Thomas Hardy - "Poems of the Past and the Present"

Anthony Trollope - "The Man Who Kept His Money In A Box"

E. M. Forster - "Howards End"

George Alfred Townsend - "The Life, Crime and Capture of John Wilkes Booth"

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




Saying this, he flung himself exhausted on the grass, and unslung the
lantern and unbound the rope.

The others pulled. There was a heavy weight at the end of the rope.
They could all conjecture well what that dead-weight might be. But the
fierce curiosity that now animated them stimulated them to put forth all
their strength in a series of vigorous pulls. Nearer and nearer came
that weight to the top. At last it hung just beneath them. Half a
dozen hands were stretched out, and in an instant it was jerked out and
lay upon the grass.

The sheriff seized the lantern and held it up. The scene was one of
horror. All around was the gloom of night, the shadowy outline of trees
and of the out-houses. A flickering light revealed a group of men
surrounding some object on the grass, upon which they gazed in silent
awe.

It was a shapeless, sodden mass, but the human outline was preserved,
and the clothes were there, recognizable. It was a grisly, a hideous
sight, and it held them all spellbound.

But suddenly the silence was broken. A wild shriek burst forth from
Mrs. Dunbar, who the next instant fell forward upon the hideous object.
Hugo seized her and raised her up. She was senseless.

"What is this?" cried the stern voice of Wiggins, who at that moment had
come to the place.

"Mrs. Dunbar has fainted," said the sheriff; and then he pointed
silently to the Thing that lay in the midst of the circle of spectators.

Wiggins looked at it, and seemed turned to stone. Then a shudder passed
through him. Then he turned away.

As he walked he staggered like one who has received some terrible blow,
and staggering on in his way, he passed out of sight into the gloom.
After this Mrs. Dunbar was carried into the house by Hugo.

There was silence for a long time.

"The head is gone!" said the sheriff at
length, in a low voice.

"Yes," said another; "it's been long in the water."

"Water couldn't do it," said the sheriff; "it was gone before it went
into the water."

"What was that for?"

"To prevent identification," said the sheriff, in a significant tone.

The remains were in due time conveyed to an appropriate place, together
with the rope and the dagger. On the following day a search was made
for the missing head. The well was pumped dry, a task in which there
was little difficulty, as there was little more than two feet of water
in it, but nothing of the kind was found. Then they dragged the pond,
but without result. The search was also continued elsewhere, but it was
equally unsuccessful.

It was then concluded that the murderer had removed the head of his
victim to prevent identification, and had buried it somewhere, but that
the traces of burial had been obliterated by the lapse of time. The only
wonder was that the clothes should have been allowed to remain by one
who had been so much on his guard as to decapitate his victim.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XXXIX.


THE CORONER'S INQUEST.

The remains were deposited in a proper place, and a coroner's inquest
was held at once, at which the usual examination of witnesses was
conducted.

Wiggins was examined first. He showed great constraint. He had not much
to say, however, about the disappearance of Captain Dudleigh, for he had
been absent at that time, and he could only state what took place after
his return. But in the course of these inquiries much was extorted from
him relative to Edith's position at Dalton Hall, her marriage, and the
terms on which she had been living with her husband. His answers were
given with extreme hesitation and marked reluctance, and it was only by
the utmost persistence that they were wrung from him.

The porter was examined, and in the course of the inquiry that scene at
the gates when Edith tried to escape was revealed.

Hugo was examined. It was found out that he had overheard the
conversation between Edith and Captain Dudleigh at their last interview.
Hugo's answers were given with as much reluctance as those of Wiggins,
but he was not able to evade the questions, and all that he knew was
drawn from him. But Hugo's remembrance of words was not very accurate,
and he could not give any detailed report of the conversation which he
had overheard. Several things, however, had been impressed upon his
memory. One was the occasion when Edith drew a dagger upon Captain
Dudleigh, and left the room with it in her hand; another was when, in
her last interview with him, she menaced his life, and threatened to
have his "_heart's blood_." So it was that Hugo had understood
Edith's words.

