John William Draper - "History of the Conflict Between Religion and Science"

Georges Ohnet - "Serge Panine, v2"

Edward S. Corwin - "John Marshall and the Constitution,"

A. A. Milne - "The Red House Mystery"

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




"At any rate," said Sir Lionel, "we can force him to show by what right
he controls her liberty. The law of guardianship can not override the
_habeas corpus_ act, and the liberty of the subject is provided
for, after all. If we once get Edith out of his control, it will be
difficult for him to get her back again, even if the law did decide in
his favor. Still I think there is a good deal in what you say, and it
certainly is best not to be too hasty about it. An interview with him,
first of all, will be decidedly the best thing. I think, before going
there, you had better see my solicitors in London. You see I intrust the
management of this affair to you, Leon, for this infernal gout ties me
up here closer than poor Edith at Dalton Hall. You had better set about
it at once. Go first to London, see my solicitors, find out about the
law of guardianship, and also see what we had better do. Then, if they
approve of it, go to Dalton Hall and see Wiggins. I don't think that you
are the sort of man who can be turned back at the gates by that ruffian
porter. You must also write me what the solicitors say, for I think I
had better keep Miss Plympton informed about the progress of affairs,
partly to satisfy her anxiety, and partly to present her from taking any
independent action which may embarrass our course of conduct."

* * * * *




CHAPTER XI.


LUCY.

About a week after the conversation detailed in the last chapter, the
train stopped at the little station near Dalton village, and Leon
Dudleigh stepped out. At the same time a woman got out of another
carriage in the train. She was dressed in black, and a crape veil
concealed her face. Leon Dudleigh stood and looked about for a few
moments in search of some vehicle in which to complete his journey, and
as the train went on he walked into the little station-house to make
inquiries. The woman followed slowly. After exchanging a few words with
the ticket clerk, Leon found out that no vehicle was to be had in the
neighborhood, and with an exclamation of impatience he told the clerk
that he supposed he would have to walk, and at the same time asked him
some questions about getting his luggage forwarded to the inn at Dalton.
Having received a satisfactory answer, he turned to the door and walked
toward the village.

[Illustration: "AT THAT MOMENT THE WOMAN RAISED HER VEIL."]

The woman who had followed him into the station-house had already left
it, and was walking along the road ahead of him. She was walking at a
slow pace, and before long Leon came up with her. He had not noticed her
particularly, and was now about passing her, when at that very moment
the woman raised her veil, and turned about so as to face him.

At the sight of her face Leon uttered an exclamation of amazement and
started back.

"Lucy!" he exclaimed, in a tone of deep and bitter vexation.

"Aha, Leon!" said the woman, with a smile. "You thought you would give
me the slip. You didn't know what a watch I was keeping over you."

At this Leon regarded her in gloomy silence, while the expression of
deep vexation remained unchanged on his face.

The woman who had thus followed him was certainly not one who ought to
inspire any thing like vexation. Her face was beautiful in outline and
expression. Her eyes were dark and animated, her tone and manner
indicated good-breeding and refinement, though these were somewhat more
vivacious than is common with English ladies.

"I don't see what brought _you_ here," said Leon at last.

"I might say the same of you, _mon cher_," replied the lady, "but I
have a faint idea, and I have no desire to give you too much liberty."

"It's some more of your confounded jealousy," said Leon, angrily. "My
business here is a very delicate one indeed. I may have to do it
incognito, and it may ruin all if I have any one here who knows me."

"Incognito?" said the lady. "That will be charming; and if so, who can
help you better than I? I can be your mother, or your grandmother, or
your business partner, or any thing. You ought to have insisted on my
accompanying you."

The light tone of raillery in which this was spoken did not in any way
mollify the chagrin of the other, who still looked at her with a frown,
and as she ended, growled out,

"I don't see how you got on my track, confound it!"

"Nothing easier," said the lady. "You didn't take any pains to hide your
tracks."

"But I told you I was going back to Dudleigh."

"I know you did, _mon cher_; but do you think I believed you?"

"I don't see how you followed me," said Leon again.

"Well, I don't intend to let you know all my resources," said the lady,
with a smile, "for fear you will baffle me some other time. But now
come, don't let yourself get into a passion. Look at me, and see how
good-natured and sweet-tempered I am. Your reception of me is really
quite heart-rending, and I have a great mind to go back again at once
and leave you."

