Charles Hose and William McDougall - "The Pagan Tribes of Borneo"

Newton H. Chittenden - "Official report of the exploration of the Queen Charlotte Islands"

Henry C. Shelley - "Inns and Taverns of Old London"

John Lothrop Motley - "The Rise of the Dutch Republic, 1573 74"

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




"My seclusion is not my own choice," said Edith, mournfully. "You are
the first whom I have seen."

"Then, my dear Miss Dalton, since we are not unwelcome, I feel very glad
that we have ventured. May I hope that we will see a great deal of one
another?"

Mrs. Mowbray's manner of speaking was essentially in keeping with her
appearance. It may be called a fashion-plate style. It was both fluent
and insincere. She spoke in what is sometimes called a "made
voice"--that is to say, a voice not her own, made up for company--a
florid falsetto: a tone that Edith detested.

Could she throw herself upon the sympathies of these? Who were they?
Might they not be in league with Wiggins for some purpose unknown to
her? It was curious that these strangers were able to pass the gates
which were shut to all the rest of the world. These were her thoughts,
and she determined to find out from these Mowbrays, if possible, how it
was that they got in.

"Had you any difficulty at the gates with the porter?" asked Edith.

"Oh no," said Captain Mowbray, "not the least."

"Did he offer no resistance?"

"Certainly not. Why should he?"

"Because he has been in the habit of turning back all visitors."

"Ah," said Mowbray, listlessly, "that is a thing you ought not to
allow."

"I was afraid," said Edith, "that he had tried to keep you back."

"Me?" said Mowbray, with strong emphasis. "He knows better than that, I
fancy."

"And yet he is capable of any amount of insolence."

"Indeed?" said Mowbray, languidly. "Then why don't you turn him off,
and get a civil man?"

"Because--because," said Edith, in a tremulous voice, "there is one here
who--who countermands all my orders."

"Ah!" said Mowbray, in a listless tone, which seemed to say that he took
no interest whatever in these matters.

"Dear me!" said Mrs. Mowbray, in a querulous voice. "Servants are such
dreadful plagues. Worry! why, it's nothing else but worry! And they're
so shockingly impertinent. They really have no sense of respect. I
don't know for my part what the world's coming to. I suppose it's all
these dreadful radicals and newspapers and working-men's clubs and
things. When I was young it was not so."

"You have not been in Dalton Hall since you were a young girl, Miss
Dalton?" said Mowbray, inquiringly.

"No; not for ten years."

"Do you find it much changed?"

"Very much--and for the worse. I have had great difficulties to contend
with."

"Indeed?" said Mowbray, indifferently.

"Well, at any rate, you have a noble old place, with every thing around
you to make you enjoy life."

"Yes--all but one thing."

"Ah?"

"I am a prisoner here, Captain Mowbray," said Edith, with an appealing
glance and a mournful tone.

"Ah, really?" said Mowbray; and taking up a book he began to turn over
the leaves in a careless way.

"A prisoner?" put in Mrs. Mowbray. "Yes, and so you are. It's like
imprisonment, this dreadful mourning. But one has to act in accordance
with public sentiment. And I suppose you grieve very much, my dear, for
your poor dear papa. Poor man! I remember seeing him once in London. It
was my first season. There were Lord Rutland and the Marquis of Abercorn
and the young Duke of Severn--all the rage. Do you know, my dear, I was
quite a belle then."

From this beginning Mrs. Mowbray went on to chatter about the gayeties
of her youth--and Lord A, how handsome he was; and Sir John B, how rich
he was; and Colonel C, how extravagant he was. Then she wandered off to
the subject of state balls, described the dress she wore at her first
presentation at court, and the appearance of his Gracious Majesty King
George, and how he was dressed, and who were with him, and what he
said--while all the time poor Edith, who was longing for an opportunity
to tell them about herself, sat quivering with impatience and agitation.

During all this time Captain Mowbray looked bored, and sat examining the
furniture and Edith alternately. He made no effort to take part in the
conversation, but seemed anxious to bring the visit to a close. This
Edith saw with a sinking heart. These, then, were the ones from whom she
had hoped assistance. But unpromising as these were, they formed just
now her only hope, and so, as they at length rose to go, Edith grew
desperate, and burst forth in a low but quick and excited tone.

