Ellsworth Huntington - "The Red Man's Continent, A Chronicle of Aboriginal America"

Ellsworth Huntington - "The Red Man's Continent, A Chronicle of Aboriginal America"

Homer Eon Flint - "The Emancipatrix"

George Bernard Shaw - "Overruled"

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




Shortly after a group entered the hall. First came Frederick Dalton,
known to the court as "John Wiggins." He still bore traces of his recent
illness, and, indeed, was not fit to be out of his bed, but he had
dragged himself here to be present at this momentous scene. He was
terribly emaciated, and moved with difficulty, supported by Mrs.
Dunbar, who herself showed marks of suffering and exhaustion almost
equal to his.

But after these came another, upon whom all eyes were fastened, and even
Edith's gaze was drawn away from her father, to whom she had longed to
fly so as to sustain his dear form, and fixed upon this new-comer.

Dudleigh! The one whom she had known as Mowbray. Dudleigh!

Yes, there he stood.

Edith's eyes were fixed upon him in speechless amazement. It was
Dudleigh, and yet it seemed as though it could not be Dudleigh.

There was that form and there was that face which had haunted her for so
long a time, and had been associated with so many dark and terrible
memories--the form and the face which were so hateful, which never were
absent from her thoughts, and intruded even upon her dreams.

Yet upon that face there was now something which was not repulsive even
to her. It was a noble, spiritual face. Dudleigh's features were
remarkable for their faultless outline and symmetry, and now the
expression was in perfect keeping with the beauty of physical form, for
the old hardness had departed, and the deep stamp of sensuality and
selfishness was gone, and the sinister look which had once marred those
features could be traced there no more.

It was thinner than the face which Edith remembered, and it seemed to
her as if it had been worn down by some illness. If so, it must have
been the same cause which had imparted to those features the refinement
and high bearing which were now visible there. There was the same broad
brow covered with its clustering locks, the same penetrating eyes, the
same square, strong chin, the same firm, resolute month, but here it was
as though a finer touch had added a subtle grace to all these; for about
that mouth there lingered the traces of gentleness and kindliness, like
the remnant of sweet smiles; the glance of the eye was warmer and more
human; there was also an air of melancholy, and over all a grandeur of
bearing which spoke of high breeding and conscious dignity.

This man, with his earnest and even melancholy face and lofty bearing,
did not seem like one who could have plotted so treacherously against a
helpless girl. His aspect filled Edith with something akin to awe, and
produced a profound impression upon the spectators. They forgot the
hatred which they had begun to feel against Dudleigh in the living
presence of the object of their hate, and looked in silence first at
Edith, then at the new-comer, wondering why it was that between such as
these there could be any thing less than mutual affection. They thought
they could understand now why she should choose him as a husband. They
could not understand how such a husband could become hateful.

In all the court but one object seemed to attract Dudleigh, and that was
Edith. His eyes had wandered about at first, and finally had rested on
her. With a glance of profoundest and most gentle sympathy he looked at
her, conveying in that one look enough to disarm even her resentment.
She understood that look, and felt it, and as she looked at him in
return she was filled with wonder.

Could such things be? she thought. Was this the man who had caused her
so much suffering, who bad blasted and blighted the hopes of her life?
or, rather, had the man who had so wronged her been transformed to this?
Impossible! As well might a fiend become changed to an archangel. And
yet here he was. Evidently this was Dudleigh. She looked at him in
speechless bewilderment.

The proceedings of the court went on, and Dudleigh soon explained his
disappearance. As he spoke his voice confirmed the fact that he was
Dudleigh; but Edith listened to it with the same feelings which had been
excited by his face. It was the same voice, yet not the same; it was the
voice of Dudleigh, but the coldness and the mockery of its intonations
were not there. Could he have been playing a devil's part all along, and
was he now coming out in his true character, or was this a false part?
No; whatever else was false, this was not--that expression of face, that
glance of the eye, those intonations, could never be feigned. So Edith
thought as she listened.

Dudleigh's explanation was a simple one. He had not been very happy at
Dalton Hall and had concluded to go away that night for a tour on the
Continent. He had left so as to get the early morning train, and had
traveled on without stopping until he reached Palermo, from which he had
gone to different places in the interior of Sicily, which he mentioned.
He had climbed over the gate, because he was in too much of a hurry to
wake the porter. He had left his valise, as he intended to walk. He had,
of course, left his dog at Dalton, because he couldn't take him to the
Continent. He had forgotten his watch, for the reason that he had slept
longer than he intended, and dressed and went off in a great hurry. The
pocket-book which he left was of no importance--contained principally
memoranda, of no use to any but himself. He had no idea there would have
been such a row, or he would not have gone in such a hurry. He had heard
of this for the first time in Sicily, and would have come at once, but,
unfortunately, he had a attack of fever, and could not return before.