"I wish you would," said Leon, rudely.

"But I won't," said the lady. "So come, be yourself again, for you can
be sweet-tempered if you only try hard, you know."

"Now see here, Lucy," said Leon, sternly, "you don't know what you're
doing. It's all very well to pass it off as a frolic, but it won't do.
This business of mine is too serious to admit of trifling. If it were my
own affair, I wouldn't care; and even if I didn't want you, I should
submit with a good grace. But this is a matter of extreme delicacy, and
my father has sent me here because he was unable to come himself. It is
a--a law matter. I went to London merely to see the solicitors. I didn't
tell a soul about my business, and I thought that no one knew I was
coming here except my father and the solicitors."

"Well, but I'm always an exception, you know," said the lady,
pleasantly.

"Oh, see here, now," said the other, "it's all very well for you to
meddle with my own affairs; but you are now forcing yourself into the
midst of the concerns of others--the business affairs of two great
estates. I must attend to this alone."

"_Mon cher_," said the lady, with unalterable placidity, "business
is not one of your strong points. You really are not fit to manage any
important matter alone. At Dudleigh you have your papa to advise with,
at London your papa's solicitors, and here at Dalton you need a sound
adviser too. Now is there any one in whom you could put greater
confidence, or who could give you better advice on innumerable matters,
than the unworthy being who now addresses you? Come, don't keep up the
sulks any longer. They are not becoming to your style of beauty. For my
part, I never sulk. If you will reflect for a moment, you will see that
it is really a great advantage for you to have with you one so sagacious
and shrewd as I am; and now that the first moment of irritation has
passed, I trust you will look upon my humble offer of service with more
propitious eyes."

Something in these words seemed to strike Leon favorably, for the
vexation passed away from his face, and he stood looking thoughtfully at
the ground, which he was mechanically smoothing over with his foot. The
lady said no more, but watched him attentively, in silence, waiting to
see the result of his present meditations.

"Well," said he at last, "I don't know but that something may arise in
this business, Lucy, in which you may be able to do something--though
what it may be I can not tell just now."

"Certainly," said the lady, "if you really are thinking of an incognito,
my services may be of the utmost importance."

"There's something in that," said Leon.

"But whether the incognito is advisable or not should first be seen. Now
if you would honor me with your confidence to ever so small an extent, I
could offer an opinion on that point which might be worth having. And I
will set you a good example by giving you my confidence. Frankly, then,
the only reason why I followed you was because I found out that there
was a lady in the case."

"So that's it, is it!" said Leon, looking at her curiously.

"Yes," said the lady. "And I heard that your father sent you, and that
you had been talking with his solicitors. Now as you are not in the
habit of doing business with your father, or talking with his
solicitors, the thing struck me very forcibly; and as there was a
lady--in fact, a rich heiress--in the case, and as you are frightfully
in debt, I concluded that it would be well for me to see how the
business proceeded; for I sometimes do not have that confidence in you,
Leon, which I should like to have."

This was spoken in a serious and mournful voice which was totally
different from the tone of raillery in which she had at first indulged.
As she concluded she fixed her eyes sadly on Leon, and he saw that they
were suffused with tears.

"You preposterous little goose!" said Leon. "There never was a wilder,
a sillier, and at the same time a more utterly groundless fancy than
this. Why, to begin with, the lady is my cousin."

"I know," said the lady, sadly.

"It seems to me you found out every thing, though how the deuce you
contrived it is more than I can tell," said Leon.

"Our faculties are very much sharpened where our interests are
concerned," said the lady, sententiously.

"Now, see here," said Leon. "It is true that this lady is my cousin, and
that she is an heiress, and that I am infernally hard up, and that my
father sent me here, and that I have been talking with the solicitors;
but I swear to you the subject of marriage has not once been mentioned."

"But only thought of," suggested the other.

"Well, I don't know any thing about people's thoughts," said Leon. "If
you go into that style of thing, I give up. By-the-way, you know so
much, that I suppose you know the lady's name."

"Oh yes: Miss Dalton--Edith Dalton."

"The devil!" exclaimed Leon. "Well, I confess I'm mystified. How you
could have found out all this is utterly beyond me."

