Samuel Johnson - "Lives of the English Poets: Prior, Congreve, Blackmore, Pope"

J. D. Hooker - "Himalayan Journals (Complete)"

Henry James - "Madame de Mauves"

Upton Sinclair - "The Pot Boiler"

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




"But I'm not mad at all," said Lady Dudleigh, indignant at the woman's
obtuseness.

"There, there; don't you go for to excite yourself," said the woman,
soothingly. "But I s'pose you can't help it."

"So this is a mad-house, is it?" said Lady Dudleigh, gloomily, after a
pause.

"Well, 'm, we don't call it that; we call it a 'sylum. It's Dr. Morton's
'sylum."

"Now see here," said Lady Dudleigh, making a fresh effort, and trying to
be as cool as possible, "I am Lady Dudleigh. I have been brought here by
a trick. Dr. Morton is deceived. He is committing a crime in detaining
me. I am not mad. Look at me. Judge for yourself. Look at me, and say,
do I look like a madwoman?"

The woman, thus appealed to, good-naturedly acquiesced, and looked at
Lady Dudleigh.

"'Deed," she remarked, "ye look as though ye've had a deal of sufferin'
afore ye came here, an' I don't wonder yer mind give way."

"Do I look like a madwoman?" repeated Lady Dudleigh, with a sense of
intolerable irritation at this woman's stupidity.

"'Deed, then, an' I'm no judge. It's the doctor that decides."

"But what do you say? Come, now."

"Well, then, ye don't look very bad, exceptin' the glare an' glitter of
the eyes of ye, an' yer fancies."

"Fanciest? What fancies?"

"Why, yer fancies that ye're Lady Dudleigh, an' all that about Sir
Lionel."

Lady Dudleigh started to her feet.

"What!" she exclaimed. "Why, I am Lady Dudleigh."

"There, there!" said the woman, soothingly; "sure I forgot myself. Sure
ye are Lady Dudleigh, or any body else ye like. It's a dreadful
inveiglin' way ye have to trap a body the way ye do."

At this Lady Dudleigh was in despair. No further words were of any
avail. The woman was determined to humor her, and assented to every
thing she said. This treatment was so intolerable that Lady Dudleigh was
afraid to say any thing for fear that she would show the excitement of
her feelings, and such an exhibition would of course have been
considered as a fresh proof of her madness.

The woman at length completed her task, and retired.

Lady Dudleigh was left alone. She knew it all now. She remembered the
letter which Sir Lionel had written. In that he had no doubt arranged
this plan with Dr. Morton, and the coach had been ready at the station.
But in what part of the country this place was she had no idea, nor
could she know whether Dr. Morton was deceived by Sir Lionel, or was his
paid employé in this work of villainy. His face did not give her any
encouragement to hope for either honesty or mercy from him.

It was an appalling situation, and she knew it. All the horrors that she
had ever heard of in connection with private asylums occurred to her
mind, and deepened the terror that surrounded her. All the other cares
of her life--the sorrow of bereavement, the anxiety for the sick, the
plans for Frederick Dalton--all these and many others now oppressed her
till her brain sank under the crushing weight. A groan of anguish burst
from her.

"Sir Lionel's mockery will become a reality," she thought. "I shall go
mad!"

Meanwhile Sir Lionel had gone away. Leaving Lady Dudleigh in the room,
he had gone down stairs, and after a few hurried words with the doctor,
he left the house and entered the coach, which drove back to the
station.

All the way he was in the utmost glee, rubbing his hands, slapping his
thighs, chuckling to himself, laughing and cheering.

"Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!" he laughed. "Outwitted! The keeper--the
keeper caught! Ha, ha, ha! Why, she'll never get out--never! In for
life, Lionel, my boy! Mad! Why, by this time she's a raving maniac! Ha,
ha, ha! She swear against me! Who'd believe a madwoman, an idiot, a
lunatic, a bedlamite, a maniac--a howling, frenzied, gibbering, ranting,
raving, driveling, maundering, mooning maniac! And now for the boy
next--the parricide! Ha, ha, ha! Arrest him! No. Shut him up
here--both--with my friend Morton--both of them, mother and son, the
two--ha, ha, ha!--witnesses! One maniac! two maniacs! and then I shall
go mad with joy, and come here to live, and there shall be _three
maniacs_! Ha, ha, ha! ha, ha, ha-a-a-a-a-a-a!"