Mrs. Dunbar was examined, and gave her testimony with less hesitation.
She was deathly pale, and weak and miserable. She spoke with difficulty,
but was eager to bear witness to the noble character of Captain
Dudleigh. She certainly showed nothing like hate toward Edith, but at
the same time showed no hesitation to tell all about her. She told
about Captain Dudleigh's first visits, and about the visits of his
friend, who had assumed his name, or had the same name. She told how
Edith had been warned, and how she scorned the warning. From her was
elicited the story of Edith's return after her marriage, her illness,
recovery, and desperate moods, in which she seemed transformed, as Mrs.
Dunbar expressed it, to a "fury." The account of her discovery of the
flight of Edith and the captain was given with much emotion, but with
simple truth.

Mr. Munn was also examined about the marriage. He had not yet recovered
from the agitation into which he had been thrown during his interview
with Wiggins, but seemed in a state of chronic fright.

After these witnesses one other yet remained. It was one whose
connection with these events was the closest of all--one upon whom that
jury already looked as guilty of a terrible crime--as the one who had
inflicted with her own hand that death whose cause they were
investigating.

There was no doubt now in any mind. The remains had been identified by
all the witnesses. The head had been removed, and had not been found,
but the clothes were known to all. By these they judged the remains to
be the body of Captain Dudleigh. Wiggins alone hesitated--but it was
only hesitation; it was not denial.

When Edith was summoned before the coroner's jury, it was the very first
intelligence that she had received of an event in which she was so
deeply concerned. The landlady had heard all about the search and its
results; but true to her determination to spare Edith all trouble, she
had not allowed any news of these proceedings to be communicated to her.
When the official appeared with his abrupt summons to attend, the shock
was terrible, but there was nothing left except submission. A few brief
answers to her hurried and agitated questions put her in possession of
the chief facts of the case. On her way to the place she said not a
word. The landlady went with her to take care of her, but Edith did not
take any notice of her.

As she entered the room where the examination was going on, the scene
that presented itself was one which might well have appalled a stouter
heart than that of Edith, and which, coming as it did after the shock of
this sudden surprise, and in the train of all that she had already
suffered, gave to her a sharp pang of intolerable anguish, and filled
her soul with horror unspeakable.

[Illustration: "WITH A LOUD CRY, SHE HALF TURNED."]

The rope-ladder lay there with its hook, with which she had effected her
escape, and beside these was the dagger which more than once she had
interposed between herself and her fierce aggressor; but it was not
these that she saw; something else was there which fixed and enchained
her gaze, which held her with a terrible fascination. A sheet was
thrown over it, but the outlines of that which lay beneath indicated a
human form, and the information which Edith had already received made
her well aware whose that form was supposed to be. But she said nothing;
she stood rigid, horror-stricken, overwhelmed, and looked at it with
staring eyes and white lips.

The coroner made some remarks, consisting of the usual formulas,
something like an apology for the examination, a hint that it might
possibly affect herself, and a warning that she should be very careful
not to say any thing that might inculpate herself.

To all this Edith paid no attention. She did not appear to have heard
it. She stood, as the coroner spoke, in the same attitude as before,
with her eyes set in the same rigid stare. As the coroner ceased, he
stepped forward and drew away the sheet.

There it lay at last--unveiled, revealed to her eyes--the abhorrent
Thing, whose faint outline had chilled her very soul, its aspect
hideous, frightful, unendurable! As the sheet fell away, and all was
revealed before her, she could restrain herself no longer; the strain
was too great; with a loud cry, she half turned and tried to run. The
next instant the landlady caught her as she was falling senseless to the
floor.

The examination of Mrs. Dudleigh was postponed. On the whole, however,
it was afterward considered unnecessary. Enough had been gathered from
the other witnesses to enable the jury to come to a conclusion. It was
felt, also, that Mrs. Dudleigh ought to have a chance; though they
believed her guilty, they felt sorry for her, and did not wish her to
criminate herself by any rash words. The result was that they brought in
a verdict of murder against Mrs. Leon Dudleigh.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XL.


A STRANGE CONFESSION

The news of Edith's arrest spread like wild-fire, and the event became
soon the subject of universal conversation. Rumors of all sorts arose,
as is natural under such circumstances, most of which were adverse to
the accused. People remembered against the daughter the crimes of the
father. It was _bad blood_, they said, which she had inherited; it
was an evil race to which she belonged, and the murderous tendency was
hereditary.