Nothing could have been more natural and frank than Dudleigh's
statement. A few questions were asked, merely to satisfy public
curiosity. Every one thought that a trip to Sicily was a natural enough
thing for one who was on such bad terms with his wife, and the
suddenness of his resolution to go there was sufficient to account for
the disorder in which he had left his room.

But all this time there was one in that court who looked upon the
new-comer with far different feelings that those which any other had.

This was Sir Lionel Dudleigh.

He had heard the remark of the counsel that Dudleigh had returned, and
looked toward the door as he entered with a smile on his face. As he saw
Dudleigh enter he started. Then his face turned ghastly white, and his
jaw fell. He clutched the railing in front of him with both hands, and
seemed fascinated by the sight.

Near him stood Mrs. Dunbar, and Dalton leaned on her. Both of these
looked fixedly at Sir Lionel, and noticed his emotion.

At the sound of Dudleigh's voice Sir Lionel's emotion increased. He
breathed heavily. His face turned purple. His knuckles turned white as
he grasped the railing. Suddenly, in the midst of Dudleigh's remarks, he
started to his feet, and seemed about to say something. Immediately in
front of him were Dalton and Mrs. Dunbar. At that instant, as he rose,
Mrs. Dunbar laid her hand on his arm.

He looked at her with astonishment. He had not seen her before. She
fixed her solemn eyes on him--those eyes to which had come a gloom more
profound, and a sadness deeper than before. But Sir Lionel stared at her
without recognition, and impatiently tried to shake off her hand.

"Who are you?" he said, suddenly, in a trembling voice--for there was
something in this woman's face that suggested startling thoughts.

Mrs. Dunbar drew nearer to him, and in a whisper that thrilled through
every fibre of Sir Lionel's frame, hissed in his ear,

"_I am your wife--and here is my brother Frederick!_"

Over Sir Lionel's face there came a flash of horror, sudden, sharp, and
overwhelming. He staggered and shrank back.

"Claudine!" he murmured, in a stifled voice.

"Sit down," whispered Lady Dudleigh--now no longer Mrs. Dunbar--"sit
down, or you shall have to change places with Frederick's daughter."

Sir Lionel swayed backward and forward, and appeared not to hear her.
And now his eyes wandered to Dalton, who stood gazing solemnly at him,
and then to Dudleigh, who was still speaking.

"Who is that?" he gasped.

"Your son!" said Lady Dudleigh.

[Illustration: "HE LOOKED AT HER WITH ASTONISHMENT."]

At this instant Dudleigh finished. Sir Lionel gave a terrible groan, and
flung up his arms wildly. The next instant he fell heavily forward, and
was caught in the arms of his wife. A crowd flew to his assistance, and
he was carried out of court, followed by Lady Dudleigh.

There was a murmur of universal sympathy.

"Poor Sir Lionel! He has been heartbroken, and the joy of his son's
safety is too much."

After this the proceedings soon came to an end.

Edith was free!

Dalton tried to get to her, but in his weakness sank upon a seat, and
looked imploringly at his daughter. Seeing this, Dudleigh sprang to his
assistance, and gave his arm. Leaning heavily upon this, Dalton walked
toward Edith, who was already striving to reach him, and, with a low
cry, caught her in his arms.

Sir Lionel had been taken to the inn, where Lady Dudleigh waited on him.
After some time he recovered his senses, and began to rally rapidly. It
had been feared that it was apoplexy, but, fortunately for the sufferer,
it turned out to be nothing so serious as that. After this Lady Dudleigh
was left alone with her husband.

Ten years of separation lay between these two--a separation undertaken
from causes that still existed to alienate them beyond the hope of
reconciliation. Yet there was much to be said; and Lady Dudleigh had
before her a dark and solemn purpose.

On the next day Sir Lionel was able to drive out. Lady Dudleigh seemed
to have constituted herself his guardian. Sir Lionel's face and
expression had changed. The easy, careless bonhomie, the placid content,
the serene joyousness, that had once characterized him, were gone. In
the place of these there came an anxious, watchful, troubled look--the
look of a mind ill at ease--the furtive glance, the clouded brow. It was
as though in this meeting Lady Dudleigh had communicated to her husband
a part of that expression which prevailed in her own face.

