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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.

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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).

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This arrangement was at once acted upon. On the following day Edith
came to her father's room at eleven. Dudleigh had much to ask her, and
much to say to her, about her father's condition. He was afraid that she
was not strong enough. He seemed to half repent his agreement. On the
other hand, Edith assured him most earnestly that she was strong enough,
that she would come here for the future regularly at eleven o'clock, and
urged him to take care of his own health, and seek some recreation by
riding about the grounds. This Dudleigh promised to do in the afternoon,
but just then he seemed in no hurry to go. He lingered on. They talked
in low whispers, with their heads close together. They had much to talk
about; her health, his health, her father's condition--all these had to
be discussed. Thus it was that the last vestiges of mutual reserve
began to be broken down.

Day succeeded to day, and Edith always came to her father's room in the
morning. At first she always urged Dudleigh to go off and take
exercise, but at length she ceased to urge him. For two or three hours
every day they saw much of one another, and thus associated under
circumstances which enforced the closest intimacy and the strongest
mutual sympathy.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XLVIII.


CAPTAIN CRUIKSHANK.

While these things were going on, the world outside was not altogether
indifferent to affairs in Dalton Hall. In the village and in the
immediate neighborhood rumor had been busy, and at length the vague
statements of the public voice began to take shape.

This is what rumor said: Dudleigh is an impostor!

An impostor, it said. For the true Dudleigh, it asserted, was still
missing. This was not the real man. The remains found in the well had
never been accounted for. Justice had foregone its claims too readily.
The act remained, and the blood of the slain called aloud for vengeance.

How such a strange report was first started no one knew; but there it
was, and the Dalton mystery remained as obscure as ever.

Various circumstances contributed to increase the public suspicion. All
men saw that Dudleigh was different from this man, or else he had
greatly changed. For the former was always outside, in the world, while
this man remained secluded and shut up in the Hall. Why did he never
show himself? Why did he surround himself with all this secrecy? This
was the question.

The servants were eagerly questioned whenever any of them made their
appearance in the village, but as they were all new in the place, their
testimony was of little value. They could only say that he was devoted
to the invalid, and that he called Miss Dalton by that name, and had
called her by that name when he engaged them for her service.

Soon public opinion took two different forms, and two parties arose. One
of these believed the present Dudleigh to be an impostor; the other,
however, maintained that he was the real man, and that the change in his
character was to be accounted for on the grounds of the terrible
calamities that had resulted from his thoughtlessness, together with his
own repentance for the suffering which he had inflicted.

Meanwhile the subject of all this excitement and gossip was living in
his own seclusion, quite apart from the outside world. One change,
however, had taken place in his life which required immediate action on
his part.

A great number of letters had come for "Captain Dudleigh." The receipt
of these gave him trouble. They were reminders of various pecuniary
obligations which had been contracted some time previously. They were,
in short--duns. He had been at Dalton Hall some six weeks before these
interesting letters began to arrive. After that time they came in
clusters, fast and frequent. The examination of these formed no small
part of his occupation when he was alone.

Some of these letters were jocular in their tone, reminding him of his
chronic impecuniosity, and his well-known impracticability in every
thing relating to money. These jocular letters, however, never failed to
remind him that, as he had made a rich match, there was no reason why he
should not pay his debts, especially as the writers were hard up, and
had waited so long without troubling him. These jocular letters, in
fact, informed him that if a settlement was not made at once, it would
be very much the worse for Dudleigh.

Others were from old sporting companions, reminding him of bets which
had not been paid, expressing astonishment which was child-like in its
simplicity, and requesting an immediate settlement. These were generally
short, curt, and altogether unpleasant.

Others were business letters, containing the announcement of notes
falling due. Others were from lawyers, stating the fact that certain
specified claims had been put in their hands for collection, and
requesting early attention.

All these seemed to come together. Misfortunes, says the proverb, never
come singly, and duns may fairly be reckoned among misfortunes. These
duns, however, troublesome though they were, were one by one got rid of
by the simple and effectual process of payment; for Dudleigh considered
it on the whole safer and better, under these peculiar circumstances, to
pay the money which was demanded than to expose himself to arrest or
lawsuits.

