Various editors - "The New Hacker's Dictionary version 4.2.2"

James De Mille - "Lost in the Fog"

Anatole France - "Monsieur Bergeret a Paris"

Richard Harding Davis - "Notes of a War Correspondent"

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




Having reached this conclusion, she began a diligent search among all
the articles at her disposal, and finally concluded that the bed-cord
would be exactly what she needed. In addition to this, however,
something more was required--something of the nature of a grapple or
hook to secure her rope-ladder to the top of the wall. This required a
further search, but in this also she was successful. An iron rod on the
curtain pole along which the curtains ran appeared to her to be well
suited to her needs. It was about six feet long and a quarter of an inch
thick. The rod rested loosely on the pole, and Edith was able to remove
it without difficulty.

All these preliminaries had been arranged or decided upon before this
evening, and Edith had now only to take possession of the rod and the
rope, and adapt them to her wants. For this purpose she waited till
dark, and then began her work.

It was moonlight, and she was able to work without lighting a lamp, thus
securing additional secrecy. This moonlight was both an advantage and a
disadvantage, and she did not know whether to be glad or sorry about it.
It certainly facilitated her escape by showing the way, but then, on the
other hand, it rendered discovery easier.

Edith set to work, and, first of all, she removed the bed-cord. It was
as strong as was desirable, and far longer than was necessary. She
doubled part of this, and tied knots at intervals of about a foot, and
in this simple way formed what was a very good step-ladder about three
yards long, which was sufficient for her purpose. Then she removed the
iron curtain rod, and bent this in such a way that it formed a hook or
grapple strong enough for her wants. She thus had a rope-ladder, with a
grappling-iron attached, of rude construction, it is true, yet perfectly
well suited to the task before her, and so light as to be quite
portable.

These preparations did not take up much time. After taking what she
wanted of the bed-cord, there was enough left to replace in the bedstead
so as to hold up the bed. She did not know what might happen, and wished
to preserve appearances in the event of Mrs. Dunbar's entrance, or in
case of her being compelled to postpone her project. From the same
motive she also replaced the curtain so as to look as it did before,
securing it in its place by means of pins.

At length all these preparations were completed, and it only remained
for Edith to wait for the proper time to start.

The hours passed on.

Midnight came, but even at that hour Edith thought that it was too
early. Leon probably kept late hours, and might be wandering about. She
determined to wait longer.

The moon was still shining. There were only a few scattered clouds in
that clear sky.

Could she find her way to the wall? She felt confident of that. She
intended to go down the avenue, keeping close to the trees, so as to fly
to their shelter in case of pursuit. When she reached the neighborhood
of the porter's lodge, she would go through the trees to the wall,
trusting to fortune to find her way for that short distance.

Such were the hopes and plans, made long before, which now occupied her
thoughts as she waited.

At last two o'clock came. It seemed now that it would be unwise to wait
any longer, since the time that was left between this and daylight was
barely sufficient to allow for contingencies. Without any farther delay,
therefore, she prepared to depart.

It was with a painful feeling of suspense and agitation that she set
forth upon this attempt at flight, which she knew must be a final one.
Over her left arm she threw the rope-ladder, while in her left hand she
held that ancestral dagger which had already done her such good service
in her dealings with Leon. Her right hand was thus free to grope in the
dark for her way, to open bolts, or to seize the dagger from her other
hand whenever the need for it might arise. For this last dread necessity
she had thoroughly prepared herself. By the desperation of her position,
and by the dark menaces of Leon, she had been nerved to a courage beyond
even that elevated standard which her high spirit ordinarily reached,
and she had resolved that if any one interposed between herself and that
liberty for which she longed, to use that dagger, and to strike without
scruple.

On leaving her room she stood for a moment in the outer hall and
listened. All was still. She glided noiselessly along, and reached the
stairway. Once more she stood and listened before descending. There was
silence yet. She now descended the stairs as noiselessly as before, and
reached the lower hall, where she walked quickly toward the east end,
and came to the narrow stairway that led down to the door. Here once
more she paused. A fearful thought came to her as she looked down. What
if some one should be waiting there in the dark! What if Leon should be
there! In spite of herself a shudder passed through her at that thought.

Suddenly, as she stood there, she heard a sound--a sound which roused
her once more to action, and inspired new fears. It was the sound of a
footfall--far away, indeed, inside the house, but still a footfall--a
heavy tread, as of some one in pursuit, and its sound was loud and
menacing to her excited senses. There was only one to whom she could
attribute it--Leon!

