Louisa May Alcott - "On Picket Duty and Other Tales"

Mrs. J.C. Yule (Pamela S. Vining) - "Poems of the Heart and Home"

Pierre Loti - "Madame Chrysantheme, v3"

Mark Rutherford - "Pages from a Journal with Other Papers"

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




Again, as to the writing in blood, a vigorous effort was made to show
that this was a conspiracy against an innocent man. It was argued that
Mr. Henderson did not write it at all; and efforts were made to prove
that the wound in his head must have caused instantaneous death. He
himself, therefore, could not have written it, but it must have been the
work of some one who was plotting against Dalton, or who was eager to
divert suspicion from himself.

The testimony of the Maltese cross was met by counter-testimony to the
effect that Dalton had never worn such an ornament. His servants all
swore that they had never seen it before. Mr. Henderson's clerks also
swore that Mr. Dalton wore no pin at all on that morning of the
interview.

And, finally, an effort was made to prove an _alibi_. It was shown
that Dalton's occupation of his time during that evening could be
accounted for with the exception of one hour. Witnesses were produced
from the hotel where he put up who swore that he had been there until
eight o'clock in the evening, when he left, returning at nine. An hour,
therefore, remained to be accounted for. As to this hour--on the one
hand, it seemed hardly sufficient for the deed, but yet it was certainly
possible for him to have done it within that time; and thus it remained
for the defense to account for that hour. For this purpose a note was
produced, which was scribbled in pencil and addressed to John Wiggins,
Esq.

It was as follows:

"Dear Wiggins,--I have been here ever since eight, and am tired of
waiting. Come to my room as soon as you get back. I'll be there.

Yours, F. DALTON."

Mr. John Wiggins testified that he had made an appointment to meet
Dalton at the hour mentioned in the note, but had been detained on
business until late. He had found this on his return thrust under the
office door. On going to see him the following morning he had learned of
his arrest.

This note and the testimony of Wiggins were felt to bear strongly in
Dalton's favor. If the accused had really been waiting at the office,
as the note stated, then clearly he could not have followed on Mr.
Henderson's track to Everton. The force of this weighed more than any
thing else with the court; the summing up of the judge also bore
strongly toward an acquittal; and, consequently, Dalton was declared not
guilty.

But the acquittal on this first charge did not at all secure the escape
of Dalton from danger. Another charge, which had been interwoven with
the first, still impended over him, and no sooner was he declared free
of murder than he was arrested on the charge of forgery, and remanded to
prison to await his trial on that accusation.

Now during the whole course of the trial the public mind had been
intensely excited; all men were eager than vengeance should fall on some
one, and at the outset had made up their minds that Dalton was guilty.
The verdict of acquittal created deep and widespread dissatisfaction,
for it seemed as though justice had been cheated of a victim. When,
therefore, the trial for forgery came on, there weighed against Dalton
all the infamy that had been accumulating against him during the trial
for murder. Had this trial stood alone, the prisoner's counsel might
have successfully pleaded his high character, as well as his wealth,
against this charge, and shown that it was false because it was morally
impossible. But this was no longer of avail, and in the public mind
Frederick Dalton was deemed only a desperate murderer, whose good
reputation was merely the result of life-long hypocrisy, and whose
character was but an empty name.

And so in this trial it was shown that Dalton had first put forth the
forged check, and afterward learning that it was discovered prematurely,
had hurried to Liverpool so as to get it back from Mr. Henderson. His
asserted wealth was not believed in. Efforts were made to show that he
had been connected with men of desperate fortunes, and had himself been
perhaps betting heavily; and all this arts which ate usually employed by
unscrupulous or excited advocates to crush an accused man were freely
put forth. Experts were brought from London to examine Dalton's
handwriting, and compare it with that of the forged check; and these men
yielding to the common prejudice, gave it as their opinion that he was,
or _might have been_(!), the author of the forgery.