In connection with these affairs an event occurred which at the time
caused uneasiness, and gave the prospect of future trouble. One day a
gentleman called and sent up his card. It was Captain Cruikshank. The
name Dudleigh recognized as one which had been appended to several
dunning letters of the most importunate kind, and the individual himself
was apparently some sporting friend.

On going down Dudleigh saw a portly, bald-headed man, with large
whiskers, standing in front of one of the drawing-room windows, looking
out. He seemed midway between a gentleman and a blackleg, being neither
altogether one nor the other. At the noise of Dudleigh's entrance he
turned quickly around, and with a hearty, bluff manner walked up to him
and held out his hand.

Dudleigh fixed his eyes steadily upon those of the other man, and bowed,
without accepting the proffered hand, appearing not to see it. His whole
mien was full of aristocratic reserve, and cold, repellent distance of
manner, which checked the other in the midst of a full tide of voluble
congratulations into which he had flung himself. Thus interrupted, he
looked confused, stammered, and finally said,

"'Pon my honor, Dudleigh, you don't appear to be overcordial with an old
friend, that's seen you through so many scrapes as I have."

"Circumstances," said Dudleigh, "of a very painful character have forced
me to sever myself completely from all my former associates--all,
without exception."

"Well, of course--as to that, it's all right, I dare say," remarked the
other, from whom Dudleigh never removed his eyes; "but then, you know,
it seems to me that some friends ought to be--a--retained, you know, and
you and I, you know, were always of that sort that we were useful to one
another."

This was thrown out as a very strong hint on the part of Captain
Cruikshank, and he watched Dudleigh earnestly to see its effect.

"I make no exceptions whatever," said Dudleigh. "What has occurred to me
is the same as death. I am dead virtually to the world in which I once
lived. My former friends and acquaintances are the same as though I had
never known them."

[Illustration: "WELL, REALLY--YES, THIS IS IT."]

"Gad! something has come over you, that's a fact," said Captain
Cruikshank. "You're a changed man, whatever the reason is. Well, you
have a right to choose for yourself, and I can't be offended. At the
same time, if you ever want to join the old set again, let me know, and
I promise you there'll be no difficulty."

Dudleigh bowed.

"But then I suppose you're settled down in such infernally comfortable
quarters," continued the other, "that it's not likely you'll ever
trouble us again. Married and done for--that's the word. Plenty of
money, and nothing to do."

"If you have anything particular to say," said Dudleigh, coldly, "I
should like to hear it; if not, I must excuse myself, as I am
particularly engaged."

"Oh, no offense, no offense; I merely came to offer an old friend's
congratulations, you know, and--By-the-way," continued Cruikshank,
lowering his voice, "there's that little I O U of yours. I thought
perhaps you might find it convenient to settle, and if so, it would be a
great favor to me."

"What is the amount?" asked Dudleigh, who remembered this particular
debt perfectly well, since it had been the subject of more than one
letter of a most unpleasant character.

"The amount?" said Cruikshank. "Well, really--let me see--I don't quite
remember, but I'll find out in a moment."

With these words he drew forth his pocket-book and fumbled among the
papers. At length he produced one, and tried hard to look as if he had
not known all along perfectly well what that amount was.

"Well, really--yes, this is it," he remarked, as he looked at a piece of
paper. "The amount, did you say? The amount is just two hundred pounds.
It's not much for you, as you are now situated, I should suppose."

"Is that the note?" asked Dudleigh, who was anxious to get rid of this
visitor, and suspected all along that he might have a deeper purpose
than the mere collection of a debt.

"That is the note," said Cruikshank.

"I will pay it now," said Dudleigh.

He left the room for a short time, and during his absence Cruikshank
amused himself with staring at the portrait of "Captain Dudleigh," which
hung in a conspicuous position before his eyes. He was not kept long
waiting, for Dudleigh soon returned, and handed him the money.
Cruikshank took it with immense satisfaction, and handed the note over
in return, which Dudleigh carefully transferred to his own pocket-book,
where he kept many other such papers.