"Wait one moment," said she, "and excuse me if I give you trouble; but
the position I am in forces me to appeal to you for help, though you are
only strangers. I am actually imprisoned in this place. A man
here--Wiggins, the late steward--confines me within these grounds, and
will not let me go out, nor will he allow any of my friends to come and
see me. He keeps me a prisoner under strict watch. Wherever I go about
the grounds I am followed. He will not even allow my friends to write to
me. I am the owner, but he is the master. Captain Mowbray, I appeal to
you. You are an officer and a gentleman. Save me from this cruel
imprisonment! I want nothing but liberty. I want to join my friends,
and gain my rights. I entreat you to help me, or if you can not help me
yourself, let others know, or send me a lawyer, or take a letter for me
to some friends."

And with these words poor Edith sank back into the chair from which she
had risen, and sobbed aloud. She had spoken in feverish, eager tones,
and her whole frame quivered with agitation.

Mrs. Mowbray listened to her with a complacent smile, and when Edith
sank back in her chair she sat down too, and taking out her handkerchief
and a bottle of salts, began to apply the one to her eyes and the other
to her nose alternately. As for Captain Mowbray, he coolly resumed his
seat, yawned, and then sat quietly looking first at Edith and then at
Mrs. Mowbray. At length Edith by a violent effort regained her
self-control, and looking at the captain, she said, indignantly,

"You say nothing, Sir. Am I to think that you refuse this request?"

"By no means," said Captain Mowbray, dryly. "Silence is said usually to
signify consent."

"You will help me, then, after all?" cried Edith, earnestly.

"Wait a moment," said Captain Mowbray, a little abruptly. "Who is this
man, Miss Dalton, of whom you complain?"

"Wiggins."

"Wiggins?" said Mowbray. "Ah! was he not the steward of your late
father?"

"Yes."

"I have heard somewhere that he was appointed your guardian. Is that
so?"

"I don't know," said Edith. "He claims to be my guardian; but I am of
age, and I don't see how he can be."

"The law of guardianship is very peculiar," said Mowbray. "Perhaps he
has right on his side."

"Right!" cried Edith, warmly. "How can he have the right to restrict my
liberty, and make me a prisoner on my own estate. I am of age. The
estate is absolutely mine. He is only a servant. Have I no rights
whatever?"

"I should say you had," said Mowbray, languidly stroking his mustache.
"I should say you had, of course. But this guardian business is a
troublesome thing, and Wiggins, as your guardian, may have a certain
amount of power."

Edith turned away impatiently.

"I hoped," said she, "that the mere mention of my situation would be
enough to excite your sympathy. I see that I was mistaken, and am sorry
that I have troubled you."

"You are too hasty," said Mowbray. "You see, I look at your position
merely from a legal point of view."

"A legal point!" exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray, who had now dried her eyes and
restored the handkerchief and the salts bottle to their proper places.
"A legal point! Ah, Miss Dalton, my son is great on legal points. He
is quite a lawyer. If he had embraced the law as a profession, which I
once thought of getting him to do, though that was when he was quite a
child, and something or other put it quite out of my head--if he had
embraced the law as a profession, my dear, he might have aspired to the
bench."

Edith rested her brow on her hand and bit her lips, reproaching herself
for having confided her troubles to these people. Wiggins himself was
more endurable.

"Your case," said Captain Mowbray, tapping his boot with his cane in a
careless manner, "is one which requires a very great amount of careful
consideration."

Edith said nothing. She had become hopeless.

"If there is a will, and Wiggins has powers given him in the instrument,
he can give you a great deal of trouble without your being able to
prevent it."

This scene was becoming intolerable, and Edith could bear it no longer.

"I want to make one final request," said she, with difficulty
controlling the scorn and indignation which she felt. "It is this--will
you give me a seat in your carriage as far as the village inn?"

"The village inn?" repeated Mowbray, and the he was silent for some
time. His mother looked at him inquiringly and curiously.

"I have friends," said Edith, "and I will go to them. All that I ask of
you is the drive of a few rods to the village inn. You can leave me
there, and I will never trouble you again."

"Well, really, Miss Dalton," said Mowbray, after another pause, in which
Edith suffered frightful suspense--"really, your request is a singular
one. I would do any thing for you--but this is different. You see, you
are a sort of ward, and to carry you away from the control of your
guardian might be a very dangerous offense."

"In fact, you are afraid, I see," said Edith, bitterly. "Well, you need
say no more. I will trouble you no further."

Saying this, she rose and stood in all her stately beauty before
them--cold, haughty, and without a trace of emotion left. They were
struck by the change. Thus far she had appeared a timid, agitated,
frightened girl; they now saw in her something of that indomitable
spirit which had already baffled and perplexed her jailers.

"We hope to see more of you," said Mrs. Mowbray. "We shall call again
soon."