Sir Lionel seemed like a prisoner who is attended by an ever-vigilant
guard--one who watches all his movements, and from whom he can not
escape. As he rolled along in his carriage, the Black Care of the poet
seemed seated beside him in the person of Lady Dudleigh.

While Sir Lionel thus recovered from the sudden shock which he had felt,
there was another who had endured a longer and severer course of
suffering, and who had rallied for a moment when his presence was
required, but only to sink back into a relapse worse than the illness
from which he had begun to recover. This was Frederick Dalton, who had
crawled from his bed twice--once to his daughter's prison, and once to
the scene of her trial. But the exertion was too much, and the agitation
of feeling to which he had been subject had overwhelmed him. Leaning
heavily on Dudleigh, and also on Edith, he was taken by these two to his
carriage, and thence to the inn; but here he could walk no further. It
was Dudleigh who had to carry him to his room and lay him on his
bed--and Dudleigh, too, who would intrust to no other person the task of
putting his prostrate form in that bed. Dudleigh's own father was lying
in the same house, but at that moment, whatever were his motives, Dalton
seemed to have stronger claims on his filial duty, and Edith had to wait
till this unlooked-for nurse had tenderly placed her father in his bed.

The doctor, who had found Sir Lionel's case so trifling, shook his head
seriously over Frederick Dalton. Dudleigh took up his station in that
room, and cared for the patient like a son. The day passed, and the
night, and the next morning, but Dalton grew no better. It was a strange
stupor which affected him, not like paralysis, but arising rather from
exhaustion, or some affection of the brain. The doctor called it
congestion. He lay in a kind of doze, without sense and without
suffering, swallowing any food or medicine that might be offered, but
never noticing any thing, and never answering any questions. His eyes
were closed at all times, and in that stupor he seemed to be in a state
of living death.

Edith's grief was profound; but in the midst of it she could not help
feeling wonder at the unexpected part which Dudleigh was performing. Who
was he that he should take so large a part in the care of her father?
Yet so it was; and Dudleigh seemed to think of nothing and see nothing
but that old man's wasted and prostrate form.

For the present, at least, departure from the inn was of course out of
the question. Edith's position was a very distressing one. Every
feeling of her heart impelled her to be present at her father's bedside,
but Dudleigh was present at that same bedside; and how could she
associate herself with him even there? At first she would enter the
room, and sit quietly by her father's bedside, and on such occasions
Dudleigh would respectfully withdraw; but this was unpleasant, and she
hardly knew what to do.

Two or three days thus passed, and on the third Dudleigh requested an
interview, to ask her, as he said, something about "Mr. Wiggins"--for
this was the name by which Mr. Dalton still was called. This request
Edith could not refuse.

Dudleigh entered with an air of profound respect.

"Miss Dalton," said he, laying emphasis on that name, "nothing would
induce me to intrude upon you but my anxiety about your father. Deep as
your affection for him may be, it can hardly be greater than mine. I
would gladly lay down my life for him. At the same time, I understand
your feelings, and this is what I wish to speak about. I would give up
my place at his bedside altogether if you wished it, and you should not
be troubled by my presence; but I see that you are not strong enough to
be sole nurse, or to undertake the work that would be required of you,
and that your own affection for him would impose upon you. You yourself
are not strong, and you must take care of yourself for his sake. I will
not, therefore, give up to you all the care of your father, but I will
absent myself during the afternoon, and you will then have exclusive
care of him."

Edith bowed without a word, and Dudleigh withdrew.

This arrangement was kept up, and Edith scarcely saw Dudleigh at all.
She knew, however, that his care for her father was incessant and
uninterrupted. Every thing that could possibly be needed was supplied;
every luxury or delicacy that could be thought of was obtained; and not
only were London physicians constantly coming up, but from the notes
which lay around, she judged that Dudleigh kept up a constant
correspondence with them about this case.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XLIII.


