Sir Richard Francis Burton - "Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al Madinah and Meccah"

James Oliver Curwood - "Philip Steele of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police"

Unknown - "The Fall of the Niebelungs"

J.B. Moyle, Translator - "The Institutes of Justinian"

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




"How old are you, dear?" he asked by way of answer to her remark.
The question seemed to surprise her.

"Oh, Amias, don't you remember I was seventeen on the first of May,
and Mrs. Craven gave us a syllabub in honour of the occasion?" and
Verity's dark eyes were a little reproachful. It seemed so strange
to her that he could have forgotten that day. But Amias only tugged
at his moustache and pondered deeply.

"I have it," he said briskly. "Verity, you shall be married on your
eighteenth birthday, and you shall marry me." Then, as the girl
shrank from him, and her thin face was covered with a burning blush
at these unexpected words, his manner changed and grew very gentle.
"Darling, you need not be afraid of me. Every hair of your head is
sacred to me, for I love you dearly. I will take such care of you,
my little Verity, You will be my child as well as my wife. You can
trust your old friend Amias, can you not?" and though such an idea
had never entered her head, Verity's confidence in him was so great
that she actually put her hand in his and promised to marry him.

Never for one moment did she repent her resolution, and before the
wedding day arrived she had learned to love him dearly. Amias had
not long lost his mother, and the old house at Chelsea was empty
when he took Verity there after their brief honeymoon. She was
almost frightened at its magnificence until her husband explained to
her that they would be too poor to keep it all for themselves, and
that a friend of his had taken the drawing-room floor and would live
with them.

Such were the outlines of the story related by Malcolm, but in
reality much of it was only learnt later on from Verity's lips; but
even the slight sketch as Malcolm told it affected Anna almost to
tears.

"Oh, how she must have loved him!" were her first words when he had
finished. "Malcolm, I know you will laugh at my enthusiasm, but I
think Mr. Keston is one of the grandest and noblest of men. What a
friend he has been to her all her life--she owes her life and peace
and happiness to him! What would have become of her when she left
the hospital if he had not cared for her and placed her with those
kind people at the farm?"

"One can easily answer that question," returned Malcolm; "she would
not have been alive now. Her nerves were fearfully shattered, Anna,
and she was as weak as a baby when she arrived at the Hill Farm.
Amias told me himself that he carried her into house like an infant.
There, dry your eyes, lady fair, all's well that ends well. Now, as
our hour is up, I think we may safely venture into the studio
again."




CHAPTER VIII

THE RECORD OF AN IMPOTENT GENIUS


And whether you climb up the mountain or go down the hill
to the valley, whether you journey to the end of the world or
merely walk round your house, none but yourself shall you meet
on the highway of fate.--MAETERLINCK.


The door of the studio was slightly ajar, and the sound of a
singularly sweet voice crooning out a lullaby was plainly audible.
Malcolm, who was about to knock, changed his mind and peeped in
through the aperture; then he beckoned to Anna to do likewise.

It was certainly a pretty picture before them. Verity was sitting in
her low nursery chair, in the shadow of the heavy, ruby-coloured
curtains, hushing her child to sleep, while her husband, at a little
distance, stood before his easel; but she was so utterly transformed
that Anna would not have known her.

She wore the dress of a Roman peasant; heavy gilt beads were clasped
round her throat and fell over her white pleated chemisette, a gay-
coloured scarf was arranged picturesquely on her head and gave
warmth and colour to the small brown face. On her lap lay Babs,
open-eyed and rebellious, kicking up her bare little feet and
humming baby fashion in pleased accompaniment.

"Oh, Amias," exclaimed Verity at last in a laughing voice, "what am
I to do with this naughty girlie, who refuses to go to sleep and
only laughs in her mother's face? Oh, you darling, you darling!" and
here Verity smothered the little one with kisses.

"Behold the stern parent!" observed Malcolm mockingly at this point.
"Verity, that rogue of a Babs is a match for you already. Why don't
you put her in her cot and order her to go to sleep, instead of
crooning absurd ditties over her? Oh, I thought so," severely, as
Babs grasped her toes with her dimpled hands in the practised style
of an acrobat, and gurgled defiantly in his face; "she is just
exulting over her own victory as an emancipated daughter."