The examination at the inquest had made known the general facts of her
story, out of which public gossip constructed another story to suit
itself.

Mrs. Dudleigh had been found troublesome and dangerous all along, so
much so that it became necessary to keep her within the grounds. When
Captain Dudleigh was paying attentions to her, she treated him with
perfect brutality. On one occasion she struck him with her whip, and
tried to run away. Captain Dudleigh had sent his friend, or relative,
Lieutenant Dudleigh, to bring about a reconciliation. This was so well
managed that the two resumed their former relations, and she even
consented to make a runaway match with him. This, however, was not out
of love so much as to spite her guardian.

After this marriage she took a violent dislike to her husband, and
pretended to be ill, or perhaps suffered real illness, the natural
result of her fierce, unbridled temper. Her husband found it impossible
to live with her. The few interviews which they had were very stormy.
Over and over again she threatened his life. At length she beguiled him
into the park on some unknown pretext, and there, with that dagger which
she had so often flourished in his face, she shed that very _"heart's
blood"_ which she had threatened to take. The murder was evidently a
preconcerted act. She must have done it deliberately, for she had
prepared the means of secret escape. She deliberately tried to conceal
her act, and after removing his head, and burying it, she had thrown the
body into the old well. But _"murder will out,"_ etc., etc.; and
with this and other similar maxims Edith's condemnation was settled by
the public mind.

Thus Edith was in prison, held there under a terrible charge, for which
there was proof that was appalling in its character. The body found and
identified seemed to plead against her; circumstances inculpated her;
motives were assigned to her sufficiently strong to cause the act; her
own words and acts all tended to confirm her guilt.

After all, however, this last blow was not so crushing a one as some
others which she had received in the course of her life. The most
terrible moment perhaps had been that one when she was taken and
confronted with the horrible remains. After that shock had subsided she
rallied somewhat; and when her arrest took place she was not unprepared.

If the shock of the arrest had thus been less severe than might be
supposed, so also was she less affected by her imprisonment than another
person would have been in such a situation. The reason of this is
evident. She had endured so much that this seemed an inferior
affliction. The anguish which she had known could not be increased by
this. At Dalton Hall she had become habituated to imprisonment, and of a
far more galling kind to her than this. She had been in the power of a
tyrant, at his mercy, and shut out from all means of communicating with
the world at large. Her soul had perpetually fretted and chafed against
the barriers by which she was confined, and the struggle within herself
was incessant. Afterward there had been the worse infliction of that
mock marriage, and the unspeakable dread of a new tyrant who called
himself her husband. No prison could equal the horrors which she had
known at Dalton Hall. Here in the jail her situation was at least known.
From Wiggins she was saved; from her false husband rescued forever. She
was now not in the power of a private tyrant, exercising his usurped
authority over her from his own desire, and with his will as his only
law; but she was in the hands of the nation, and under the power of the
national law. So, after all, she knew less grief in that prison cell
than in the more luxurious abode of Dalton Hall, less sorrow, less
despair. Her mood was a calm and almost apathetic one, for the great
griefs which she had already endured had made her almost indifferent to
anything that life might yet have to offer.

Two days after her arrest word was brought to Edith that a lady wished
to see her. Full of wonder who it could be, and in doubt whether it
could be Miss Plympton, or only Mrs. Dunbar, Edith eagerly directed that
the visitor should be admitted.

Thereupon a lady dressed in black entered the chamber. A heavy black
veil was over her face, which she raised as she entered, and stood
before Edith with downcast eyes.

There was something in that face which seemed strangely familiar to
Edith, and yet she found herself quite unable to think who the lady
could be. She thought over all the faces that she had known in her
school days. She thought over the faces at Dalton Hall. Suddenly, as
the lady raised her eyes, there was an additional revelation in them
which at once told Edith all.

She started back in amazement.

"Lieutenant Dudleigh!" she cried.

The lady bowed her head, and said, in a low voice,

"Fortescue is my real name."

[Illustration: "BUT EVEN NOW I WOULD BE WILLING TO DIE FOR HIM."]