Cruikshank now bade him a very effusive adieu. Dudleigh stood at the
window watching the retreating figure of his visitor.

"I wonder how long this sort of thing can go on?" he murmured. "I don't
like this acting on the defensive. I'll have to make the attack myself
soon."

* * * * *




CHAPTER XLIX.


EDITH'S NEW FRIEND.

Every day Edith and Dudleigh saw more and more of one another. Now that
the crust of reserve was broken through, and something like intimacy had
been reached, the sick man's apartment was the most natural place for
each to seek. It came at last that the mornings and afternoons were no
longer allotted to each exclusively, but while one watched, the other
would often be present. In the evenings especially the two were together
there.

The condition in which Dalton was demanded quiet, yet needed but little
direct attention. It was only necessary that some one should be in the
room with him. He lay, as has been said, in a state of stupor, and knew
nothing of what was going on. It was only necessary for those who might
be with him to give him, from time to time, the medicines that had been
prescribed by the physicians, or the nourishment which nature demanded.
Apart from this there was little now to be done.

While Edith and Dudleigh were thus together, they were naturally
dependent exclusively upon one another. This association seemed not
unpleasant to either of them; every day it gained a new charm; and at
length both came to look forward to this as the chief pleasure of their
lives. For Edith there was no other companion than Dudleigh in Dalton
Hall with whom she could associate on equal terms; he had strong claims
now on her confidence, and even on her gratitude; and while he was thus
the only one to whom she could look for companionship, she also bore the
same relation to him.

There was something in the look and in the manner of Dudleigh in these
interviews which might have moved a colder nature than that of Edith.
Whenever he entered and greeted her, his face was overspread by a
radiant expression that spoke of joy and delight. Whenever they met, his
face told all the feelings of his heart. Yet never in any way, either by
word or act, did he venture upon any thing which might not have been
witnessed by all the world. There was something touching in that deep
joy of his which was inspired simply by her presence, and in the peace
and calm that came over him while she was near. Elsewhere it was
different with him. Whenever she had seen his face outside--and that had
been often, for she had often seen him riding or walking in front of the
windows--she had marked how care-worn and sad its expression was; she
had marked a cloud of melancholy upon his brow, that bore witness to
some settled grief unknown to her, and had read in all the lineaments of
his features the record which some mysterious sorrow had traced there.
Yet in her presence all this departed, and the eyes that looked on her
grew bright with happiness, and the face that was turned toward her was
overspread with joy. Could it be any other than herself who made this
change?

There was something in the manner of this man toward her which was
nothing less than adoration. The delicate grace of his address, the deep
reverence of his look, the intonations of his voice, tremulous with an
emotion that arose from the profoundest depths of his nature, all bore
witness to this. For when he spoke to her, even about the most trifling
things, there was that in his tone which showed that the subject upon
which he was speaking was nothing, but the one to whom he was speaking
was all in all. He stood before her like one with a fervid nature,
intense in its passion, and profound in all its emotion, who under a
calm exterior concealed a glow of feeling which burned in his heart like
a consuming fire--a feeling that was kept under restraint by the force
of will, but which, if freed from restraint but for one moment, would
burst forth and bear down all before it.

Weeks passed away, but amidst all the intimacy of their association
there never appeared the slightest attempt on his part to pass beyond
the limits which he had set for himself. Another man under such
circumstances might have ventured upon something like a greater
familiarity, but with this man there was no such attempt. After all
their interviews he still stood in spirit at a distance, with the same
deep reverence in his look, and the same profound adoration in his
manner, regarding her as one might regard a divinity. For Dudleigh stood
afar off, yet like a worshiper--far off, as though he deemed that
divinity of his inaccessible--yet none the less did his devotion make
itself manifest. All this was not to be seen in his words, but rather in
his manner, in the expression of his face, and in the attitude of his
soul, as it became manifest to her whom he adored.

For she could not but see it; in matters of this sort woman's eyes are
keen; but here any one might have perceived the deep devotion of
Dudleigh. The servants saw it, and talked about it. What was plain to
them could not but be visible to her. She saw it--she knew it--and what
then? Certainly it was not displeasing. The homage thus paid was too
delicate to give offense; it was of that kind which is most flattering
to the heart, which never grows familiar, but is insinuated or suggested
rather than expressed.