SIR LIONEL AND HIS "KEEPER"

Sir Lionel, who had come to this place with the face that indicated a
mind at peace, thus found himself suddenly confronted by a grim phantom,
the aspect of which struck terror to his heart. That phantom was drawn
up from a past which he usually did not care to remember. Now, however,
he could not forget it. There was one by his side to remind him of it
always--one who had become his guard, his jailer--in fact, his keeper--a
word which signifies better than any other the attitude which was
assumed by Lady Dudleigh. For the feeling which Sir Lionel had toward
her was precisely like that which the lunatic has toward his keeper, the
feeling that this one is watching night and day, and never relaxes the
terrible stare of those vigilant eyes. There are those who on being thus
watched would grow mad; and Sir Lionel had this in addition to his other
terrors--this climax of them all, that upon him there was always the
maddening glare of his "keeper's" eyes. Terrible eyes were they to him,
most terrible--eyes which he dared not encounter. They were the eyes of
his wife--a woman most injured; and her gaze reminded him always of a
past full of horror. That gaze he could not encounter. He knew without
looking at it what it meant. He felt it on him. There were times when
it made his flesh crawl, nor could he venture to face it.

A few days of this reduced him to a state of abject misery. He began to
fear that he was really growing mad. In that case he would be a fit
subject for a "keeper." He longed with unutterable longing to throw off
this terrible restraint; but he could not and dared not. That woman,
that "keeper," wielded over him a power which he knew and felt, and
dared not defy. It was the power that arises from the knowledge of
secrets of life and death, and her knowledge placed his life in her
hands.

This woman was inflexible and inexorable. She had suffered so much that
she had no pity for his present sufferings. These seemed trivial to her.
She showed a grand, strong, self-sufficient nature, which made her his
superior, and put her above the reach of any influences that he might
bring. He could remember the time when she was a fair and gentle young
girl, with her will all subject to his; then a loving bride with no
thought apart from him; but now years of suffering and self-discipline
had transformed her to this, and she came back to him an inexorable
Fate, an avenging Nemesis.

Yet Sir Lionel did not give up all hope. He could not drive her away.
He could not fly away from her, for her watch was too vigilant; but he
hoped for some chance of secret flight in which, if he once escaped, he
might find his way to the Continent. With something of that cunning
which characterizes the insane, and which, perhaps, is born of the
presence of a "keeper," Sir Lionel watched his opportunity, and one day
nearly succeeded in effecting his desire.

That day Lady Dudleigh was in her brother's room. Sir Lionel had waited
for this, and had made his preparations. When she had been gone for a
few minutes, he stole softly out of his room, passed stealthily down the
back stairs of the inn, and going out of the back-door, reached the rear
of the house. Here there was a yard, and a gate that led out to a road
at the end of the house. A carriage had been in waiting here for about
an hour. Sir Lionel hurried across the yard, passed through the gate,
and looked for the carriage.

He took one glance, and then a deep oath escaped him.

In the carriage was Lady Dudleigh.

How she could have detected his flight he could not imagine, nor did he
now care. She had detected it, and had followed at once to circumvent
him. She must have gone down the front stairs, out of the front-door,
and reached the carriage before him. And there she was! Those hateful
eyes were fixed on him--he felt the horrid stare--he cowered beneath it.
He walked toward her.

"I thought I would go out too," said she.

Sir Lionel said not a word. He felt too much ashamed to turn back now,
and was too politic to allow her to see any open signs that he was in
full flight; so he quietly got into the carriage, and took his seat by
her side.

Whipping up the horses, he drove them at a headlong rate of speed out
through the streets into the country. His whole soul was full of mad
fury. Rage and disappointment together excited his brain to madness; and
the fierce rush of the impetuous steeds was in accordance with the
excitement of his mind. At length the horses themselves grew fatigued,
and slackened their pace. Sir Lionel still tried to urge them forward,
but in vain, and at last he flung down the whip with a curse.

"I'll not stand this any longer!" he cried, vehemently, addressing his
"keeper," but not looking at her.

"What?" said she.

"This style of being dogged and tracked and watched."

"You allude to me, I suppose," said Lady Dudleigh. "At any rate, you
must allow that it is better to be tracked, as you call it, by me, than
by the officers of the law."

"I don't care," growled Sir Lionel, gathering courage. "I'll not stand
this style of thing any longer. I'll not let them have it all their own
way."

"I don't see what you can do," said Lady Dudleigh, quietly.

"Do!" cried Sir Lionel, in a still more violent tone--"do! I'll tell you
what I'll do: I'll fight it out."

"Fight!"

"Yes," cried Sir Lionel, with an oath. "Every one of you--every one.
Every one without a single exception. Oh, you needn't think that I'm
afraid. I've thought it all over. You're all under my power. Yes--ha,
ha, ha! that's it. I've said it, and I say what I mean. You thought that
I was under your power. Your power! Ha, ha, ha! That's good. Why, you're
all under mine--every one of you."