Sir Lionel himself seemed mad now.

On leaving the coach, however, he became calmer, and taking the first
train that came up, resumed his journey.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XLVI.


THE BEDSIDE OF DALTON.

Frederick Dalton remained in his prostrate condition, with no apparent
change either for the better or for the worse, and thus a month passed.

One morning Dudleigh requested an interview with Edith.

On entering the room he greeted her with his usual deep respect.

[Illustration: "THEIR HANDS TOUCHED."]

"I hope you will excuse me for troubling you, Miss Dalton," he said,
"but I wish very much to ask your opinion about your father. He
remains, as you know, unchanged, and this inn is not the place for him.
The air is close, the place is noisy, and it is impossible for him to
have that perfect quiet which he so greatly needs. Dudleigh Manor is too
far away, but there is another place close by. I am aware, Miss Dalton,
that Dalton Hall must be odious to you, and therefore I hesitate to ask
you to take your father to that place. Yet he ought to go there, and at
once. As for yourself, I hope that the new circumstances under which you
will live there will make it less unpleasant; and, let me add, for my
own part, it shall be my effort to see that you, who have been so deeply
wronged, shall be righted--with all and before all. As to myself," he
continued, "I would retire, and relieve you of my presence, which can
not be otherwise than painful, but there are two reasons why I ought to
remain. The first is your father. You yourself are not able to take all
the care of him, and there is no other who can share it except myself.
Next to yourself, no one can be to him what I am, nor is there any one
with whom I would be willing to leave him. He must not be left to a
servant. He must be nursed by those who love him. And so I must stay
with him wherever he is. In addition to this, however, my presence at
Dalton Hall will effectually quell the vulgar clamor, and all the rumors
that have been prevailing for the last few months will be silenced."

Dudleigh spoke all this calmly and seriously, but beneath his words
there was something in his tone which conveyed a deeper meaning. That
tone was more than respectful--it was almost reverential--as though the
one to whom he spoke required from him more than mere courtesy. In spite
of his outward calm, there was also an emotion in his voice which showed
that the calm was assumed, and that beneath it lay something which could
not be all concealed. In his eyes, as he fixed them on Edith, there was
that same reverential regard, which seemed to speak of devotion and
loyalty; something stronger than admiration, something deeper than
sympathy, was expressed from them. And yet it was this that he himself
tried to conceal. It was as though this feeling of his burst forth
irrepressibly through all concealment, as though the intensity of this
feeling made even his calmest words and commonest formulas fall of a new
and deeper meaning.

In that reverence and profound devotion thus manifest there was nothing
which could be otherwise than grateful to Edith. Certainly she could not
take offense, for his words and his looks afforded nothing which could
by any possibility give rise to that.

For a whole month this man had been before her, a constant attendant on
her father, sleeping his few hours in an adjoining chamber, with scarce
a thought beyond that prostrate friend. All the country had been
searched for the best advice or the best remedies, and nothing had been
omitted which untiring affection could suggest. During all this time
she had scarce seen him. In the delicacy of his regard for her he had
studiously kept out of her way, as though unwilling to allow his
presence to give her pain. A moment might occasionally be taken up with
a few necessary arrangements as she would enter, but that was all. He
patiently waited till she retired before he ventured to come in himself.

No; in that noble face, pale from illness or from sadness, with the
traces of sorrow upon it, and the marks of long vigils by the bedside of
her father--in that refined face, whose expression spoke only of
elevation of soul, and exhibited the perfect type of manly beauty, there
was certainly nothing that could excite repugnance, but every thing that
might inspire confidence.

Edith saw all this, and remarked it while listening to him; and she
thought she had never seen any thing so pure in its loyalty, so profound
in its sympathy, and so sweet in its sad grace as that face which was
now turned toward her with its eloquent eyes.

She did not say much. A few words signified her assent to the proposal.
Dudleigh said that he would make all the necessary arrangements, and
that she should have no trouble whatever. With this he took his
departure.

That same evening another visitor came. It was a pale, slender girl,
who gave her name as Lucy Ford. She said that she had been sent by
Captain Dudleigh. She heard that Edith had no maid, and wished to get
that situation. Edith hesitated for a moment. Could she accept so
direct a favor from Dudleigh, or give him that mark of confidence? Her
hesitation was over at once. She could give him that, and she accepted
the maid. The next day came a housekeeper and two or three others, all
sent by Dudleigh, all of whom were accepted by her. For Dudleigh had
found out somehow the need of servants at Dalton Hall, and had taken
this way of supplying that prime requisite.