He had heard her, then!

She was pursued!

Like lightning this thought came to her, and brought terror with it. She
could delay no longer. Down the narrow stairway she hurried through the
darkness, and reached the door. In her panic she forgot her usual
caution. With a jerk she drew the bolt back, and a harsh grating sound
arose. She flung open the door, which also creaked on its unused
hinges. Then leaping out, she hastily banged the door after her, and ran
straight on.

In front of Dalton Hall there was a wide lawn and a pond. Beyond this
arose the trees of the park. Toward the shelter of these shadowy trees
Edith hurried, with the dread sense in her soul that she was being
pursued by a remorseless enemy. This thought lent additional speed to
her footsteps as she flew over the intervening space. The moon was
shining brightly, and she knew that she could easily be seen by any
watcher; but she sought only the more to reach the trees, and thus
escape observation. The time seemed long indeed to her in those moments
of dread suspense; but the space was at last traversed, the trees were
reached, and plunging into the midst of them, she ran along,
occasionally stumbling, until at length, partly from exhaustion and
partly from a desire to see where her enemy might be, so as to elude him
better, she stopped.

Her course had been a circuitous one, but she had kept along the edge of
the wood, so that now, as she stopped, she found herself under the
shadow of the trees, and immediately opposite the portico of Dalton
Hall, between which and herself lay the pond. Here she stood, and
looked over the intervening space.

As she looked, she at first saw no appearance of any human being, and
she began to think that her fears all along had been unfounded; but in a
little while, as her eyes wandered over the front of the Hall, she saw
something which at once renewed all her excitement, and showed her that
her fears were true.

Upon the portico stood a figure, the general outlines of which were now
visible to her, as she looked carefully, and seemed to be the figure of
Leon. She could recognize the gray dress which he usually wore, and also
understood why she had not noticed him before, for the color of his
clothes had made him but faintly visible against the gray stone mass of
the background. He was now standing there with his face turned in her
direction.

"He has heard me," she thought. "He has seen me. Instead of chasing me
at once, he has stopped to listen, so as to judge of my course. He knows
that I am here now in this spot, and is still listening to find out if I
go any further."

In a few moments her attention was attracted by a dark object lying on
the portico near Leon.

It was the dog!

She knew it well. Her heart sank within her.

"He is going to track me with the dog!" she thought.

What could she do?

Nothing. Flight was now worse than useless. All seemed lost, and there
was nothing now left to her in that moment of despair but the resolve to
resist to the end.

After a short time, which to Edith seemed prolonged to a terrible
degree, the figure came down the steps, followed by the dog.

Edith watched.

He walked on; he rounded the end of the pond; he came nearer!

She could now recognize his face as the moon shone down.

It was Leon. There was no longer the slightest doubt of that. He was
coming toward her, and the huge dog followed.

Edith involuntarily shrank back among the trees, and grasping her dagger
with desperate resolve, awaited the approach of her enemy.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XXXV.


THE EMPTY ROOMS.

On the following morning Mrs. Dunbar waited a long time for Edith's
appearance. But she did not make her appearance, and the time passed,
until it at length grew so late that she determined to see what was the
matter. Full of fear lest some new illness had been the result of the
new excitement to which she had been subjected, Mrs. Dunbar passed
cautiously through Edith's sitting-room, and knocked at her bedroom
door.

There was no answer.

She knocked again and again, and still receiving no answer, she opened
the door and looked in.

To her amazement the room was empty. What was more surprising was the
fact that the bed did not appear to have been slept in. There was no
disorder visible in the room. Every thing was in its usual place, but
Edith was not there, and in that one glance which Mrs. Dunbar gave she
took in the whole truth.

Edith had fled!

She knew also that she must have fled during the night; that the event
against which such precautions had been taken had occurred at last, and
that she was responsible. Over that sorrowful anxious face there came
now a deeper sorrow and a graver anxiety at that discovery, and sitting
down upon a chair, she tried to conjecture Edith's possible course, and
wondered how she could get over the wall and out of the grounds.

At length she left this room, and going down stairs, called Hugo.

"Hugo," said she, "has the captain come down?"

"I habn't seen him, ma'am," said Hugo, respectfully.

"He always rises early," said Mrs. Dunbar. "I wonder what's the matter.
He certainly must be up."

