Georges Ohnet - "Serge Panine, v4"

Alfred de Vigny - "Cinq Mars, v5"

William Rose Benet - "Perpetual Light"

Kathleen Norris - "Martie The Unconquered"

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: Herb of Grace

R >> Rosa Nouchette Carey >> Herb of Grace




As Anna must have her way on her birthday, Malcolm said no more, and
the next moment they arrived at their destination--a gray, dingy-
looking old house, somewhat high and narrow, overlooking the river.

The first floor windows opened on a balcony, which had an awning
over it. Two or three deck-chairs had been placed there, and on
summer evenings Malcolm loved to sit there, either alone or with a
congenial spirit, enjoying the refreshing breezes from the river.

The house belonged to his friend Amias Keston, and some years before
he had built himself a studio in the back garden. As his income was
remarkably small, and his work at that time far from remunerative,
he was obliged to let the upper floor. The situation charmed
Malcolm, and the society of his old friend was a strong inducement,
so they soon came to terms. Malcolm was an ideal lodger; he gave
little trouble, beyond having his bath filled and his boots well
polished. He breakfasted in his own apartment, but he always dined
with the Kestons. A solitary chop eaten in solitude was not to his
taste, and he much preferred sharing his friends' homely meals.
"Plain living and high thinking suit me down to the ground," he
would say--"a laugh helps digestion;" but in spite of his
philosophic theories, many secret dainties found their way into the
Keston larder, and were regarded doubtfully and with awe by an
anxious young housekeeper.

Anna felt a little quickening of excitement as they walked up the
flagged path--she could not look indifferently at the house where
Malcolm lived. It seemed an age to both of them before the door was
opened. Malcolm had knocked twice, and was meditating a third
assault, when they heard footsteps, and the next moment a little
brown girl appeared on the threshold with a child in her arms.

"I am so sorry, Mr. Herrick, but Hepsy has just gone for the milk,"
she whispered to Malcolm, who did not seem a bit surprised by the
intelligence.

He had grown used to these domestic episodes. The milkman was
generally late, and Hepsy, otherwise Hephzibah, was for ever on his
track with a yellow jug in her hand; they called it the "Hunting of
the Snark," for they were wont to treat the minor accidents of life
in a playful fashion.

"Anna, this is Mrs. Keston," observed Malcolm--"my friend Verity,
and Babs." Then Anna, in some confusion and much astonishment, shook
hands with this very singular young person.

Verity! could this be the Verity that Malcolm had eulogised with
such enthusiasm--this little brown girl who was regarding her so
gravely and fixedly?

Anna was obliged to own afterwards that her appearance had given her
a shock. She was so small and sallow and insignificant, and her
short curly hair was parted on one side like a boy, and cropped
quite closely behind. The baby was small and brown too, a tiny
edition of herself, and they both had dark eyes that looked
preternaturally solemn; Babs, indeed, wore an injured expression,
and a puckered look of anguish spoke of the pangs of hunger and the
delinquencies of milkmen.

"Babs wants her tea," observed Verity cheerfully; "I am going to
give her a crust to amuse her. Will you bring Miss Sheldon into the
studio, Mr. Herrick? Amias will be so pleased to see her, though he
is very busy. I know your name," she continued smilingly to Anna--
she had a fresh clear voice that sounded pleasantly on Anna's ear;
"I have heard so much about you, that of course I recognised you
directly, though Mr. Herrick did not introduce you properly."

Verity spoke with so much ease and frankness that Anna began to feel
interested in her; she seemed so utterly oblivious of her shabby
cotton dress and ridiculous bib-apron. Babs presented a far more
imposing appearance in a white frock and pink ribbons, underneath
which the bare little brown feet were peeping. Anna would willingly
have made friends with her, but Verity advised her to wait. "Babs
will not be sociable until she has had her tea," she remarked; "we
had better take no notice of her for the present," and indeed that
much-enduring and long-suffering infant was at that moment so
reduced by famine as to attempt swallowing her own dimpled fist.

"What a capital boy she would make!" thought Anna as she followed
Mrs. Keston into the dining-room; for the dark, closely-cropped head
and a certain boyish freedom of step and bearing gave her this idea.

The dining-room was rather a gloomy apartment; the front windows
were high and narrow, and the overhanging balcony rather obscured
the light; the folding-doors had been taken away, but though this
added to the size of the room, there was no additional cheerfulness
gained, as the glass door in the inner room, which once had opened
into a pleasant garden, now merely led into a covered way to the
studio.