It then remained to move Dalton. He still continued in the same
condition, not much changed physically, but in a state of mental torpor,
the duration of which no one was able to foretell. Two short stages were
required to take him to Dalton Hall. For this a litter was procured, and
he was carried all the way. Edith went, with her maid and housekeeper,
in a carriage, Dudleigh on horseback, and the other servants, with the
luggage, in various conveyances.

Dalton received no benefit from his journey, but his friends were happy
enough that he had received no injury. The medical attendance at Dalton
Hall was, as before, the best that could be obtained, and all the care
that affection could suggest was lavished upon him.

From what has already been said, it will be seen that in making this
migration to Dalton Hall, Dudleigh was regardful of many things besides
the patient. He had made every arrangement for the comfort of the
occupants. He had sought out all the domestics that were necessary to
diffuse an air of home over such a large establishment, and had been
careful to submit them to Edith for her approval. He had also procured
horses and grooms and carriages, and every thing that might conduce to
the comfort of life. The old solitude and loneliness were thus
terminated. The new housekeeper prevented Edith from feeling any anxiety
about domestic concerns, and the servants all showed themselves well
trained and perfectly subordinate.

Dalton's room was at the west end of the building. Edith occupied her
old apartments. Dudleigh took that which had belonged to his "double."
The housekeeper took the room that had been occupied by Lady Dudleigh.

Dudleigh was as devoted as ever to the sick man. He remained at his
bedside through the greater part of the nights and through the mornings.
In the afternoons he retired as before, and gave place to Edith. When
he was there he sometimes had a servant upon whom he could rely, and
then, if he felt unusual fatigue, and circumstances were favorable, he
was able to snatch a little sleep. He usually went to bed at two in the
afternoon, rose at seven, and in that brief sleep, with occasional naps
during the morning, obtained enough to last him for the day. With this
rest he was satisfied, and needed, or at least sought for, no
recreation. During the hours of the morning he was able to attend to
those outside duties that required overseeing or direction.

But while he watched in this way over the invalid, he was not a mere
watcher. That invalid required, after all, but little at the hands of
his nurses, and Dudleigh had much to do.

On his arrival at Dalton Hall he had possessed himself of all the papers
that his "double" had left behind him, and these he diligently studied,
so as to be able to carry out with the utmost efficiency the purpose
that he had in his mind. It was during the long watches of the night
that he studied these papers, trying to make out from them the manner of
life and the associates of the one who had left them, trying also to
arrive at some clew to his mysterious disappearance. This study he
could keep up without detriment to his office of attendant, and while
watching over the invalid he could carry out his investigations.
Sometimes, in the afternoons, after indulging in more frequent naps than
usual during the mornings, he was able to go out for a ride about the
grounds. He was a first-rate horseman, and Edith noticed his admirable
seat as she looked from the windows of her father's room.

Thus time went on.

Gradually Dudleigh and Edith began to occupy a different position toward
one another. At the inn their relations were as has been shown. But
after their arrival at Dalton Hall there occurred a gradual change.

As Edith came to the room on the first day, Dudleigh waited. On entering
she saw his eyes fixed on her with an expression of painful suspense, of
earnest, eager inquiry. In that eloquent appealing glance all his soul
seemed to beam from his eyes. It was reverent, it was almost humble, yet
it looked for some small concession. May I hope? it said. Will you give
a thought to me? See, I stand here, and I hang upon your look. Will you
turn away from me?

Edith did not repel that mute appeal. There was that in her face which
broke down Dudleigh's reserve. He advanced toward her and held out his
hand. She did not reject it.

It was but a commonplace thing to do--it was what might have been done
before--yet between these two it was far from common-place. Their hands
touched, their eyes met, but neither spoke a word. It was but a light
grasp that Dudleigh gave. Reverentially, yet tenderly, he took that
hand, not venturing to go beyond what might be accorded to the merest
stranger, but contenting himself with that one concession. With that he
retired, carrying with him the remembrance of that nearer approach, and
the hope of what yet might be.

After that the extreme reserve was broken down. Each day, on meeting, a
shake of the hands was accompanied by something more. Between any
others these greetings would have been the most natural thing in the
world; but here it was different. There was one subject in which each
took the deepest interest, and about which each had something to say.
Frederick Dalton's health was precious to each, and each felt anxiety
about his condition. This formed a theme about which they might speak.