"So you have no idea of matrimony, _mon cher_?" said the lady,
attempting to use a sprightly tone, but looking at him with a glance so
earnest that it showed what importance she attached to his reply.

Leon was silent for a moment, and looked at the ground. At last he burst
forth impatiently:

"Oh, confound it all! what's the use of harping forever on one string,
and putting a fellow in a corner all the time? You insist on holding an
inquisition about thoughts and intentions. How do I know any thing about
that? You may examine me about facts if you choose, but you haven't any
business to ask any thing more."

"Well, I suppose it _is_ rather unfair," said the lady in a sweet
voice, "to force one to explain all one's thoughts and intentions; so,
_mon cher_, let's cry quits. At any rate, you receive me for your
ally, your adviser, your guide, philosopher, and friend. If you want
incognitos or disguises, come to me."

"Well, I suppose I must," said Leon, "since you are here, and won't go;
and perhaps you may yet be really useful, but--"

"But at first I ought to know what the present condition is of this
'business' of yours."

"Oh, I've no objection to tell you now, since you know so much; in fact,
I believe you know all, as it is."

"Well, not quite all."

"It seems to me," said Leon, "if we're going to talk over this matter
any further, we might find some better place than the middle of a public
road. Let me see," he continued, looking all around--"where shall we
go?"

As he looked around his eyes caught sight of the little river that
flowed near, on its course through Dalton to the Bristol Channel. Some
trees grew on the margin, and beneath them was some grass. It was not
more than twenty yards away.

"Suppose we sit there by the river," said Leon, "and we can talk it
over."

The lady nodded, and the two walked to the river margin.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "SHE WAS SEATED NEAR THE WINDOW."]




CHAPTER XII.


A SOLEMN APPEAL.

A few days passed away in Dalton Hall, and Edith began to understand
perfectly the nature of the restraint to which she was subjected. That
restraint involved nothing of the nature of violence. No rude or uncivil
word was spoken to her. Wiggins and Mrs. Dunbar had professed even
affection for her, and the two servants never failed to be as respectful
as they could. Her restraint was a certain environment, so as to prevent
her from leaving the park grounds. She felt walled in by a barrier
which she could not pass, but within this barrier liberty of movement
was allowed. At the same time, she knew that she was watched; and since
her first discovery of Hugo on her track, she felt sure that if she ever
went any where he would stealthily follow, and not allow her to go out
of sight. Whether he would lift his hand to prevent actual escape, if
the chance should present itself, was a thing which she could not
answer, nor did she feel inclined to try it as yet.

During the few days that followed her first memorable experience she
made no further attempt to escape, or even to search out a way of
escape. What had become of Miss Plympton she did not know, and could
only imagine. She still indulged the hope, however, that Miss Plympton
was at Dalton, and looked forward with confidence to see her coming to
Dalton Hall, accompanied by the officers of the law, to effect her
deliverance. It was this hope that now sustained her, and prevented her
from sinking into despair.

Of Wiggins during these few days she saw nothing more than a distant
glimpse. She remained in the room which she first occupied during the
greater part of the time. Nor did she see much of Mrs. Dunbar. From an
occasional remark she gathered that she was cleaning the drawing-room or
dusting it; but in this Edith now took no interest whatever. The Hall
was now a prison-house, and the few plans which she had been making at
first were now thrown aside and forgotten. Mrs. Dunbar brought her her
meals at regular intervals, but Edith never took the slightest notice of
her. She could not help observing at times in Mrs. Dunbar's manner, and
especially in her look, a whole world of sorrowful sympathy, but after
her unmistakable championship of Wiggins, she could not feel the
slightest confidence in her.

At length one morning Wiggins once more called upon her. She was seated
near the window when she heard a knock. The door was already open, and
turning, she saw Wiggins. She bowed slightly, but said nothing, and
Wiggins bowed in return, after which he entered and seated himself,
fixing his solemn eyes upon her in his usual way.

"It is a matter of great regret," said he, "that I am forced to give
pain to one for whom I entertain so much kindness, and even, let me add,
affection. Had you made your return to this place a little less
abruptly, you would have found, I am sure, a different reception, and
your position would have been less unpleasant."