Turning away, she ascended the stairs, and went to the room which was
occupied by Leon. The door was open. She entered. The room looked as
though it had just been left by its occupant. The bed bore signs of
having been occupied. The valise was lying there open. Upon the
toilet-table was a pocket-book, and hanging from the screw of the
looking-glass was his watch. His riding whip and gloves and top-boots
were lying in different places.

As Mrs. Dunbar saw all this, she concluded at first that he had gone out
for a walk, and would soon be back; but the lateness of the hour made
that idea seem absurd, and showed her that there must be some other
cause. The flight of Edith thereupon occurred to her, and was very
naturally associated in her mind with the departure of Leon. Had he been
watching? Had he detected her flight, and gone in pursuit? It seemed
so. If so, he was doubtless yet in pursuit of the fugitive, who must
have fled fast and far to delay him so long.

Then another thought came--the idea of violence. Perhaps he had caught
the fugitive, and in his rage and vindictive fury had harmed her. That
he was fierce enough for any atrocity she well knew; and the thought
that he had killed her, and had fled, came swift as lightning to her
mind.

The idea was terrible. She could not endure it. She left the room and
hurried down stairs again.

"Hugo," said she, "go down and ask the porter if he has seen the captain
or Miss Dalton."

"Miss Dalton!" exclaimed Hugo.

"Yes; she's gone."

"Gone!" repeated Hugo, in amazement.

He said no more, but hurried down to the gates, while Mrs. Dunbar, who
felt restless and ill at ease, walked up the stairs, and feeling
fatigued, stopped on the landing, and leaned against the window there,
looking out upon the ground in the rear of the Hall.

Standing here, her eyes were attracted by a sight which made her start.
It was the Newfoundland dog. He was standing at some distance from the
house, looking straight ahead at vacancy, in a rigid attitude. The sight
of this animal, who was always the inseparable companion of his master,
standing there in so peculiar a fashion by himself, excited Mrs. Dunbar;
and forgetful of her weariness, she descended the stairs again, and
quitting the Hall, approached the spot where the dog was standing.

As she approached, the dog looked at her and wagged his tail. She called
him. He went on wagging his tail, but did not move from the spot. She
went up to him and stroked him, and looked all around, hoping to see
some signs of his master. She looked in the direction in which the dog
had been staring when she first noticed him. The stables seemed to be
the place. Toward these she walked, and tried to induce the dog to
follow, but he would not. She then walked over to the stables, and
looked through them, without seeing any trace of the object of her
search. Upon this she returned to the house.

On coming back she found Hugo. He had been to the gates, he said; but
the porter had seen nothing whatever either of the captain or Miss
Dalton.

This intelligence deepened the anxious expression on Mrs. Dunbar's face.

"His dog is here," said she, in a tremulous voice.

"His dog!" said Hugo. "Oh yes; he's ben out dar all de mornin'. Dunno
what de matta wid dat ar animal at all. Stands dar like a gravy statoo."

For the rest of that day Mrs. Dunbar was restless and distressed. She
wandered aimlessly about the house. She sent Hugo off to scour the
grounds to see if he could find any trace of either of the fugitives.
Every moment she would look out from any window or door that happened to
be nearest, to see if either of them was returning. But the day passed
by, and Hugo came back from his long search, but of neither of the
fugitives was a single trace found.

What affected Mrs. Dunbar as much as any thing was the behavior of the
dog. Through all that day he remained in the same place, sometimes
standing, sometimes lying down, but never going away more than a few
feet. That the dog had some meaning in this singular behavior, and that
this meaning had reference to the flight of one or the other of the late
inmates of the house, was very evident to her. No persuasion, or
coaxing, or even threatening could draw the dog away; and even when Hugo
fired a gun off close to his lead, he quivered in every nerve, but only
moved back a foot or two. Food and drink were brought to him, of which
he partook with a most eager appetite, but no temptation could draw him
any distance from his post. That night was a sleepless one for Mrs.
Dunbar; and it was with a feeling of great relief that she heard the
noise of a carriage early on the following day, and knew that Wiggins
had returned.

She hurried down at once, and met him in the great hall. In a few words
she told him all.

For such intelligence as this Wiggins was evidently unprepared. He
staggered back and leaned against the wall, staring at Mrs. Dunbar with
a terrible look.