But all this was as nothing when compared with the injury which Dalton
himself did to his own cause by the course which he chose to adopt.
Contenting himself with the simple assertion of his innocence, he
refused to give the name of the guilty man, or to say any thing that
might lead to his discovery. Actuated by a lofty sense of honor, a
chivalrous sentiment of loyalty and friendship, he kept the secret with
obstinate fidelity; and the almost frantic appeals of his counsel, who
saw in the discovery of the real offender the only chance for the escape
of the accused, and who used every possible argument to shake his
resolve, availed not in the slightest degree to shake his firmness.
They employed detectives, and instituted inquiries in all directions in
the endeavor to find out who might be this friend for whom Dalton was
willing to risk honor and life; but their search was completely baffled.
Dalton's silence was therefore taken as an evidence of guilt, and his
refusal to confess on a friend was regarded as a silly attempt to excite
public sympathy. When the counsel ventured to bring this forward to the
jury, and tried to portray Dalton as a man who chose rather to suffer
than to say that which might bring a friend to destruction, it was
regarded as a wild, Quixotic, and maudlin piece of sentimentalism on the
part of said counsel, and was treated by the prosecution with
unspeakable scorn and ridicule. Under such circumstances the result was
inevitable: Frederick Dalton was declared guilty, and sentenced to
transportation for life.

Among the notes which had been written by Miss Plympton, Edith was very
forcibly struck by some which referred to John Wiggins.

"Who is this J.W.?" was written in one place. "How did F.D. become
acquainted with him?"

In another place, where Wiggins gave his testimony about the note, was
written: "Where was J.W. during that hour? Had he gone to Everton
himself?"

And again: "J.W. was the friend of F.D., and wished to save him. Might
he not have done more?"

Again: "Mark well! J.W. is a Liverpool man. H. was a Liverpool man. Had
F.D. ever heard of even the name of H. before the forgery? What was the
nature of the dealings between F.D. and J.W.?"

Again, when Dalton's silence was so sharply commented on and urged as
proof of his guilt, there occurred the following: "If F.D. was silent,
why did not J.W. open his mouth? Must he not have known at least
something? Could he not have set the authorities upon the track of the
real criminal, and thus have saved F.D.?"

Again: "The Maltese cross did not belong to Dalton. He had ordered it to
be made. For whom? Was it not for this same friend for whom he was now
suffering? Was not this friend the murderer? Has he not thrown suspicion
upon F.D. by that writing in blood? The same one who committed the
murder wrote the false charge, and left the Maltese cross."

Other notes of similar character occurred in various places, but those
which impressed Edith most were the following:

"F.D. was evidently betrayed by his false friend. Was not that false
friend the real murderer? Did he not contrive to throw on F.D. the
suspicion of the murder? Might not the forgery itself from the very
beginning have been part of a plan to ruin F.D.? But why ruin him?
Evidently to gain some benefit. Now who has been more benefited by the
ruin of F.D.? Whoever he is, must he not he be the murderer and the
false friend?"

Again, a little further on: "Has any one gained any thing from the ruin
of F.D. but J.W.? Has not J.W. ever since had control of Dalton
property? Is he not rich now? Has not the ruin of F.D. made the fortune
of J.W.?"

Such was the substance of the papers which Edith perused. They were
voluminous, and she continued at her task all through that night, her
heart all the time filled with a thousand contending emotions.

Before her mind all the time there was the image of her father in the
judgment-hall. There he stood, the innocent man, betrayed by his
friend, and yet standing there in his simple faith and truth to save
that friend, obstinate in his self-sacrificing fidelity, true to faith
when the other had proved himself worthless, suffering what can only be
suffered by a generous nature as the hours and the days passed and the
end approached, and still the traitor allowed him to suffer. And there
was the hate and scorn of man, the clamor for vengeance from society,
the condemnation of the jury who had prejudged his case, the sneer of
the paid advocate, the scoff of the gaping crowd, to whom the plea of
_noblesse oblige_ and stainless honor and perfect truth seemed only
maudlin sentimentality and Quixotic extravagance.

All these thoughts were in Edith's mind as she read, and these feelings
swelled within her indignant heart as all the facts in that dread
tragedy were slowly revealed one by one. Coming to this task with a mind
convinced at the outset of her father's innocence, she met with not one
circumstance that could shake that conviction for a moment. In her own
strong feeling she was incapable of understanding how any one could
honestly think otherwise. The testimony of adverse witnesses seemed to
her perjury, the arguments of the lawyers fiendish malignity, the last
summing up of the judge bitter prejudice, and the verdict of the jury a
mockery of justice.

* * * * *




CHAPTER III.


THE MOMENTOUS RESOLVE.