"Would you have allowed me my liberty," asked Edith, "and the society of
my friends, if I had delayed longer before my return? If so, let me go
back now, and I will give you notice before coming here again."

Wiggins shook his head mournfully.

"I am one," said he, "who has had deeper sorrows than usually fall to
the lot of man; yet none, I assure you--no, not one--has ever caused me
more pain than my present false position toward you. Can you not place
some confidence in me, and think that this is all for--for your good?"

"You speak so plaintively," said Edith, "that I should be touched, if
your words were not belied by your acts. What do you think can
compensate for the loss of liberty? Were you ever imprisoned? Did you
ever have a jailer over you? Did you ever know what it was to be shut in
with walls over which you could not pass, and to know that the jailer's
eyes were always upon you? Wait till you have felt all this, and then
you will understand how empty and idle all your present words must be."

While she said these words Wiggins sat as if he had been turned to
stone. His eyes were fixed on her with a look of utter horror. His
hands trembled. As she stopped he shuddered, and hastily looked behind
him. Then another shudder passed through him. At last with a violent
effort, be recovered something of his former calm.

"God grant," said he, "that you may never know what I have known of all
that which you now mention!"

His voice trembled as he spoke these words, and when he had said them he
relapsed into silence.

"Since you have invoked the name of the Deity," said Edith, solemnly,
"if you have any reverence for your Maker, I ask you now, in His name,
by what right you keep me here."

"I am your--guardian," said Wiggins, slowly; "your--guardian; yes," he
added, thoughtfully, "that is the word."

"My guardian! Who made you my guardian? Who had the right to put you
over me?"

Wiggins paused, and raised his head, which had been bent forward for a
few moments past, looked at Edith with a softer light in his solemn
eyes, and said, in a low voice, which had a wonderful sweetness in its
intonation,

"Your father."

Edith looked at him earnestly for a moment, affected in spite of herself
by his look and by his voice; but suddenly the remembrance of her wrongs
drove off completely her momentary emotion.

"Do you think my father would have made you my guardian," said she, "if
he had suspected what you were going to do with me?"

"I solemnly assure you that he did know, and that he did approve."

At this Edith smiled. Wiggins now seemed too methodical for a madman,
and she began to understand that he was assuming these solemn airs, so
as to make an impression upon her. Having made up her mind to this, she
determined to question him further, so as to see what more he proposed
to do.

"Your father," said Wiggins, "was my friend; and I will do for you
whatever I would have done for him."

"I have no doubt of that," said Edith. "Indeed, you are doing for me
now precisely what I have reason to understand you did for him."

"I do not comprehend you," said Wiggins.

"It is of no consequence," said Edith. "We will let it pass. Let us
return to the subject. You assert that you are my guardian. Does that
give you the right to be my jailer--to confine me here, to cut me off
from all my friends?"

"You use harsh words," said Wiggins; "but nevertheless it is a fact that
the law does allow the guardian this power. It regards him in the place
of a parent. All that a father can do, a guardian can do. As a father
can restrain a child, so can a guardian, if he deems such restraint
necessary. Moreover, if the ward should escape, the law will hand him
back to his guardian, just as it would hand, back a child to its
father."

Not one word of this did Edith believe, and so it made no impression.
Having already got the idea in her mind that Wiggins was melodramatic,
and playing a part, she had no doubt that his words would be regulated
by the same desire that governed his acts, and would be spoken
exclusively with the view of producing an impression upon herself. She
therefore looked at him with unchanged feelings, and instantly replied:

"It would be very fortunate for you if it were so, but for my part I
think better of the law. At the same time, since you claim all this
authority over me, I should like to know how long you think this power
will last. You do not seem to think that I am of age."

"That matters not," said Wiggins. "My control over the estates and, my
guardianship over you are of such a nature that they can not cease till
your marriage."

"Oh, then," said Edith, "according to that, I ought to try to get
married as soon as possible. And this, I suppose, is your sole reason
for shutting me up?"

Wiggins said nothing, but sat looking gloomily at her.

By his last words Edith now found what appeared to her a clew to his
whole plan. He was, or pretended to be, her guardian; he had been
appointed, or pretended to have been appointed, by her father. It might
have been so. Edith could well imagine how in previous years he had made
this false friend his executor and the guardian of his child; and then,
in the anguish of the trial and of the punishment, forgotten to annul
the deed; or Wiggins may have forged the document himself. If he really
was the false friend who had betrayed her father, and who had committed
that forgery for which her father innocently suffered, then he might
easily forge such a document as this in her father's name.