"What! Gone!" he said, slowly. "Edith!"

"Yes; and Leon."

"Edith gone!" gasped Wiggins once more.

"Did you hear nothing in the village?"

"I drove through without stopping. Did you send to the village?"

"I did not think that they could have got out of the grounds."

"They! There's no trouble about Leon?"

"I'm afraid--for him," said Mrs. Dunbar, in a faint voice.

"For him!" exclaimed Wiggins. "What can happen to him? For her, you
mean."

"They must have gone off together."

"Together! Do you think Edith would go with _him_? No; she has fled
in her madness and ignorance, turning her back on happiness and love,
and he has pursued her. O Heavens!" he continued, with a groan, "to
think that it should end in this! And cursed be that scoundrel--"

"Stop!" cried Mrs. Dunbar. "He is not a scoundrel. He would not harm
her. You don't know Leon. He has not left the place; his dog is here."

"His dog!"

Mrs. Dunbar explained.

Upon this Wiggins went through the hall to the rear, and there, in the
same place as where Mrs. Dunbar last saw him, was the dog. He was lying
down now. He wagged his tail in friendly recognition as they came up.
Wiggins patted him and stroked him and tried to coax him away. The
result was precisely the same as it had been before. The dog received
all advances in the most friendly manner possible. He wagged his tail,
rolled over on his back, licked their hands, sat up on his
hind-quarters, and did every thing which dogs usually do when petted or
played with, but nothing would induce him to leave the place. He did not
appear to be in any trouble. He seemed simply to have made up his mind
to stay there, and this resolution he maintained most obstinately.

Wiggins could make nothing of it; but the sight of the dog renewed the
terrors of Mrs. Dunbar.

"I'm afraid," said she--"I'm afraid that something's happened to Leon."

"To Leon!" exclaimed Wiggins, impatiently; "what could happen to him! I
told him to quit this place, and he has probably concluded to do so."

"But what do you think of his flight at the same time with Edith?"

"I don't know what to think of it. I only know this, that if he has
harmed one hair of her head, I--I'll--kill him! My own injuries I will
forgive, but wrongs done to her I will avenge!"

At this Mrs. Dunbar shrank away, and looked at Wiggins in fear.

"But it may be all the other way," said she, in a tremulous voice.
"Edith was terrible in her fury. She was no timid, faltering girl; she
was resolute and vindictive. If he has followed her, or laid hands on
her, she may have--" She hesitated.

"May have what?" asked Wiggins.

"She may have done him some harm."

"_She_ may have done _him_ some harm!" repeated Wiggins, with
a sneer. "What! and when he had his big dog to protect him? Pooh!"

And with a scornful laugh he turned away.

Mrs. Dunbar followed him.

"She was so terrible in her despair," said she, as she followed him;
"she looked like a fury--beautiful, yet implacable."

"Silence!" cried Wiggins. "Stop all that nonsense, or you'll drive me
mad. Are you crazy? When I am almost broken-hearted in my anxiety about
her, what do you mean by turning against that wronged and injured girl,
who I now see has been driven to despair by my own cursed mistakes, and
pretending that she is the aggressor, and your scoundrel Leon the
victim?"

In the midst of this Wiggins was interrupted by the approach of Hugo.

"A genl'man, Sah, wants to see you, Sah," said he.

"A gentleman," repeated Wiggins. "Who is he? How did he come here?"

"Dunno, Sah, nuffin 'bout dat, Sah."

"It's about Edith!" exclaimed Wiggins; and he hurried into the house.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XXXVI.


THE VICAR OF DALTON.

Wiggins entered the drawing-room, and found his visitor there. He was a
slight man, with light hair, watery gray eyes, and very mild demeanor.
The timidity of the man seemed very marked; there was an apologetic air
about him; and his very footfall as he advanced to greet Wiggins seemed
to deprecate some anticipated rough treatment. He spoke a few words,
and at Wiggins's request to be seated he sat down, while his agitation
increased; and he had that hesitating, half-abstracted manner which
marks the man who is on the point of giving unpleasant information,
about the effect of which he is doubtful.

Wiggins, on his part, did not seem to notice this. He sat down, and
looked with earnest inquiry at his visitor. He seemed to know what was
the object of this visit, and yet to dread to ask it.

The visitor had given his name as the Rev. Mr. Munn, and Wiggins
recognized that name as belonging to the parish vicar. That name
excited strange emotions within him, for it was the same name that had
appeared in the papers in connection with Edith's marriage.