It was consoling to her lonely heart to see one like this, who, whenever
she appeared, would pass from a state of sadness to one of happiness; to
see his eloquent eyes fixed upon her with a devotion beyond words; to
hear his voice, which, while it spoke the commonplaces of welcome, was
yet in its tremulous tones expressive of a meaning very different from
that which lay in the words. Naturally enough, she was touched by this
silent reverence which she thus inspired; and as she had already found
cause to trust him, so she soon came to trust him still more. She
looked up to him as one with whom she might confer, not only with
reference to her father, but also with regard to the conduct of the
estate. Thus many varied subjects grew up for their consideration, and
gradually the things about which they conversed grew more and more
personal. Beginning with Mr. Dalton, they at last ended with themselves,
and Dudleigh on many occasions found opportunity of advising Edith on
matters where her own personal interest or welfare was concerned.

Thus their intimacy deepened constantly from the very necessities of
their position.

Then there was the constant anxiety which each felt and expressed about
the health of the other. Each had urged the other to give up the
allotted portion of attendance. This had ended in both of them keeping
up that attendance together for a great part of the time. Nevertheless,
the subject of one another's health still remained. Dudleigh insisted
that Edith had not yet recovered, that she was nothing better than a
convalescent, and that she ought not to risk such close confinement.
Edith, on the contrary, insisted that she was able to do far more, and
that the confinement was injuring him far more than herself. On one
occasion she asked him what he thought would become of her if he too
became ill, and the care of the two should thus devolve upon her.

At this remark, which escaped Edith in the excitement of an argument
about the interesting subject of one another's health, Dudleigh's face
lighted up. He looked at her with an expression that spoke more than
words could tell. Yet he said nothing. He said nothing in words, but
his eyes spoke an intelligible language, and she could well understand
what was thus expressed.

What was it that they said?

O loved! and O adored beyond weak words! O divinity of mine! they said.
If death should be the end of this, then such death would be sweet, if I
could but die in your presence! O loved and longed for! they said.
Between us there is an impassable barrier. I stand without; I seek not
to break through; but even at a distance I love, and I adore!

And that was what Edith understood. Her eyes sank before his gaze. They
sat in silence for a long time, and neither of them ventured to break
that silence by words.

At length Dudleigh proposed that they should both go out for a short
time each day together. This he had hesitated to do on account of Mr.
Dalton. Yet, after all, there was no necessity for them to be there
always. Mr. Dalton, in his stupor, was unconscious of their presence,
and their absence could therefore make no difference to him, either with
regard to his feelings or the attention which he received. When Dudleigh
made his proposal, he mentioned this also, and Edith saw at once its
truth. She therefore consented quite readily, and with a gratification
that she made no attempt to conceal.

Why should she not? She had known enough of sorrow. Dalton Hall had thus
far been to her nothing else than a prison-house. Why should it not
afford her some pleasure as an offset to former pain? Here was an
opportunity of obtaining at last some compensation. She could go forth
into the bright free open air under the protection of one whose loyalty
and devotion had been sufficiently proved. Could she hope for any
pleasanter companion?

Thus a new turn took place in the lives of these two. The mornings they
passed in Mr. Dalton's room, and in the afternoons, except when there
was unpleasant weather, they went out together. Sometimes they strolled
through the grounds, down the lordly avenues, and over the soft sweet
meadows; at other times they went on horseback. The grounds were
extensive and beautiful, but confinement within the park inclosure was
attended with unpleasant memories, and so, in the ordinary course of
things, they naturally sought the wider, freer world outside.

The country around Dalton Hall was exceedingly beautiful, and rich in
all those peculiar English charms whose quiet grace is so attractive to
the refined taste. Edith had never enjoyed any opportunity of seeing all
this, and now it opened before her like a new world. Formerly, during
her long imprisonment, she had learned to think of that outside world as
one which was full of every thing that was most delightful; there
freedom dwelt; and that thought was enough to make it fair and sweet to
her. So the prisoner always thinks of that which lies beyond his prison
walls, and imagines that if he were once in that outer world he would be
in the possession of perfect happiness.

