taking advantage of your necessities.
But I know that to a mind like yours such a suspicion would never come;
and I am comforted by the thought that if you do listen to my request it
will lead, to your safety. I think, too, that if it were possible for
you to consent, even if you felt no very tender sentiment toward me, you
would have from me a devotion such as few others are capable of feeling.
Under such circumstances you might not be altogether unhappy."

All this Dudleigh had spoken with feverish rapidity, and with every sign
of the strongest agitation, occasionally stopping, and then resuming his
remarks in a headlong way. But if he had felt agitation, Edith had felt
at least quite as much. At the first mention of his proposal her head
sank forward, and she looked fixedly upon the ground with downcast eyes,
while her tears fell abundantly. She said nothing. Dudleigh in his
frequent pauses seemed to expect that she would say something, but she
did not.

Edith's feelings were of the most distressing kind. She had, of course,
anticipated something like this, but had never yet been able to decide
what she should do in the event of such a confession. She did not love
him. Her feelings toward him were of a totally different kind. It seemed
to her that such a feeling as love could never by any possibility be
felt by her for him. And yet she had a very strong regard for him. His
society was very pleasant to her. She would have done much and
sacrificed much for his sake. But to be his wife, that was a thing which
seemed odious.

Yet what could she do! Her position was intolerable and full of peril.
If she were his wife, in one moment she would be safe, free, and under
the protection of one who loved her with utter devotion. True, she had
no such sentiment toward him as a wife should have for a husband, but he
himself was aware of that, and in spite of that was willing, nay, eager,
to take her. She was touched to the heart by his self-depreciation and
profound respect.

Then, again, she thought, ought not he himself to be considered? Had he
no claims? He had given himself up to her; he had done much for her. He
had offered again and again to give up his life for her. Ought not such
rare devotion to meet with some reward? And what reward could she ever
give? There was only one which he wanted--herself. Could she refuse him
that?

Dudleigh said not another word, and in that long and most embarrassing
silence he looked away so as not to add to her confusion. Edith did not
know what to do or say. Could she refuse him? Then how ungrateful she
would be to her best friend! But if he should leave her? What then? A
life of despair! The complete triumph of Wiggins. A living death.

Was it at all singular that she recoiled from such an alternative? She
could not endure this captivity any longer. And was it, then, so
dreadful to give herself to the man who adored her? No. If she did not
love him, she at least had a strong friendship, and this in time might
change to love. She had a greater regard for him than for any other
man. Distasteful? It was. Yes. But it was far better than this
imprisonment. She must take him as her husband, or lose him forever. He
could do no more for her unless she became his wife. He could only save
her by marrying her.

She was touched by his present attitude. He was waiting so patiently,
so humbly. She saw his deep agitation.

Suddenly, by a quick movement, she turned toward him and held out her
hand. Dudleigh took it, and for a moment each gazed into the other's
eyes, regardless of observation. Dudleigh's face was deathly pale, and
his hand as cold as ice.

"Oh, my friend," said Edith, in a low, hesitating voice, "what can I say
to you? I can not give you love. I have no such feeling, but I feel
deep gratitude. I know your worth. You have done so much, and I wish I
could feel different. If you take me as I am, I--I--I am--yours. But I
am not worthy. No, I am not--not worthy of such devotion. You love me,
but I do not love you. What can I do? Yet in spite of this, if you ask
me, I am--yours."

Edith spoke with downcast eyes and deep embarrassment and frequent
hesitation. Her last words died away almost into a whisper. But the
agitation of Dudleigh was now even greater than her own. A change came
over him that was terrible to witness. As he took her hand he trembled,
almost convulsively, from head to foot. His face became ghastly white,
he pressed his hand against his heart, his breathing was thick and
oppressed, big drops of perspiration started forth upon his brow, and at
last, to Edith's amazement, he burst into tears, and sobbed aloud. Then
he dropped her hand, and turned away, murmuring some inarticulate words.

At this Edith's confusion passed away, and changed to wonder. What was
the meaning of this? Tears and sobs--and from a man! But the thought at
once occurred that this was his sensitiveness, and that it arose from
her telling him so plainly that she did not love him. "I can not love
him, and he knows it," she thought, "and it breaks his heart, poor
fellow! How I wish I could console him!"

Suddenly Dudleigh dashed his hand across his eyes, and walked swiftly
onward. Edith followed as fast as she could, keeping him in sight, but
falling farther and farther behind. At length he turned and came back
to meet her. His eyes were downcast, and there was misery unspeakable on
his white face. As he came up to her he held out his hand, and looked at
her with a strange, woful gaze.

Edith took the hand which he held out.

"Miss Dalton," said he, "you said you would be mine."

[Illustration: "THEN HE DROPPED HER HAND, AND TURNED AWAY."]

Edith's lips moved, but no sound escaped them.

"All that you have said, Miss Dalton," he continued, "I feel most
deeply, most keenly; but how else could it have been? Yet if you will
indeed be mine, I will give you my love and gratitude. I will save you
from--from danger; I will--will--bless you." He stopped, and looked at
her with quivering lips, while an expression of agony came across his
face.

But Edith's eyes were downcast now, and she did not see this new anguish
of his; her own distress was too great.

Dudleigh dropped her hand again.

"Where shall it be?" said he, hurriedly and nervously. "It can not be in
the Hall. Will you venture to pass the gates with me?--I will force my
way through--or are you afraid?"