This sombre apartment was furnished in a curious manner, which made
people open their eyes with astonishment until they found out that
Amias Keston had acquired his household goods at second-hand sales.

The table of good Spanish mahogany had been a bargain, but it hardly
harmonised with a Sheraton cabinet and a light oak sideboard, though
both were good of their kind. Then the chairs had been picked up
singly, and were of all sizes and patterns. Amias always sat in a
grandfather chair of carved dark oak at the bottom of the table, and
Verity in a high-backed chair in light oak and red morocco, while
others were rosewood, mahogany, or Sheraton. Nothing matched,
nothing harmonized; it was merely a curiosity shop in which they
stored their purchases. So there were plush curtains and Japanese
screens, a bronze Mazeppa, and an alabaster boy and butterfly, while
blue dragon china and some lovely bits of Chelsea were in a corner
cupboard. Anna, who knew there was no other living room, looked
vainly round for some feminine occupation, and Verily, who was as
sharp as a needle, seemed to guess her thought.

"Oh, I never sit here," she said confidentially, "it is too dark;
Babs and I prefer the studio," and Anna did not wonder at the
preference. The studio was a delightful room, high and well-
proportioned, and with plenty of light. The part used by Amias
Keston as his workshop was quite bare with the exception of the
sitter's throne and an easel or two; this could at any time be
curtained off to secure privacy.

The rest of the studio was fitted up as a sitting-room, with rugs,
easy-chairs, and a couch, and a table with work and writing-
materials. Here, in a retired nook behind an old screen, stood
"Babs's" bassinette, where she took her mid-day naps.

"This is Verity's and Bab's playroom," explained Malcolm with a
patronising air; "here the Martha of the establishment takes her
well-earned rest." Then Verity flashed a sudden look at him which
expressed unmitigated indignation.

"Hit one of your own size, Malcolm, my boy," observed a voice
genially from the distance; and then, as Verity drew back a curtain,
Anna saw a big, burly-looking man, with shaggy hair and a fair
moustache, painting at an easel.

He was so big, so colossal in fact, that he seemed to shake the
floor as he walked; everything was big about him, his hands and
feet, his voice and his laugh, and when he whispered his words were
audible at the other end of the room. This giant among men wore an
old brown velvet coat, very frayed about the elbows, and though he
was by no means handsome, there was such a pleasant, kindly
expression on his face that Anna felt drawn to him at once.

"How do you do, Miss Sheldon?" he said, as Malcolm introduced them;
"my wife and I have long wished to make your acquaintance," and here
his big hand seemed to swallow Anna's up.

"Go on with your painting, Goliath," interrupted Malcolm. "He is
working against time, Anna, and every daylight hour is of
consequence to him; it was Verity who drew that curtain that he
might not be disturbed;" and then Amias Keston stretched his huge
arms and gave himself a shake.

"The Philistines are upon thee, Samson! Yea-Verily, my child, if the
Snark is back, you had better tell her to bring us some tea." But
here Malcolm again interposed. Goliath was far too busy, they would
have tea upstairs, and then sit on the balcony afterwards; and
Verity understood him at once. "Hepsy is back," she said composedly;
"please take Miss Sheldon upstairs, and then Amias will go on with
his work, and I will send up tea as soon as possible;" but before
they were out of the studio Goliath was back at his easel and
painting away for dear life.




CHAPTER VII

MORE ANCIENT HISTORY WITH VERITY


Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
Oh heart, are you great enough for love?
I have heard of thorns and briers?
TENNYSON.


As the studio door closed behind them, Anna said regretfully, "I
wish we could have stayed longer, Malcolm, I wanted to see more of
that nice Mr. Keston; and I did so long to peep at his picture."

"Did you?" observed Malcolm in a surprised tone, but he was
evidently gratified at this expression of interest. "Well, we will
go back there presently, when he has finished that bit of drapery
that is bothering him. Goliath is as nervous as a cat when he is
working against time. He and Verity have arranged a regular code of
signals," he went on: "when the curtain is drawn right across the
arch, it means no admittance except on business, and all loafers and
trespassers will be prosecuted. On these occasions Verity is a
perfect dragon, and he would be an audacious man who would try to
force his way in."

Anna nodded as though this explanation satisfied her, and then she
followed Malcolm up the steep, narrow staircase into a pleasant,
well-furnished room, with two windows opening on to the balcony.