Early on the following morning Miss Plympton called on Edith, and was
shocked to see the changes that had been made in her by that one night.
She did not regard so much the pallor of her face, the languor of her
manner, and her unelastic step, but rather the new expression that
appeared upon her countenance, the thoughtfulness of her brow, the deep
and earnest abstraction of her gaze. In that one night she seemed to
have stepped from girlhood to maturity. It was as though she had lived
through the intervening experience. Years had been crowded into hours.
She was no longer a school-girl--she was a woman.

Miss Plympton soon retired, with the promise to come again when Edith
should feel stronger. Breakfast was sent up, and taken away untasted,
and at noon Miss Plympton once more made her appearance.

"I have been thinking about many things," said Edith, after some
preliminary remarks, "and have been trying to recall what I can of my
own remembrance of papa. I was only eight years old, but I have a pretty
distinct recollection of him, and it has been strengthened by his
portrait, which I always have had. Of my mother I have a most vivid
remembrance, and I have never forgotten one single circumstance
connected with her last illness. I remember your arrival, and my
departure from home after all was over. But there is one thing which I
should like very much to ask you about. Did none of my mother's
relatives come to see her during this time?"

"Your mother's relatives acted very badly indeed, dear. From the first
they were carried away by the common belief in your dear father's guilt.
Some of them came flying to your mother. She was very ill at the time,
and these relatives brought her the first news which she received. It
was a severe blow. They were hard-hearted or thoughtless enough to
denounce your father to her, and she in her weak state tried to defend
him. All this produced so deplorable an effect that she sank rapidly.
Her relatives left her in this condition. She tried to be carried to
your dear father in his prison, but could not bear the journey. They
took her as far as the gates, but she fainted there, and had to be taken
back to the house. So then she gave up. She knew that she was going to
die, and wrote to me imploring me to come to her. She wished to intrust
you to me. I took you from her arms--"

Miss Plympton paused, and Edith was silent for some time.

"So," said she, in a scarce audible voice, "darling mamma died of a
broken heart?"

Miss Plympton, said nothing. A long silence followed.

"Had my father no friends," asked Edith, "or no relatives?"

"He had no relatives," said Miss Plympton, "but an only sister. She
married a Captain Dudleigh, now Sir Lionel Dudleigh. But it was a very
unhappy marriage, for they separated. I never knew the cause; and
Captain Dudleigh took it so much to heart that he went abroad. He could
not have heard of your father's misfortunes till all was over and it was
too late. But in any case I do not see what he could have done, unless
he had contrived to shake your father's resolve. As to his wife, I have
never heard of her movements, and I think she must have died long ago.
Neither she nor her husband is mentioned at the trial. If they had been
in England, it seems to me that they would have come forward as
witnesses in some way; so I think they were both out of the country. Sir
Lionel is alive yet, I think, but he has always lived out of the world.
I believe his family troubles destroyed his happiness, and made him
somewhat misanthropical. I have sometimes thought in former years that
he might make inquiries about you, but he has never done so to my
knowledge, though perhaps he has tried without being able to hear where
you were. After all, he would scarcely know where to look. On the whole,
I consider Sir Lionel the only friend you have, Edith darling, besides
myself, and if any trouble should ever arise, he would be the one to
whom I should apply for assistance, or at least advice."

Edith listened to this, and made no comment, but after another
thoughtful pause she said,

"About this Wiggins--have you ever heard any thing of him since the--the
trial?"

Miss Plympton shook her head.

"No," said she, "except from those formal business notes. You have seen
them all, and know what they are."

"Have you ever formed any opinion of him more favorable than what you
wrote in those notes?"

"I do not think that I wrote any thing more than suspicions or
surmises," said Miss Plympton; "and as far as suspicions are concerned,
I certainly have not changed my mind. The position which he occupied
during the trial, and ever since, excites my suspicions against him. All
others suffered; he alone was benefited. And now, too, when all is over,
he seems still in his old position--perhaps a better one than ever--the
agent of the estates, and assuming to some extent a guardianship over
you. At least he gives directions about you, for he says you are to go
back to Dalton Hall. But in that he shall find himself mistaken, for I
will never allow you to put yourself in his power."

"Have you ever seen him?" asked Edith.

"No."

She bent down her head, and leaned her forehead on her hand.

"Well," said she, in a low voice, half to herself, "it don't matter; I
shall see him soon myself."

"See him yourself!" said Miss Plympton, anxiously. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I shall see him soon--when I get to Dalton Hall."

"Dalton Hall?"