To this Edith made no reply, but saw them to the drawing-room door. Then
they descended the stairs and entered the carriage, and she heard them
drive off. Then she went up to her room, and sat looking out of the
window.

"He is worse than Wiggins," she muttered. "He is a gentleman, but a
villain--and a ruined one too--perhaps in the pay of Wiggins. Wiggins
sent him here."

* * * * *




CHAPTER XV.


A PANIC AMONG THE JAILERS.

The arrival of these visitors had produced an extraordinary effect upon
Mrs. Dunbar. So great was her agitation that she could scarcely
announce them to Edith. So great was it that, though she was Edith's
jailer, she did not dream of denying them the privilege of seeing her,
but summoned Edith at once, as though she was free mistress of the
house.

After Edith had gone down the agitation of Mrs. Dunbar continued, and
grew even greater. She sank into a chair, and buried her face in her
hands. In that position she remained motionless for a long time, and was
at length aroused by the return of Edith from her interview with her
visitors. Upon her entrance Mrs. Dunbar started up suddenly, and with
downcast face left the room, without exciting any attention from Edith,
who was too much taken up with her own thoughts about her visitors to
notice any thing unusual about the appearance of her housekeeper.

Leaving Edith's room, Mrs. Dunbar walked along the hall with slow and
uncertain step, and at length reached a room at the west end. The door
was closed. She knocked. A voice cried, "Come in," and she entered. It
was a large room, and it looked out upon the grounds in front of the
house. A desk was in the middle, which was covered with papers. All
around were shelves filled with books. It seemed to be a mixture of
library and office. At the desk sat Wiggins, who looked up, as Mrs.
Dunbar entered, with his usual solemn face.

Into this room Mrs. Dunbar entered without further ceremony, and after
walking a few paces found a chair, into which she sank with something
like a groan. Wiggins looked at her in silence, and regarding her with
that earnest glance which was usual with him. Mrs. Dunbar sat for a few
moments without saying a word, with her face buried in her hands, as it
had been in Edith's room; but at length she raised her head, and looked
at Wiggins. Her face was still deathly pale, her hands twitched the
folds of her dress convulsively, and her eyes had a glassy stare that
was almost terrible. It could be no common thing that had caused such
deep emotion in one who was usually so self-contained.

At last she spoke.

"I have seen him!" said she, in a low tone, which was hardly raised
above a whisper.

Wiggins looked at her in silence for some time, and at length said, in a
low voice,

"He is here, then?"

"He is here," said Mrs. Dunbar. "But have you seen him? Why did you not
tell me that he was here? The shock was terrible. You ought to have
told me."

Wiggins sighed.

"I intended to do so," said he; "but I did not know that he would come
so soon."

"When did you see him?" asked Mrs. Dunbar, abruptly.

"Yesterday--only yesterday."

"You knew him at once, of course, from his extraordinary likeness to--to
the other one. I wish you had told me. Oh, how I wish you had told me!
The shock was terrible."

And saying this, Mrs. Dunbar gave a deep sigh that was like a groan.

"The fact is," said Wiggins, "I have been trying to conjecture how he
came here, and as I did not think he would come to the Hall--at least,
not just yet--I thought I would spare you. Forgive me if I have made a
mistake. I had no idea that he was coming to the Hall."

"How could he have come here?" said Mrs. Dunbar. "What possible thing
could have sent him?"

"Well," said Wiggins, "I can understand that easily enough. This Miss
Plympton you know, as I told you, threatened that she would go to see
Lionel. I forgot to ask her about that when I saw her, but it seems now
that she must have carried out her threat. She has undoubtedly gone to
see Lionel, and Lionel has sent his boy instead of coming himself. Had
he only come himself, all would have been well. That is the chief thing
that I hoped for. But he has not chosen to come, and so here is the son
instead of the father. It is unfortunate; it delays matters most
painfully; but we must bear it."

"Do you think Lionel can suspect?" asked Mrs. Dunbar, anxiously.

"Suspect? Not he. I think that he objected to come himself for a very
good reason. He has good grounds for declining to revisit Dalton Hall.
He has sent his son to investigate, and how this enterprise will end
remains to be seen."

"I don't see how he managed to get into the place at all," said Mrs.
Dunbar. "Wilkins is usually very particular."

"Well," said Wiggins, "I can understand that only too well.
Unfortunately he recognized Wilkins. My porter is unknown here, but any
one from Lionel's place whose memory reaches back ten years will easily
know him--the desperate poacher and almost murderer, whose affair with
the gamekeeper of Dudleigh Manor cost him a sentence of transportation
for twenty years. His face is one that does not change much, and so he
was recognized at once. He came to me in a terrible way, frightened to
death for fear of a fresh arrest; but I calmed him. I went to the lodge
myself, and yesterday I saw _him_. I knew him at once, of course."