Everything was in good taste and thoroughly well chosen. The dark
oak bureau and writing-table, the book-shelves filled with well-
bound volumes, the proof engravings on the walls, and a handsome
bronze group on the mantelpiece; while the deep easy-chairs and
couch gave it an air of comfort.

Anna had been there before, but she always reiterated her first
remark on seeing it, "that it was the most comfortable room she had
ever entered. You have such good taste, Malcolm," she would say;
"even your paperweight and the coal-scuttle are artistic."

"I am a lover of the picturesque," he would return solemnly, "and
anything ugly or unsuitable would jar on me. I like subdued tints
and mellow rich tones; that is why I bind my books in buff-coloured
Russian calf. They harmonise so splendidly with the dark oak and the
faded russet and brown and blue of the rug. Take my advice, Anna,
cultivate your eye, and you will add much to the pleasures of life."

When Anna had inspected the latest engraving and tested the
Chesterfield couch--a recent purchase--they went out on the balcony
until tea was ready. A red-haired, buxom-looking maid brought it in.

It was evident that the mistress of the establishment was not
without resources, for quite a pretty, tempting little meal was
spread on the oval table. There was sponge-cake and shortbread, a
dish of fruit, and delicious bread-and-butter. The beautiful teacups
were Malcolm's own property, and had been picked up by him at a
fabulous price in Wardour Street, and the little melon-shaped teapot
had been a present from his mother. Verity always washed up these
teacups herself. She said it was just for the pleasure of handling
such lovely things, but in reality she knew Hepsy's clumsy fingers
were not to be trusted.

Anna had only taken her place at the tea-tray, and was manipulating
the curiously-shaped sugar-tongs rather carefully, when Malcolm
looked at her a little searchingly. "Hurry up," he said severely;
"how long do you suppose I am going to wait for your opinion of the
Keston family?"

Then Anna, who had been vaguely alarmed by his judicial tone, filled
up the teacups with a reassured air and in a leisurely manner. "You
can hardly expect me to judge of any human being in five minutes,"
she answered with some show of reason.

"That sounds very plausible, my dear, but I can read you like
print," and here Malcolm looked at her squarely. "You may as well
confess, Anna, you are far more struck with Goliath than with poor
little Verity."

Anna looked rather guilty; as usual, Malcolm's penetration had not
deceived him. She had been most favourably impressed with the good-
humoured giant, with his honest face and kindly blue eyes; but
Verity, a brown slip of a girl with big solemn eyes, how was she to
perjure herself by pretending that she was attracted by such a
unique little piece of eccentricity.

"I wish she did not look so like a boy," she observed in a
deprecating voice. But Malcolm took this remark in good part.

"Oh, you mean her hair," he replied coolly. "Oh, poor girl, that is
the result of brain fever. She had the most wonderful hair you ever
saw. When she let it down it quite swept the floor, and though it
was so dark it had such splendid shades in it. Have you ever seen
Keston's 'Leah and Rachel at the Well'?" Then, as Anna shook her
head, "Well, Verity was his model for Leah. Leah is filling her
pitcher and looking down into the well, so the eyes are hidden, but
it is Verity's small brown face to the life. I always say that was
his best picture. His Rachel was marvellous, but I liked Leah best;
she was more human somehow, and those dark plaits of hair escaping
from her turban were so beautiful. Poor little Leah! a month later
they robbed her of her chief beauty by cutting off her hair. Old
Goliath nearly sobbed as he told me."

Anna's face was full of sympathy. "Mr. Keston must be very fond of
her," she returned in such a surprised and dubious tone that Malcolm
laughed outright.

"You are not very flattering to poor little Verity," he observed,
"but I can assure you that Goliath worships the ground she walks on.
They are the happiest couple in the world. Amias is a good fellow
and a fine artist, who will make his mark some day when he has got
rid of his cranks, but he has not an ounce of his wife's brains; she
is the cleverest and brightest little woman I ever met, and she has
a heart big enough to hold the whole world."

Anna pondered over this splendid eulogium with some surprise; then
she said quickly--

"You must allow me a little time before I can fairly judge of your
friends, Malcolm. I know so little about Mrs. Keston. I remember you
once promised to tell me about her early life, but somehow there has
been no opportunity."

"Let us go out on the balcony and have our talk there, while I enjoy
a cigarette," was Malcolm's answer to this. "We must not go back to
the studio for another hour;" and then Anna took possession of one
deck-chair while Malcolm occupied the other.