"Yes," said Edith, simply, raising her head and looking calmly at Miss
Plympton.

"But you are not going to Dalton Hall."

"There is no other place for me," said Edith, sadly. "I am going--I am
going as soon as possible."

"Oh no--oh no, darling; you are going to do nothing of the kind," said
Miss Plympton. "I can not let you go. We all love you too dearly. This
is your home, and I now stand in the place of those whom you have lost.
You are never to leave me, Edith dearest."

Edith sighed heavily, and shook her head.

"No," she said, speaking in a low, melancholy voice--"no, I can not
stay. I can not meet my friends here again. I am not what I was
yesterday. I am changed. It seems as though some heavy weight has come
upon me. I must go away, and I have only one place to go to, and that is
my father's home."

"My darling," said Miss Plympton, drawing her chair close to Edith, and
twining her arms about her, "you must not talk so; you can not imagine
how you distress me. I can not let you go. Do not think of these
things. We all love you. Do not imagine that your secret will be
discovered. No one shall ever know it. In a few days you yourself will
feel different. The consciousness of your father's innocence will make
you feel more patient, and the love of all your friends will make your
life as happy as ever."

"No," said Edith, "I can not--I can not. You can not imagine how I
dread to see the face of any one of them. I shall imagine that they know
all; and I can not tell them. They will tease me to tell them my
troubles, and it will only worry me. No, for me to stay here is
impossible. I would go any where first."

She spoke so firmly and decisively that Miss Plympton forbore to press
her further just then.

"At any rate, my darling," said she, "you need not think of Dalton Hall.
I can find you other places which will be far more suitable to you in
every way. If it distresses you to stay here, I can find a happy home
for you, where you can stay till you feel able to return to us again."

"There is no place," said Edith, "where I can stay. I do not want to go
among strangers, or to strange places. I have a home, and that is the
only place that I can go to now. That home is familiar to me. I remember
it well. It is where I was born. Dear mamma's room is there, where I
used to sit with her and hear her voice. My dear papa and mamma were
happy there; and she died there. It has its own associations; and now
since this great sorrow has come, I long to go there. It seems the
fittest place for me."

"But, my child," said Miss Plympton, anxiously, "there is one thing that
you do not consider. Far be it from me to stand in the way of any of
your wishes, especially at a time like this, but is seems to me that a
return to Dalton Hall just now is hardly safe."

"Safe!"

Edith spoke in a tone of surprise, and looked inquiringly at Miss
Plympton.

"I don't like this John Wiggins," said Miss Plympton, uneasily; I am
afraid of him."

"But what possible cause can there be of fear?" asked Edith.

"Oh, I don't know," said Miss Plympton, with a sigh; "no one can tell.
If my suspicions are at all correct, he is a man who might be very
dangerous. He has control of all the estates, and--"

"But for that very reason I would go home," said Edith, "if there were
no stronger inducement, to do what I can to put an end to his
management."

"How could you do any thing with him?" asked Miss Plympton; "you so
young and inexperienced."

"I don't know," said Edith, simply; "but the estates are mine, and not
his; and Dalton Hall is mine; and if I am the owner, surely I ought to
have some power. There are other agents in the world, and other lawyers.
They can help me, if I wish help. We are not living in the Middle Ages
when some one could seize one's property by the strong hand and keep it.
There is law in the country, and Wiggins is subject to it."

"Oh, my child," said Miss Plympton, anxiously, "I am terrified at the
very thought of your being in that man's power. You can not tell what
things are possible; and though there is law, as you say, yet it does
not always happen that one can get justice."

"That I know, or ought to know," said Edith, in a mournful voice; "I
have learned that this past night only too well."

"It seems to me," said Miss Plympton, with the same anxiety in her
voice, "that to return to Dalton Hall will be to put yourself in some
way into his power. If he is really the unscrupulous, crafty, and
scheming man that I have suspected him to be, he will not find it
difficult to weave some plot around you which may endanger your whole
life. There is no safety in being bear that man. Be mistress of Dalton
Hall, but do not go there till you have driven him away. It seems by his
last letters as though he is living there now, and if you go there you
will find yourself in some sense under his control."

"Well," said Edith, "I do not doubt his willingness to injure me if he
can, or to weave a plot which shall ruin me; but, after all, such a
thing takes time. He can not ruin me in one day, or in one week, and so
I think I can return to Dalton Hall in safety, and be secure for a few
days at least."