Horseback riding has advantages which make it superior to every other
kind of exercise. On foot one is limited and restrained, for progress
is slow; and although one can go any where, yet the pedestrian who
wishes for enjoyment must only stroll. Any thing else is too fatiguing.
But a small space can be traversed, and that only with considerable
fatigue. In a carriage there is ease and comfort; but the high-road
forms the limit of one's survey; to that he must keep, and not venture
out of the smooth beaten track. But on horseback all is different.
There one has something of the comfort of the carriage and something of
the freedom of the pedestrian. Added to this, there is an exhilaration
in the motion itself which neither of the others presents. The most
rapid pace can alternate with the slowest; the highway no longer forms
bounds to the journey; distance is no obstacle where enjoyment is
concerned; and few places are inaccessible which it is desirable to see.
The generous animal which carries his rider is himself an additional
element of pleasure; for he himself seems to sympathize with all his
rider's feelings, and to such an extent that even the solitary horseman
is not altogether alone.

This was the pleasure which Edith was now able to enjoy with Dudleigh as
her companion, and the country was one which afforded the best
opportunity for such exercise. Dudleigh was, as has been said, a
first-rate horseman, and managed his steed like one who had been brought
up from childhood to that accomplishment. Edith also had always been
fond of riding; at school she had been distinguished above all the
others for her skill and dash in this respect; and there were few places
where, if Dudleigh led, she would not follow.

All the pleasure of this noble exercise was thus enjoyed by both of them
to the fullest extent. There was an exhilaration in it which each felt
equally. The excitement of the rapid gallop or the full run, the quiet
sociability of the slow walk, the perfect freedom of movement in almost
any direction, were all appreciated by one as much as by the other.
Then, too, the country itself was of that character which was best
adapted to give pleasure. There were broad public roads, hard, smooth,
and shadowed by overarching trees--roads such as are the glory of
England, and with which no other country has any that can compare. Then
there were by-roads leading from one public road to another, as smooth
and as shadowy as the others, but far more inviting, since they
presented greater seclusion and scenes of more quiet picturesque beauty.
Here they encountered pleasant lanes leading through peaceful
sequestered valleys, beside gently flowing streams and babbling brooks,
where the trees overarched most grandly and the shade was most
refreshing. Here they loved best to turn, and move slowly onward at a
pace best suited to quiet observation and agreeable conversation.

Such a change from the confinement of Dalton Hall and Dalton Park was
unspeakably delightful to Edith. She had no anxiety about leaving her
father, nor had Dudleigh; for in his condition the quiet housekeeper
could do all that he would require in their absence. To Edith this
change was more delightful than to Dudleigh, since she had Felt those
horrors of imprisonment which he had not. These rides through the wide
country, so free, so unrestrained, brought to her a delicious sense of
liberty. For the first time in many weary months she felt that she was
her own mistress. She was free, and she could enjoy with the most
intense delight all the new pleasures of this free and unrestrained
existence. So in these rides she was always joyous, always gay, and even
enthusiastic. It was to her like the dawn of a new life, and into that
life she threw herself with an abandonment of feeling that evinced
itself in unrestrained enjoyment of every thing that presented itself to
her view.

Dudleigh, however, was very different. In him there had always appeared
a certain restraint. His manner toward Edith had that devotion and
respect which have already been described; he was as profound and
sincere in his homage and as tender in his loyalty as ever; but even
now, under these far more favorable circumstances, he did not venture
beyond the limits of courtesy--those limits which society has
established and always recognizes. From the glance of his eyes, however,
from the tone of his voice, and from his whole mien, there could be seen
the deep fervor of his feelings toward Edith; but though the tones were
often tremulous with deep feeling, the words that he spoke seldom
expressed more than the formulas of politeness. His true meaning lay
behind or beneath his words. His quiet manner was therefore not the sign
of an unemotional nature, but rather of strong passion reined in and
kept in check by a powerful will, the sign and token of a nature which
had complete mastery over itself, so that never on any occasion could a
lawless impulse burst forth.