"I can not consent to bloodshed," said Edith.

"I thought of that," said Dudleigh, "and I have one more plan--if you
will only consent. It is not much to you who have suffered so much. It
will make your way to freedom easy. Can we not meet in the park
somewhere--in some secluded place?"

"In the park?" repeated Edith, abstractedly.

"I can bring a clergyman inside," said Dudleigh, in a low voice.

Edith shuddered. The idea was not yet less repugnant than it had been.
But she had consented, and here was this man--her only friend, her
adorer--with all his love and devotion. If she did not love him, she
must pity him. She had also given her word. As to the way in which this
promise might be carried out, it was a matter of indifference. At any
rate, she would escape from her hateful prison. And what mattered it
how, or where, or when the ceremony might be performed?

"Oh, Miss Dalton," said Dudleigh, "forgive me! forgive me! I must go
away in two days. Could you consent to let this be--tomorrow?"

Edith made no reply. She trembled. Her head sank down lower.

"There is one place," said Dudleigh, and then hesitated. Edith said
nothing. There was anguish in her face and in her heart.

"The chapel--"

"The chapel," she repeated, dreamily.

"It is hidden among the trees. Do you know it? It is away from all
observation."

Edith bowed her head. She knew it well. It was off the main avenue--not
far away from the Hall.

"Can you get out of the house after dark?" said Dudleigh, in a feverish
whisper. "It must be after dark, and we must be unobserved. For if
Wiggins were to see us he would come as your guardian, and take you
back, and shut you up--perhaps for life."

This suggestion about Wiggins chimed in with Edith's own fears. It made
her desperate. The marriage seemed less abhorrent; it was eclipsed by
the horrors of imprisonment for life. Discovery now--after that last
threat of his--would bring a closer restraint, stricter imprisonment,
the loss of all hope.

"I can get out," she said, hurriedly.

"Where shall I find you?"

"There is a private door at the east end--"

"I know the door."

"I can get out through that. No one will think of my leaving the Hall
after dark."

"I will meet you there."

Edith sighed heavily.

"To-morrow evening," said Dudleigh, "at ten o'clock. It will be dark
then. Will you meet me?"

"I will," said Edith, calmly.

"I shall only hope, then," said he, "that no new restraint may be
imposed upon you to prevent your coming. And now I will go--to meet you
to-morrow."

He seized her hand in his icy grasp, wrung it convulsively, and bowing
with his pallid face, walked quickly away.

There was a weight on Edith's heart; but in spite of this, Dudleigh's
last look, his agitated manner, and his deep love filled her with pity,
and made her anxious to carry out her act of self-sacrifice for so dear
and so true a friend.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XXVIII.


A MARRIAGE IN THE DARK.

The chapel referred to was a sombre edifice over the graves of the
Daltons. Beneath it were the vaults where reposed the remains of Edith's
ancestors. The chapel was used for the celebration of burial rites. It
was in this place that the marriage was to take place. Edith, in her
gloom, thought the place an appropriate one. Let the marriage be there,
she thought--in that place where never anything but burials has been
known before. Could she have changed the one service into the other, she
would have done so.

And yet she would not go back, for it was the least of two evils. The
other alternative was captivity under the iron hand of Wiggins--Wiggins
the adventurer, the forger, the betrayer of her father, whose power over
herself was a perpetual insult to that father's memory--a thing
intolerable, a thing of horror. Why should she not give herself to the
man who loved her, even if her own love was wanting, when such an act
would free her from so accursed a tyranny?

[Illustration: "SHE SAW THROUGH THE GLOOM A FIGURE"]

Agitated and excited, she lingered through the hours of the day after
parting with Dudleigh. Night came, but brought no rest; and the
following day dawned, and the irrevocable hour drew nigh. That day was
one filled with strange fears, chief among which was the thought that
Wiggins might discover all, or suspect it, and arrest her flight. But
time passed, and evening came, and Wiggins had done nothing.

All was still. The house was always still, and surrounded her--a vast
solitude. Mrs. Dunbar was in her own room: it was always her habit to
retire early. Wiggins was far away, at the west end of the Hall. Hugo
was in his remote quarters in the attic. The vigilance which her keepers
maintained by day was relaxed at night, for they never suspected her of
any design of leaving the house after dark. Her interview with Dudleigh
must have been seen and reported, but no action that she was aware of
had been taken. Perhaps Wiggins was waiting for him to make another
call, when he would step forth and formally lock her up in her room.

And now, as Edith prepared to carry her plan into execution, there was
nothing all around but the most profound stillness. Underneath the
story on which her room was there extended a hall, at the east end of
which there was a private stairway leading down to a small door which
opened out into the park. Leaving her room noiselessly, she descended to
the lower hall, traversed it, and descended the stairway to the door. It
was secured by a bolt only. This she drew back as noiselessly as
possible--not, however, without an unpleasantly loud grating sound. The
door opened without much difficulty. She passed through it. She shut it
after her. Then she turned to step down upon the grass. She saw through
the gloom a figure. She recognized it. It was Dudleigh.

He held out his hand and took hers. As before, his hand was icy cold,
and he trembled violently, but Edith also was trembling with excitement
and agitation, and was therefore too much taken up with her own feelings
to notice those of others. Dudleigh did not say a word, but started off
at once, leading her by the hand.