A suspicion of this sort had once flashed across Edith's mind. It was
during the altercation at the Dalton chapel. Still, as this suspicion
was thus confirmed, her surprise was extreme, and she said not a word,
but looked steadily at her. And in the midst of other thoughts and
feelings she could not help seeing that great changes had come over Miss
Fortescue, as she called herself, in addition to those which were
consequent upon her resumption of feminine attire. She was pale and
thin, and looked ten years older than she used to look. Evidently she
had undergone great suffering. There were marks of deep grief on her
face. Much Edith marveled to see that one who had acted so basely was
capable of suffering such grief. She could not help being reminded of
that expression which she had seen on this same face when they were
arranging that false marriage; but now that deep remorse which then had
appeared seemed stamped permanently there, together with a profound
dejection that was like despair. All this was not without its effect on
Edith. It disarmed her natural indignation, and even excited pity.

"Miss Dalton," said the visitor, in a voice that was quite different
from the one which she remembered--a voice that was evidently her
natural one, while that other must have been assumed--"Miss Dalton, I
have come to try to do something, if possible, toward making amends
for--for a frightful injury. I know well that amends can never be made;
but at least I can do a little. Will you listen to me for a few moments,
not with regard to me, but solely for your own sake?"

Edith said nothing, but bowed her head slightly. She did not yet know
how far this betrayer might be sincere, and wished to hear and judge for
herself.

"Will you let me, first of all, make a confession to you of my great
sin?" she continued, slowly and painfully. "You will understand better
your own present situation. I assure you it will be a help to you
toward freeing yourself. I don't ask you to believe--I only ask you to
listen."

Edith again bowed.

"I will tell you all, then. I was an actress in London; my name was
Fortescue. I was a celebrity at Covent Garden. It was there that I
first met Captain Dudleigh. I need say no more about him than this: I
loved him passionately, with a frenzy and a devotion that you can not
understand, and my fate is this--that I love him yet. I know that he is
a coward and a villain and a traitor, but even now I would be willing to
die for him."

The voice was different--how different!--and the tone and manner still
more so. The careless "Little Dudleigh" had changed into a being of
passion and ardor and fire. Edith tried to preserve an incredulous state
of mind, but in vain. She could not help feeling that there was no
acting here. This at least was real. This devoted love could not be
feigned.

"He swore he loved me," continued Miss Fortescue. "He asked me to be his
wife. We were married."

"Married!" cried Edith, in a tone of profoundest agitation.

"Yes," said Miss Fortescue, solemnly, "we were married. But listen. I
believed that the marriage was real. He told some story about his
friends being unwilling--about his father, who, he said, would disown
him if he found it out. He urged a private marriage, without any public
announcement. He knew a young clergyman, he said, who would do him that
favor. For my part I had not the slightest objection. I loved him too
well to care about a formal wedding. So we were married in his rooms,
with a friend of his for witness.

"He set up a modest little house, where we lived for about a year. At
first my life was one of perfect happiness, but gradually I saw a change
coming over him. He was terribly in debt, and was afraid of utter ruin.
From hints that dropped from him, I began to suspect that he meditated
some sort of treachery toward me. Then, for the first time, I was
alarmed at the privacy of our marriage. Still, I was afraid to say any
thing to him, for fear that it might hasten any treachery toward me
which he might meditate. I loved him as dearly as ever, but I found out
that he was base and unprincipled, and felt that he was capable of any
thing. I had to content myself with watching him, and at the same time
tried to be as cheerful as possible.

"At length he heard about you, and came to Dalton. His father sent him,
he said. I followed him here. At first he was angry, but I persuaded him
to take me as an assistant. He did not want to be known at the Hall,
for he wished to see first what could be done with Wiggins. He made me
disguise myself as a man, and so I called myself Lieutenant Dudleigh. He
went to Dalton Hall, and discovered that the porter was some old
criminal who had done his crime on the Dudleigh estates--poaching, I
think, or murder, or both. On seeing Wiggins, he was able to obtain some
control over him--I don't know what. He never would tell me.

"By this time I found out what I had all along suspected--that he came
here for your sake. He was terribly in debt. A dark abyss lay before
him. He began to feel me to be an incumbrance. He began to wish that he
was a free man, so that he might marry you. I saw all this with a grief
that I can not tell.