There was a short silence while Malcolm lighted his cigarette. Anna
looked down on the broad gray river and a passing steamer with eyes
shining with happiness. To her the hour was simply perfect. Malcolm
was beside her, and in his kindest and most brotherly mood. What did
it matter on what subject they talked? Verity or Cedric or Lincoln's
Inn--anything that interested him would interest her. When Malcolm
held forth on his favourite theories, Anna would listen with
unflagging attention, and never once hint at her lack of
comprehension, although the effort to understand him had made her
head ache. The very sound of his voice was music in her ears, and
this unconscious flattery was very soothing to his masculine
intellect.

Malcolm, who had masterful ways of his own, was bent on convincing
Anna that she was wrong in her estimate of Verity Keston, and he was
very willing at this moment to tell her all he knew of her.

"I have heard all about things from Goliath," he began, "and Verity
often talks about her old life to me. Neither of them make any
secret about it. She was only seven or eight when he first saw her;
she had just lost her mother. Her father's name was Westbrook; he
was a scene-painter, a thriftless ne'er-do-weel, whose intemperate
habits had brought them to poverty and broken his wife's heart; but
in his sober moments he was good to the child, and she certainly
seemed devoted to him."

"Oh dear, how sad it sounds, Malcolm!"

"My dear, it was far sadder in reality. Think of that lonely little
creature, with no one to guide and befriend her except the woman of
the house."

"In her rough way Mrs. Parker kept watch over the child, but she had
children of her own and a sick husband, and had to drudge and slave
for her family and lodgers from morning until night. Oh, I must tell
you her answer to a well-meaning district visitor one day, Anna. The
lady had just said very sweetly, 'It is so good for us to count our
blessings, Mrs. Parker; we are so apt to forget our thanksgivings.'"

"'Humph,' returned Mrs. Parker, 'I don't reckon that I shall take
long in counting mine--unless backaches and singing in your ears are
amongst them. But then we have got something to look forward to in
t'other world--there'll be no wash-tubs and no district visitors
there, with their texts and high-falutin' nonsense.'"

Anna laughed merrily. In her quiet way she had a strong sense of
humour.

"I think I like Mrs. Parker, Malcolm."

"Verity liked her too; she always says that she owes a great deal to
her motherly care. 'I got a few cuffs sometimes,' she once said to
me, 'but I daresay I deserved them, and, poor woman, she had
troubles of her own to bear. But on cold nights I can't forget how
she would come upstairs to tuck me up, and see if I were warm
enough; and once, when I could not sleep for shivering, she brought
me up some hot drink, and covered me up in an old shawl of her own;'
and as long as Mrs. Parker lived Verity never forgot her.'"

"I am beginning to feel interested in her, Malcolm."

"My dear child, if you could only hear Goliath talk on this subject
your heart would ache for many a day. Think of that poor child
growing up to womanhood in such surroundings; spending her days in a
dirty, bare studio, with only rough, dissipated men for her
companions--though to do them justice they treated her with respect
and kindness. Somehow she picked up a desultory education among
them. One broken-down old scene-painter taught her to read and
write, and another, a French artist, taught her the rudiments of
French, and also to play on the violin. 'They all treated me as a
plaything,' she once said to me, 'and poor as they were, they would
bring me toys and sweets. I think, nay, I am sure, that they were
careful of their talk before me, but it was a strange life for a
child. Very often I could not see their faces for the cloud of
tobacco smoke, and sometimes the atmosphere was so stifling that I
preferred to sit outside on the cold dark landing.'"

"Poor mite, what a life!"

"Amias told me once that he should never forget the first time he
saw her. He was a mere lad himself of sixteen or seventeen, and a
student in a life academy."

"Some errand had brought him to Westbrook's lodgings. It was a dull,
cold January afternoon, and though it was only three o'clock, he
said the light was so dim that he nearly stumbled over the child.
She was sitting huddled up in the doorway of the studio, with an old
red shawl over her head to protect her against the draughts, and a
tiny black kitten was mewing piteously in her arms."

"'Kitty's crying for her mother pussy,' she said, looking at him
without the least shyness, 'but I want her to keep me company out
here. It is not kind of her to cry.'"

"'But it is too cold for you and Kitty too,' observed Amias; 'you
had better come in with me.' But the child shook her head."