"But did he recognize you?" cried Mrs. Dunbar, in a voice full of fresh
agitation.

"I fear so," said Wiggins.

At this Mrs. Dunbar started to her feet, and stared at Wiggins with a
face full of terror. Then gradually her strength failed, and she sank
back again, but her face still retained the same look.

"He did not recognize me at first," said Wiggins. "He seemed puzzled;
but as I talked with him, and heard his threats about Wilkins, and about
what he called Edith's imprisonment, he seemed gradually to find out
all, or to surmise it. It could not have been my face; it must have been
my voice, for that unfortunately has not changed, and he once knew that
well, in the old days when he was visiting here. At any rate, he made it
out, and from that moment tried to impress upon me that I was in his
power."

"And did you tell him--all?"

"I--I told him nothing. I let him think what he chose. I was not going,
to break through my plans for his sake, nor for the sake of his foolish
threats. But in thus forbearing I had to tolerate him, and hence this
visit. He thinks that I am in his power. He does, not understand. But I
shall have to let him come here, or else make every thing known, and for
that I am not at all prepared as yet. But oh, if it had only been
Lionel!--if it had only been Lionel!"

"And so," said Mrs. Dunbar, after a long silence, "he knows all."

"He knows nothing," said Wiggins. "It is his ignorance and my own
patient waiting that make him bold. But tell me this--did he recognize
you?"

At this question Mrs. Dunbar looked with a fixed, rigid stare at
Wiggins. Her lips quivered. For a moment she could not speak.

"He--he looked at me," said she, in a faltering voice--"he looked at me,
but I was so overcome at the sight of him that my brain whirled. I was
scarcely conscious of any thing. I heard him ask for Edith, and I
hurried away. But oh, how hard--how hard it is! Oh, was ever any one in
such a situation? To see him here--to see that face and hear that voice!
Oh, what can I do--what can I do?"

And with these words Mrs. Dunbar broke down. Once more her head sank,
and burying her face in her hands, she wept and sobbed convulsively.
Wiggins looked at her, and as he looked there came over his face an
expression of unutterable pity and sympathy, but he said not a word. As
he looked at her he leaned his head on his hand, and a low, deep,
prolonged sigh escaped him, that seemed to come from the depths of his
being.

They sat in silence for a long time. Mrs. Dunbar was the first to break
that silence. She roused herself by a great effort, and said,

"Have you any idea what his object may be in coming here, or what
Lionel's object may be in sending him?"

"Well," said Wiggins, "I don't know. I thought at first when I saw him
that Lionel had some idea of looking after the estate, to see if he
could get control of it in any way; but this call seems to show that
Edith enters into their design in some way. Perhaps he thinks of paying
attentions to her," he added, in a tone of bitterness.

"And would that be a thing to be dreaded?" asked Mrs. Dunbar, anxiously.

"Most certainly," said Wiggins.

"Would you blame the son for the misdeeds of the father?" she asked, in
the same tone.

"No," said Wiggins; "but when the son is so evidently a counterpart of
the father, I should say that Edith ought to be preserved from him."

"I don't know," said Mrs. Dunbar. "I'm afraid you judge too hastily. It
may be for the best. Who knows?"

"It can only be for the worst," said Wiggins, with solemn emphasis.

"There is a woman with him," said Mrs. Dunbar, suddenly changing the
conversation. "Who can she be?"

"A woman? What kind of a woman?"

"Elderly. I never saw her before. He calls himself Mowbray, and she is
Mrs. Mowbray. What can be the meaning of that? The woman seems old
enough to be his mother."

"Old?" said Wiggins. "Ah--Mowbray--h'm! It must be some design of his on
Edith. He brings this woman, so as to make a formal call. He will not
tell her who he is. I don't like the look of this, and, what is worse, I
don't know what to do. I could prohibit his visits, but that would be to
give up my plans, and I can not do that yet. I must run the risk. As for
Edith, she is mad. She is beyond my control. She drives me to despair."

"I do not see what danger there is for Edith in his visits," said Mrs.
Dunbar, in a mournful voice.

"Danger!" said Wiggins. "A man like that!"

"You are judging him too hastily," said Mrs. Dunbar.

Wiggins looked at her in silence for a moment, and then said,

"I hope I am, I'm sure, for your sake; but I'm afraid that I am right
and that you are wrong."