As Dudleigh waited for Edith, so Edith waited for Dudleigh; and still
there were the same questions to be asked and answered. Standing thus
together in that sick-room, with one life forming a common bond between
them, conversing in low whispers upon one so dear to both, it would have
been strange indeed if any thing like want of confidence had remained on
either side.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XLVII.


A BETTER UNDERSTANDING.

Dudleigh lived on as before, assiduous in his attendance, dividing his
time chiefly between nursing and study of the papers already mentioned.
He never went out of the grounds on those occasional rides, and if any
one in the neighborhood noticed this, the recent sad events might have
been considered an excuse. Thus these two were thrown upon one another
exclusively. For each there was no other society. As for Edith, Dudleigh
had done so much that she felt a natural gratitude; and more than this,
there was in her mind a sense of security and of dependence.

Meanwhile Dudleigh's pale face grew paler. His sleep had all along been
utterly inadequate, and the incessant confinement had begun to show its
effects. He had been accustomed to an open-air life and vigorous
exercise. This quiet watching at the bedside of Dalton was more trying
to his strength than severe labor could have been.

The change in him was not lost on Edith, and even if gratitude toward
him had been wanting, common humanity would have impelled her to speak
about it.

One day, as she came in, she was struck by his appearance. His face was
ghastly white, and he had been sitting with his head in his hands as she
softly entered. In an instant, as he heard her step, he started up, and
advanced with a radiant smile, a smile caused by her approach.

"I'm afraid that you are overtasking yourself," said Edith, gently,
after the usual greeting. "You are here too much. The confinement is
too trying. You must take more rest and exercise."

Dudleigh's face was suffused with a sudden glow of delight.

"It is kind of you to notice it," said he, earnestly, "but I'm sure you
are mistaken. I could do far more if necessary. This is my place, and
this is my truest occupation."

"For that very reason," said Edith, in tones that showed more concern
than she would have cared to acknowledge--"for that very reason you
ought to preserve yourself--for his sake. You confine yourself here too
much, and take too little rest. I see that you feel it already."

"I?" said Dudleigh, with a light laugh, whose musical cadence sounded
very sweet to Edith, and revealed to her another side of his character
very different from that sad and melancholy one which he had thus far
shown--"I? Why, you have no idea of my capacity for this sort of thing.
Excuse me, Miss Dalton, but it seems absurd to talk of my breaking down
under such work as this."

Edith shook her head.

"You show traces of it," said she, in a gentle voice, looking away from
him, "which common humanity would compel me to notice. You must not do
all the work; I must have part of it."

"_You?_" exclaimed Dudleigh, with infinite tenderness in his tone.
"Do you think that I would allow _you_ to spend any more time here
than you now do, or that I would spare myself at the expense of
_your_ health? Never! Aside from the fact that your father is so
dear to me, there are considerations for you which would lead me to die
at my post rather than allow you to have any more trouble."

There was a fervor in Dudleigh's tones which penetrated to Edith's
heart. There was a deep glow in his eyes as he looked at her which Edith
did not care to encounter.

"You are of far more importance to Sir Lionel than I am," said she,
after a pause which began to be embarrassing. "But what will become of
him if--if you are prostrated?"

"I shall not be prostrated," said Dudleigh.

"I think you will if this state of things continues."

"Oh, I don't think there is any prospect of my giving up just yet."

"No. I know your affection for him, and that it would keep you here
until--until you could not stay any longer; and it is this which I wish
to avoid."

"It is my duty," said Dudleigh. "He is one whom I revere more than any
other man, and love as a father. Besides, there are other things that
bind me to him--his immeasurable wrongs, his matchless patience--wrongs
inflicted by one who is my father; and I, as the son, feel it a holy
duty, the holiest of all duties, to stand by that bedside and devote
myself to him. He is your father, Miss Dalton, but you have never known
him as I have known him--the soul of honor, the stainless gentleman, the
ideal of chivalry and loyalty and truth. This he is, and for this he
lies there, and my wretched father it is who has done this deed. But
that father is a father only in name, and I have long ago transferred a
son's love and a son's duty to that gentle and noble and injured
friend."