Miss Plympton made some further objections, but the vague fears to which
she gave expression met with no response from Edith, who looked upon her
journey home in a very sober and commonplace light, and refused to let
her imagination terrify her. Her argument that Wiggins would require
some time to injure her was not easy to answer, and gradually Miss
Plympton found herself forced to yield to Edith's determination. In fact,
there was much in that resolve which was highly natural. Edith, in the
first place, could not bear to resume her intimacy with her
school-mates, for reasons which she had stated already; and, in addition
to this, she had a strong and irresistible longing to go to the only
place that was now her home. There she hoped to find peace, and gain
consolation in the midst of the scenes of her childhood and the memories
of her parents. These were her chief motives for action now; but in
addition to these she had others. The chief was a strong desire to
dismiss Wiggins from his post of agent.

The detestation which she had already conceived for this man has been
noticed in a previous chapter. It had grown during past years out of a
habit of her mind to associate with him the apparent alienation of her
father. But now, since her father's past life was explained, this John
Wiggins appeared in a new light. The dark suggestions of Miss Plympton,
her suspicions as to his character and motives, had sunk deep into the
soul of Edith, and taken root there. She had not yet been able to bring
herself to think that this John Wiggins was himself the treacherous
friend, but she was on the high-road to that belief, and already had
advanced far enough to feel convinced that Wiggins could have at least
saved her father if he had chosen. One thing, however, was evident to
all the world, and that was what Miss Plympton laid so much stress on,
the fact that he had profited by her father's ruin, and had won gold and
influence and position out of her father's tears and agonies and death.
And so, while she longed to go home for her own consolation, there also
arose within her another motive to draw her there--the desire to see
this Wiggins, to confront him, to talk to him face to face, to drive him
out from the Dalton estates, and if she could not vindicate her father's
memory, at least put an end to the triumph of one of his false friends.

The result of this interview was, then, that Edith should return to
Dalton Hall; and as she was unwilling to wait, she decided to leave in
two days. Miss Plympton was to go with her.

"And now," said Miss Plympton, "we must write at once and give notice of
your coming."

"Write?" said Edith, coldly, "to whom?"

"Why, to--to Wiggins, I suppose," said Miss Plympton, with some
hesitation.

"I refuse to recognize Wiggins," said Edith. "I will not communicate
with him in any way. My first act shall be to dismiss him."

"But you must send some notice to some one; you must have some
preparations made."

"Oh, I shall not need any elaborate preparations; a room will be
sufficient. I should not wish to encounter the greetings of this man, or
see him complacently take credit to himself for his attentions to
me--and his preparations. No; I shall go and take things as I find them,
and I should prefer to go without notice."

At this Miss Plympton seemed a little more uneasy than before, and made
further efforts to change Edith's decision, but in vain. She was, in
fact, more perplexed at Edith herself than at any other thing; for this
one who but a day before had been a gentle, tractable, docile, gay,
light-hearted girl had suddenly started up into a stern, self-willed
woman, with a dauntless spirit and inflexible resolve.

"There is only one more thing that I have to mention," said Edith, as
Miss Plympton rose to go. "It is a favor that I have to ask of you. It
is this;" and she laid her hand on the papers of the report, which were
lying rolled up in a parcel on the table. "Have you any further use for
this? Will you let me keep it?"

"The need that I had for it," said Miss Plympton, "was over when I gave
it to you. I prepared it for you, and preserved it for you, and now
that you have it, its work is accomplished. It is yours, dearest, for
you to do as you choose with it."

To this Edith murmured some words of thanks, and taking up the parcel,
proceeded to tie it up more carefully.

* * * * *




CHAPTER IV


THE WELCOME HOME.

Dalton Hall was one of the most magnificent country-seats in
Somersetshire. The village of Dalton, which bears the same name as the
old family seat, is situated on the banks of a little river which winds
through a pleasant plain on its course to the Bristol Channel, and at
this place is crossed by a fine old rustic bridge with two arches. The
village church, a heavy edifice, with an enormous ivy-grown tower,
stands on the further side; and beyond that the gables and chimneys of
Dalton Hall may be seen rising, about a mile away, out of the midst of a
sea of foliage. The porter's lodge is about half a mile distant from the
church, and the massive wall which incloses Dalton Park runs along the
road for some miles.