"Well?" said Wiggins at last, in some impatience.

Mr. Munn cleared his throat.

"I have come here," he began, "to tell you very distressing news."

Wiggins was silent.

"I refer to--a--a--Mrs. Dudleigh," said Mr. Munn.

"Well?" said Wiggins, in a scarcely audible voice.

"She is at the village inn."

"At the village inn!" repeated Wiggins, in evident agitation, drawing a
long breath.

"She is alive, then?" he added, eagerly.

"Oh yes," said Mr. Munn; "she came there early yesterday morning." And
then he went on to tell his story, the substance of which was as
follows:

On the previous morning about dawn the people at the Dalton Inn were
aroused by a hurried knock. On going to the door they found Mrs.
Dudleigh. The moment that the door was opened she sprang in and fell
exhausted to the floor. So great was her weakness that she could not
rise again, and had to be carried up to one of the bedrooms. She was so
faint that she could scarcely speak; and in a feeble voice she implored
them to put her to bed, as it was a long time since she had had any
rest, and was almost dead with fatigue.

Her condition was most pitiable. Her clothes were all torn to shreds,
and covered with mud and dust; her hands were torn and bleeding; her
shoes had been worn into rags; and she looked as though she had been
wandering for hours through woods and swamps, and over rocks and sand.
To all their inquiries she answered nothing, but only implored them to
put her to bed and let her rest; above all, she prayed most piteously
that they would tell no one that she was there. This they promised to
do; and, indeed, it would have been difficult for them to have informed
about her, since none at the inn had ever seen her before, or had the
remotest idea who she could be.

Full of pity and sympathy, they put her to bed, and the landlady watched
over her most assiduously. All the morning she slept profoundly; but at
about noon she waked with a scream, like one who has been roused from
some fearful dream.

After that she grew steadily worse. Fever set in, and became more and
more violent every moment. In their anxiety to do what she had
requested, and keep her secret, they did not send immediately for a
doctor. But her condition soon became such that further delay was out of
the question, so they sent for the village physician.

When he arrived she was much worse. She was in a high fever, and
already delirious. He pronounced her situation to be dangerous in the
extreme, urged upon them the greatest care, and advised them to lose no
time in letting her friends know about her condition. Here was a dilemma
for these worthy people. They did not know who her friends were, and
therefore could not send for them, while it became impossible to keep
her presence at the inn a secret Not knowing what else to do, they
concluded to send for the vicar.

When Mr. Munn came he found them in great distress. He soon learned the
facts of the case, and at once decided that it should be made known to
Captain Dudleigh or to Wiggins. For though he did not know Edith's face,
still, from the disconnected words that had dropped from her during her
delirium, reported to him by the inn people, he thought it probable that
she was the very lady whom he had married under such mysterious
circumstances. So he soothed the fears of the landlady as well as he
could, and then left. It was late at night when he went from the inn,
and he had waited till the morning before going to Dalton Hall. He had
some difficulty in getting in at the gate, but when the porter learned
the object of his visit he at once opened to him. From the porter he
learned of the disappearance of Captain Dudleigh also. Nothing was then
left but to see Wiggins. Accordingly he had come to the Hall at once,
so as to tell his message with the shortest possible delay.

To this recital Wiggins listened with gravity. He made no gesture, and
he spoke no word, but sat with folded arms, looking upon the floor. When
Mr. Munn had ended, he, after a long silence, turned toward him and
said, in a severe tone,

"Well, Sir, now I hope you see something of the evil of that course
which you chose to pursue."

"Evil? course?" stammered Mr. Munn. "I don't understand you."

"Oh, I think you understand me," said Wiggins, gloomily. "Has not your
conscience already suggested to you the probable cause of this strange
course of her whom you call Mrs. Dudleigh?"

"My conscience!" gasped Mr. Munn; "what has my conscience to do with
it?"

"How long is it since that wretched mockery at which you officiated?"
asked Wiggins, sternly.

"I really--I think--a few months only."

"A few months," repeated Wiggins. "Well, it has come to this. That is
the immediate cause of her flight, and of her present suffering."

"I--I--married them," stammered Mr. Munn; "but what of that? Is her
unhappiness my fault? How can I help it? Am I responsible for the future
condition of those couples whom I marry? Surely this is a strange thing
to say."