Such was her conclusion from his words though she did not think fit to
say as much to him. What she did say, however, seemed to have affected
him, for he did not speak for some time.

"You have no conception," said he at length, "of the torment that some
of your careless words cause. You do not know what you do, or what you
say. There is something that I can not tell, whatever be the price of
silence--something that concerns you and me, and your father, and two
great houses--and it is this that makes me dumb, and forces me to stand
in this false position. You look upon me as the crafty, scheming
steward--one who is your pitiless jailer--and I have to bear it. But
there is something which I can say--and I warn you, or rather I implore
you, not to disbelieve me; I entreat you to let my words have some
weight. I declare to you, then, by all that is most sacred among men,
that this restraint which I ask you to undergo is out of no selfish
desire, no avarice, no lack of honor for you, and--affection, but
because of a plan which I have, the success of which concerns all of us,
and you not the least."

Edith listened to this without emotion, though at another time the
solemnity of such an appeal could not have failed to enforce belief. But
now Wiggins seemed only melodramatic, and every word seemed false.

"What plan?" she asked.

"It is this," said, Wiggins, looking all around with his usual cautions
vigilance, and drawing nearer to her. "Your father's name is a
dishonored one--the name you bear is covered with the stain of infamy.
What would you not give if his memory could be redeemed from wrong; if
even at this late hour his character could be vindicated? You have, I
am sure, a noble and a devoted heart. You would be willing to do much
for this. But what I ask of you is very little. I ask only silence and
seclusion. If you should consent to this, my work may be done before
very long; and then, whatever may be your feelings toward me, I shall
feel that I have done my work, and nothing further that this world may
do, whether of good or evil, shall be able to affect me. I ask
this--more, I entreat it of you, I implore you, in the sacred name of an
injured father, by all his unmerited wrongs and sufferings, to unite
with me in this holy purpose, and help me to accomplish it. Do not be
deceived by appearances. Believe me, I entreat you, for your father's
sake."

Never were words spoken with greater apparent earnestness than these;
and never was any voice or manner more solemn and impressive. Yet upon
Edith no more effect was produced than before. When she had asked him
what his plan was, she had been prepared for this, or something like it.
She saw now that the mode by which he tried to work upon her was by
adopting the solemn and the pathetic style. The consequence was that
every gesture, every intonation, every look, seemed artificial, hollow,
and insincere. For never could she forget the one fatal fact that this
was her jailer, and that she was a helpless prisoner. More than this, he
had as good as asserted his intention of keeping her a prisoner till her
marriage, which, under such circumstances, meant simply till her death.
Not for one instant could he be brought to consent to relax the
strictness of his control over her. For such a man to make such an
appeal as this was idle; and she found herself wondering, before he had
got half through, why he should take the trouble to try to deceive her.
When he had finished she did not care to answer him, or to tell him what
was on her, mind. She was averse to quarrels, scenes, or anything
approaching to scolding or empty threats. What she did say, therefore,
was; perfectly commonplace, but for that reason perhaps all the more
disappointing to the man who had made such an appeal to her.

"What you say," said she, "does not require any answer. It is as though
I should ask you to submit to imprisonment for an indefinite period, or
for life, for instance, for the sake of a friend. And you would not
think such a request very reasonable. What I require of you is, not idle
words, but liberty. When you ask me to believe you, you must first gain
my confidence by treating me with common justice. Or if you will not
release me, let me at least see my friends. That is not much. I have
only one friend--Miss Plympton."

"You appear to think more of this Miss Plympton than you do of your own
father," said Wiggins, gloomily.

"What I think of my father is of no consequence to you," said Edith;
"but as to Miss Plympton, she took me as a dying gift from my dear
mamma, and has loved me with a mother's love ever since, and is the only
mother I have known since childhood. When you turned her away from my
gates you did an injury to both of us which makes all your protestations
of honesty useless. But she is not under your control, and you may be
sure that she will exert herself on my behalf. It seems to me that you
have not considered what the result will be if she comes back in the
name of the law."