"'No, I durst not,' she whispered; 'daddy's drunk, and he is
flinging things about so hard that Kitty and me might get hurt; so I
am making believe we are the Prince and Princess in the enchanted
forest. Will you stop and play with me?' and actually Amias--he was
always a good fellow--squatted on the ground beside her and entered
into the game. From that day they were the best of friends, and he
was Verity's favourite playmate. On Sunday afternoons he took her
out to feed the ducks in St. James's Park, or to watch the boys sail
their boats on the pond in Kensington Gardens. He was only a poor
art student, but he would forego a meal cheerfully to provide some
little treat for his protegee. As the days grew darker with trouble,
and Westbrook grew more hopeless and degraded in his habits, the
neglected child turned to Amias for help and sympathy. There were
terrible scenes towards the last, but I will spare you the fearful
details; it was a miracle how any girl of fifteen could endure what
Verity had to bear. For some months Westbrook's friends were fully
aware that he was hardly accountable for his actions, and there was
an attempt made to shut him up in an asylum. It was certain that the
man was insane, and that his daughter was not safe from his
violence. Amias concurred in this opinion, and the necessary steps
were taken. Unfortunately, either the thing was bungled or Westbrook
was too cunning for them, but before they could secure him he had
hidden himself in Verity's room, and when the poor child entered he
thought she was his keeper and felled her brutally to the ground.
They were only just in time to save her. Don't look so pale, Anna, I
am not going to harrow up your feelings. It is not a nice story.
Westbrook was raving in a strait waistcoat before night, but he did
not live many months afterwards;" and then Malcolm related the rest
of the story.

It was after that terrible experience that Verity had brain fever
and lost her beautiful hair. She had only just left the hospital
when the news of her father's death reached her. It was Amias who
told her.

The good fellow had visited her constantly, and as soon as she was
strong enough to be moved, he took lodgings for her in a farmhouse
in Kent where he had often stayed. The woman of the house was a
simple, kindly creature who had grown-up daughters of her own, and
Amias knew he could safely trust Verity to her care.

No environment could have been better for the girl: the beautiful
air, the fresh country sights and sounds, soothed and strengthened
her worn nerves. When Verity woke in the morning, instead of the
rumbling of carts and wagons, she heard the fluting of blackbirds
and thrushes in the orchard below, and the lowing of cows for their
pastures. Everything was new and fresh to her; every flower in the
hedgerow, every bird singing in the copse, was a miracle and
revelation; the old miserable life had slipped away from her like a
disused and faded garment, and her soul seemed new-born and steeped
in beauty. "Oh, the peace and the loveliness of it all!" she would
say to Amias when he came down for his Sunday visit. "Am I really
Verity--Verity Westbrook, who used to live in that dreadful Montagu
Street?" And then she would look wistfully at him--for she had grown
strangely timid and self-distrustful. But he would only laugh at her
in his kindly way. "Yea-Verily, my child, it is certainly you
yourself," he would answer; "when Nature made you she broke her
mould, there could not be two editions of Verity." Sometimes, when
she was low and weak, and memories of the past horrors were too
vivid, and even his big laugh and little jokes failed to drive them
away, she would cling to his arm and entreat him not to send her
back. "If I see that place again I shall die," she once said, and
the look in her eyes, and the way her small hand went to her throat,
as though the very thought impeded her breathing, told him that she
spoke the truth.

What was he to do with her? That was the question that occupied him
for many a day. The summer had passed, and autumn was well advanced
before he found the right answer.

One October afternoon he had taken her out for a walk as usual, and
they had sat down to rest on a bench under a wide-spreading chestnut
tree overlooking a village green. An aged donkey and some geese were
feeding near them, but there was no one in sight. The old gammers
and gaffers of the village were sitting by their firesides, for, in
spite of the sunshine, the air was cold, and more than once Verity
shivered as she sat.

"This wind is too cold for you, my child," he said presently; "let
us walk on." But she shook her head.

"No, please let us stay a little longer. I do so love this village.
If I were an artist I would paint it. Amias," interrupting herself,
"there is something I want to say to you. I have been at dear
Colbrook seven months--seven happy, beautiful months--but I am well
now, and quite strong, and it is time for me to work and get my own
living."

Verity spoke with great determination, but he noticed that her lips
were white and drawn, and that there was a strained look in her
eyes, and a sort of pitiful feeling came over him, such as a mother
would feel for a suffering child. In spite of her brave words, he
knew how she dreaded to face the world, though her womanly pride and
spirit would prevent her from telling him so. More than once she had
hinted to him that she felt herself a burden on his generosity; but
at the first word he had checked her.