"We made several calls on you. I went as his mother, Mrs. Mowbray."

"Mrs. Mowbray! You!" exclaimed Edith, in wonder.

"Did I act my part well?" said Miss Fortescue, mournfully. "It was an
easy enough part. I believe I succeeded in making myself utterly
detestable. Captain Dudleigh was bitterly vexed at my manner. He wanted
me to gain your confidence. That, however, I could not yet bring myself
to do. His own intercourse with you was even worse. Your attempt to
escape was a terrible blow to his hopes. Yet he dared not let you
escape. That would have destroyed his plans utterly. You would have
gone to your friends--to Miss Plympton--and you would have found out
things about him which would have made his projects with reference to
you out of the question."

"Miss Plympton!" cried Edith. "How could I have gone to her? She is
away."

"That was one of my lies," said Miss Fortescue. "Unfortunately, she is
really ill, but she is still in the country, at her school. I myself
went there to tell her about you only two days ago, but found that she
had been ill for some time, and could not see any one."

Edith sighed heavily. For an instant hope had come, and then it had died
out.

"He made me go again to see you, but with what result you know. I was
fairly driven away at last. This made him terribly enraged against you
and against me, but I quieted him by reminding him that it was only his
own fault. It brought about a change in his plans, however, and forced
him to put me more prominently forward. Then it was that he devised
that plan by which I was to go and win your confidence. I can not speak
of it; you know it all. I wish merely to show you what the pressure was
that he put on me.

"'Dear wife,' said he to me one day, in his most affectionate tone--'my
own Lucy, you know all about my affairs, and you know that I am utterly
ruined. If I can not do something to save myself, I see no other
resource but to blow my brains out. I will do it, I swear I will, if I
can not get out of these scrapes. My father will not help me. He has
paid all my debts twice, and won't do it again. Now I have a proposal to
make. It's my only hope. You can help me. If you love me, you will do
so. Help me in this, and then you will bind your husband to you by a tie
that will be stronger than life. If you will not do this simple thing,
you will doom me to death, for I swear I will kill myself, or at least,
if not that, I will leave you forever, and go to some place where I can
escape my creditors.'

"This was the way that he forced his plan upon me. You know what it was.
I was to see you, and do--what was done.

"'You are my wife,' said he, earnestly. 'I can not marry her--I don't
want to--but I do want to get money. Let me have the control of the
Dalton estates long enough to get out of my scrapes. You can't be
jealous of her. She hates me. I hate her, and love you--yes, better than
life. When she finds out that I am married to her she will hate me still
more. The marriage is only a form, only a means of getting money, so
that I may live with my own true wife, my darling Lucy, in peace, and
free from this intolerable despair.'

"By such assurances as these--by dwelling incessantly upon the fact that
I was his wife, and that this proposed marriage to you was an empty
form--upon your hate for him, and the certainty of your still greater
hate, he gradually worked upon me. He appealed to my love for him, my
pity for his situation, and to every feeling that could move me in his
favor. Then it was that he told me frankly the name of the clergyman
who had married us, and the witness. The clergyman's name was Porter,
and the witness was a Captain Reeves. So, in spite of my abhorrence of
the act, I was led at last, out of my very love to him, and regard for
his future, to acquiesce in his plan. Above all, I was moved by one
thing upon which he laid great stress.

"'It will really be for her benefit,' he would say. 'She will not be
married at all. I shall take some of her money, certainly; but she is so
enormously rich that she will never feel it; besides, if I didn't get
it, Wiggins would. Better for her cousin to have it. It will be all in
the family. Above all, this will be the means, and the only means, of
freeing her from that imprisonment in which Wiggins keeps her. That is
her chief desire. She will gain it. After I pay my debts I will explain
all to her; and what is more, when I succeed to my own inheritance, as I
must do in time, I shall pay her every penny.'

"By such plausible reasoning as this he drove away my last objection,
and so, with out any further hesitation, I went about that task.

"But oh, how hard it was! Over and over again I felt like giving up. But
always he was ready to urge me on, until at last it was accomplished,
and ended as you remember."

Miss Fortescue paused here, and made no reply. Edith said not a word.
Why should she? What availed this woman's repentance now?