This outburst of feeling came forth from Dudleigh's inmost heart, and
was spoken with a passionate fervor which showed how deeply he felt what
he said. Every word thrilled through Edith. Bitter self-reproach at that
moment came to her, as she thought of her own relations to her father.
What Dudleigh's had been she did not know, but she saw that in him her
father had found a son. And what had his daughter been to him? Of that
she dared not think. Her heart was wrung with sharp anguish at the
memories of the past, while at the same time she felt drawn more closely
to Dudleigh, who had thus been to him all that she had failed to be. Had
she spoken what she thought, she would have thanked and blessed him for
those words. But she did not dare to trust herself to speak of that;
rather she tried to restrain herself; and when she spoke, it was with a
strong effort at this self-control.

"Well," she said, in a voice which was tremulous in spite of all her
efforts, "this shows how dear you must be to him, since he has found
such love in you, and so for his sake you must spare yourself. You must
not stay here so constantly."

"Who is there to take my place?" asked Dudleigh, quietly.

"I," said Edith.

Dudleigh smiled.

"Do you think," said he, "that I would allow that? Even if I needed more
rest, which I do not, do you think that I would take it at your
expense--that I would go away, enjoy myself, and leave you to bear the
fatigue? No, Miss Dalton; I am not quite so selfish as that."

"But you will let me stay here more than I do," said Edith, earnestly.
"I may as well be here as in my own room. Will you not let me have half
the care, and occasionally allow you to take rest?"

She spoke timidly and anxiously, as though she was asking some favor.
And this was the feeling that she had, for it seemed to her that this
man, who had been a son to her father, had more claims on his love, and
a truer right here, than she, the unworthy daughter.

Dudleigh smiled upon her with infinite tenderness as he replied:

"Half the care! How could you endure it? You are too delicate for so
much. You do too much already, and I am only anxious to relieve you of
that. I was going to urge you to give up half of the afternoon, and take
it myself."

"Give up half the afternoon!" cried Edith. "Why, I want to do more."

"But that is impossible. You are not strong enough," said Dudleigh. "I
fear all the time that you are now overworking yourself. I would never
forgive myself if you received any harm from this."

"Oh, I am very much stronger than you suppose. Besides, nursing is
woman's work, and would fatigue me far less than you."

"I can not bear to have you fatigue yourself in any way. You must
not--and I would do far more rather than allow you to have any trouble."

"But even if my health should suffer, it would not be of much
consequence. So at least let me relieve you of something."

"Your health?" said Dudleigh, looking at her with an earnest glance;
"your health? Why, that is every thing. Mine is nothing. Can you
suggest such a thing to me as that I should allow any trouble to come to
you? Besides, your delicate health already alarms me. You have not yet
recovered from your illness. You are not capable of enduring fatigue,
and I am always reproaching myself for allowing you to stay here as much
as you do. The Dudleighs have done enough. They have brought the father
to this;" and he pointed mournfully to the bed. "But," he added, in a
tremulous voice, "the daughter should at least be saved, and to have
harm come to her would be worse than death itself--to me."

Edith was silent for a few moments. Her heart was beating fast. When she
spoke, it was with an effort, and in as calm a voice as possible.

"Oh," she said, "I am quite recovered. Indeed, I am as well as ever,
and I wish to spend more time here. Will you not let me stay here
longer?"

"How can I? The confinement would wear you out."

"It would not be more fatiguing than staying in my own room," persisted
Edith.

"I'm afraid there would be very much difference," said Dudleigh. "In
your own room you have no particular anxiety, but here you would have
the incessant responsibility of a nurse. You would have to watch your
father, and every movement would give you concern."

"And this harassing care is what I wish to save you from, and share with
you," said Edith, earnestly. "Will you not consent to this?"

"To share it with you?" said Dudleigh looking at her with unutterable
tenderness. "To share it with you?" he repeated. "It would be only too
much happiness for me to do so, but not if you are going to overwork
yourself."

"But I will not," said Edith. "If I do, I can stop. I only ask to be
allowed to come in during the morning, so as to relieve you of some of
your work. You will consent, will you not?"

Edith asked him this as though Dudleigh had exclusive right here, and
she had none. She could not help feeling as if this was so, and this
feeling arose from those memories which she had of that terrible past,
when she ignorantly hurled at that father's heart words that stung like
the stings of scorpions. Never could she forgive herself for that, and
for this she now humbled herself in this way. Her tone was so pleading
that Dudleigh could refuse no longer. With many deprecatory expressions,
and many warnings and charges, he at last consented to let her divide
the morning attendance with him. She was to come in at eleven o'clock.