After some further conversation Mrs. Dunbar retired, carrying with her
in her face and in her heart that deep concern and that strong agitation
which had been excited by the visit of Mowbray. Edith, when she next saw
her, noticed this, and for a long time afterward wondered to herself why
it was that such a change had come over the housekeeper.

* * * * *




CHAPTER XVI.


ANOTHER VISIT

About two weeks afterward the Mowbrays called again. Edith was a little
surprised at this, for she had not expected another visit; but on the
whole she felt glad, and could not help indulging in some vague hope
that this call would be for her good.

"I am sorry," said she to Mrs. Mowbray, "that I have not been able to
return your call. But I have already explained how I am imprisoned
here."

[Illustration: "IT WAS A CHILD."]

"Oh, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray, "pray don't speak of that. We feel for
you, I assure you. Nothing is more unpleasant than a bereavement. It
makes such a change in all one's life, you know. And then black does not
become some people; they persist in visiting, too; but then, do you
know, they really look to me like perfect frights. Not that you look
otherwise than well, dear Miss Dalton. In fact, I should think that in
any dress you would look perfectly charming; but that is because you are
a brunette. Some complexions are positively out of all keeping with
black. Have you ever noticed that? Oh yes, dear Miss Dalton," continued
Mrs. Mowbray, after a short pause. "Brunettes are best in black--mark my
words, now; and blondes are never effective in that color. They do
better in bright colors. It is singular, isn't it? You, now, my dear,
may wear black with impunity; and since you are called on in the
mysterious dispensation of Providence to mourn, you ought at least to be
grateful that you are a brunette. If you were a blonde, I really do not
know what would ever become of you. Now, I am a blonde--but in spite of
that I have been called on to mourn. It--it was a child."

As Mrs. Mowbray said this she applied the handkerchief and
smelling-bottle for a few minutes.

"A child!" said Edith, in wonder.

"Yes, dear--a sweet son, aged twelve, leaving me to mourn over him. And
as I was saying, my mourning did not become my complexion at all. That
was what troubled me so. Really, a blonde ought never to lose
friends--it is so unbecoming. Positively, Providence ought to arrange
things differently."

"It would be indeed well if blondes or any other people could be saved
from sorrow," said Edith.

"It would be charming, would it not?" said Mrs. Mowbray. "Now, when my
child died, I mourned for him most deeply--indeed, as deep as that," she
said, stretching out her hands so as to measure a space of about
eighteen inches--"most deeply: a border around the skirt of solid crape
half a yard wide; bonnet smothered in crape; and really and positively I
myself was literally all crape, I do believe; and with my light
complexion, what people could have thought, I'm sure I do not know."

"There is not much to choose between mother and son," thought Edith.
"They are capable of any baseness, they are so heartless. There is no
hope here." Yet in spite of such thoughts she did not shun them. Why
not? How could an honorable nature like hers associate with such
people? Between them and herself was a deep gulf, and no sympathy
between them was possible. The reason why she did not shun them lay
solely in her own loneliness. Any thing in the shape of a human being
was welcome rather than otherwise, and even people whom she despised
served to mitigate the gloom of her situation. They made the time pass
by, and that of itself was something.

"I went into half-mourning as soon as I could," continued Mrs. Mowbray;
"but even half-mourning was very disagreeable. You may depend upon it,
no shade of black ought ever to be brought near a blonde. Half-mourning
is quite as bad as deep mourning."

"You must have had very much to bear," said Edith, absently.

"I should think I had. I really could not go into society, except, of
course, to make calls, for that one _must_ do, and even then I felt
like a guy--for how absurd I must have looked with such an inharmonious
adjustment of colors! But you, my dear Miss Dalton, seem made by nature
to go in mourning."

"Yes," said Edith, with a sigh which she could not suppress; "nature has
been lavish to me in that way--of late."

"You really ought always to mourn," said Mrs. Mowbray, in a sprightly
tone.

"I'm afraid I shall always have to, whether I wish it or not," said
Edith, with another sigh.

"You are such a remarkable brunette--quite an Italian; your complexion
is almost olive, and your hair is the blackest I ever saw. It is all
dark with you."

"Yes, it is indeed all dark with me," said Edith, sadly.

"The child that I lost," said Mrs. Mowbray, after a pause, "was a very
nice child, but he was not at all like my son here. You often find great
differences in families. I suppose he resembled one side of the family,
and the captain the other."

"You have lived here for a good many years?" said Edith, abruptly
changing the conversation.

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Mowbray, "It's a very nice county--don't you think
so?"