Sir Lionel spoke wildly and vehemently, in that tone of feverish
excitement which marks a madman. It may have been the influence of his
"keeper," or it may have been the dawnings of actual insanity.

As for Lady Dudleigh, she did not lose one particle of her
cold-bloodedness. She simply said, in the same tone,

"How?"

"How? Ha, ha! Do you think I'm going to tell _you_? That's
_my_ secret. But stop. Yes; I don't care. I'd just as soon tell as
not. You can't escape, not one of you, unless you all fly at once to the
Continent, or to America, or, better yet, back to Botany Bay. There
you'll be safe. Fly! fly! fly! or else," he suddenly added, in a gloomy
tone, "you'll all die on the gallows! every one of you, on the gallows!
Ha, ha, ha! swinging on the gallows! the beautiful gallows!"

Lady Dudleigh disregarded the wildness of his tone, or perhaps she chose
to take advantage of it, thinking that in his excitement he might
disclose his thoughts the more unguardedly.

"You can do nothing," she said.

"Can't I, though?" retorted Sir Lionel.

"You wait. First, there's Dalton."

"What can you do with him?"

"Arrest him," said Sir Lionel. "What is he? An outlaw! An escaped
convict! He lives under an assumed name. He must go back to Botany
Bay--that is, if he isn't hanged. And then there's that pale-faced devil
of a daughter with her terrible eyes." He paused.

"What can you do to her?"

"Her! Arrest her too," cried Sir Lionel. "She murdered my boy--my
son--my Leon. She must be hanged. You shall not save her by this trick.
No! she must be hanged, like her cursed father."

A shudder passed through Lady Dudleigh.

Sir Lionel did not notice it. He was too much taken up with his own
vengeful thoughts.

"Yes," said he, "and there's that scoundrel Reginald."

"Reginald!" cried Lady Dudleigh, in a stern voice. "Why do you mention
him?"

"Oh, he's one of the same gang," cried Sir Lionel. "He's playing their
game. He is siding against his father, as he always did, and with his
brother's murderers. He shall not escape. I will avenge Leon's death on
all of you; and as for him, he shall suffer!"

It was with a strong effort that Lady Dudleigh restrained herself. But
she succeeded in doing so, and said, simply, as before,

"How?"

"Arrest him!" cried Sir Lionel. "Arrest him too. He is guilty of
perjury; and if he doesn't hang for it, he'll go back again to Botany
Bay with that scoundrel with whom he sides against me--his own
father--and against his brother."

"Are there any more?" asked Lady Dudleigh, as Sir Lionel ended.

"More! Yes," he said.

"Who?"

"You!" shouted Sir Lionel, with a voice of indescribable hate and
ferocity. He turned as he spoke, and stared at her. His wild eyes,
however, met the calm, cold, steady glance of those of his "keeper," and
they fell before it. He seized the whip and began to lash the horses,
crying as he did so, "You! yes, you! you! most of all!"

"What can you do to me?" asked Lady Dudleigh.

"You? Arrest you."

"What have I done?"

"You? You have done every thing. You have aided and abetted the escape
of an outlaw. You have assisted him in his nefarious occupation of
Dalton Hall. You have aided and abetted him in the imprisonment of
Dalton's brat. You have aided and abetted him in the murder of my boy
Leon. You have--"

"Stop!" cried Lady Dudleigh, in a stern, commanding voice. "You have
been a villain always, but you have never been so outspoken. Who are
you? Do you know what happened ten years ago?"

"What?" asked Sir Lionel. "Do you mean Dalton's forgery, and his
assassination of that--that banker fellow?"

Lady Dudleigh smiled grimly.

"I am glad that you said that," said she. "You remove my last scruple.
My brother's wrongs have well-nigh maddened me; but I have hesitated to
bear witness against my husband, and the father of my children. I shall
remember this, and it will sustain me when I bear my witness against you
in a court of law."

"Me?" said Sir Lionel. "Me? Witness against me? You can not. No one will
believe you."

"It will not be only your wife," said she, "though that will be
something, but your own self, with your own hand."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what you know very well--your letter which you wrote to
Frederick, inclosing your forged check."

"I never forged a check, and I never wrote a letter inclosing one!"
cried Sir Lionel. "Dalton forged that letter himself, if there is such a
letter. He was an accomplished forger, and has suffered for it."

"The letter is your own," said Lady Dudleigh, "and I can swear to it."

"No one will believe you," cried Sir Lionel. "You shall be arrested for
perjury."