"Babs takes after her great-grandmother," observed Amias cheerfully
from the background; "it is the law of heredity, you see. Her name
was also Barbara--Barbara Allen, and she was remarkable for her
brown skin, her gipsy beauty, and her incorrigible self-will. She
had lovers by the score, and flouted them all except my great-
grandfather, whom I have reason to believe wished himself dead
before he had been married a week. She was the mother of fifteen,
and lived to a good old age, and was a pride and terror to the
neighbourhood, and the mantle of her self-will has fallen upon
Barbara Maud Keston. Yea-Verily, my child, the oracle has spoken,"
and Amias went on with his work, while Babs gurgled at him in
delighted appreciation of these paternal sentiments.

"Would Miss Sheldon care to see my picture, Malcolm?" he asked the
next minute in his usual voice; "it is nearly finished, and I shall
be glad of an opinion;" and then he drew back from the canvas, and
Malcolm and Anna took his place.

It was one of those little studies from life that appeal so strongly
to the popular taste, and in spite of its simplicity and absence of
breadth, it was exquisitely painted. It was only a couple of organ-
grinders resting during the noontide heat. The man was sitting on
the curb with a short pipe in his mouth--a handsome rascal of a
fellow, evidently an Italian, with gold rings in his ears. The
woman, in peasant costume, looked heated and weary, and had a baby
in her arms. Both mother and child were painted from life.

"How beautiful!" whispered Anna, looking reverently at the giant
beside her.

"It is one of your best pictures, Goliath," observed Malcolm, "but I
suppose you do not intend to exhibit it next year?"

"Oh no," he returned, "it is already bespoken by a rich Australian.
Rainsford brought him here to see if he would give me an order, and
he fell in love with my organ-grinders at once. I had a sort of idea
that I would keep it myself, for the sake of Verity and the kid; but
with a family"--here Amias smoothed his yellow moustache proudly--
"one is bound to keep the pot boiling."

"I did not want it to go," sighed Verity, who had just then sidled
up to her husband--she looked a mere child beside him--"it is such a
perfect likeness of Babs." And then she withdrew with the rebel,
while the others made a turn round the studio; and Amias showed them
sketches, and also a more important picture that was to be exhibited
at the Royal Academy the following year. Verity was the model again-
-this time as a sick gipsy girl lying on a heap of straw in a barn,
while the caravan and encampment were painted most realistically,
even to the old horse and shaggy donkey hobbled to the trunk of a
tree, with a thin yellow cur near them. When completed it would be a
striking picture: the smoky sunset tints of a November afternoon
were faithfully depicted; and a woodman's hut, just falling into
decay, with golden lichen on the rotting roof, was marvellously
painted. Malcolm stood before it in a rapt mood of ecstasy, then he
struck himself dramatically on the breast.

"Goliath," he said sorrowfully, "I am the most miserable of men, a
'mute inglorious Milton' is nothing to me. Nature has created me a
lover of the picturesque. In heart and soul I am an artist, I dabble
in colours, I dream of lights and shades and glorious effects; but
the power of working out my ideas is denied me. If I try to paint a
tree my friends gibe at me. I am a poor literary hack; but I give
you my word, my dear old Philistine, that I would willingly change
places with you." Anna smiled, she was accustomed to this sort of
talk; but to her surprise Verity, who had just rejoined them, looked
grave.

"I am always so sorry for Mr. Herrick when he says this sort of
thing," she observed in a low voice aside to Anna. "He means us to
laugh, but he is quite serious. Amias and I just know how he feels.
It must be so sad to love the beautiful with all one's heart and not
have the power to create--to be just a thought and word painter and
nothing else."

"Perhaps if Malcolm took lessons he might be able to paint in time,"
suggested Anna. She felt rather culpable, as though all these years
she had not sympathised enough with him; but then it was so
difficult for any one to know when he was serious.

It was evident that Verity understood him.

"Oh no, it is too late now," she remarked; "besides, the gift has
been denied him. But he helps Amias so much by his clever
suggestions. He would not tell you, of course, but this caravan
scene is all his idea. He came upon a gipsy encampment in a Kentish
lane one afternoon, and he made Amias go down the next day and see
it. There was the woodman's hut, and the barn, and the hobbled horse
and donkey. Amias was down there at the inn three days, making
sketches for the picture, and getting some of the gipsies to sit to
him. There was one woman ill in the tent, but Amias declared she
looked more like a sick ape, she was so ugly--so I had to be the
model."

"Isn't it rather tiring work, Mrs. Keston?"

"Oh dear, no," returned Verity smiling; "it never tires me to do
things for Amias; and then he lets me talk to him all the time. I
like to feel I am useful to him, and can help him a little with his
work."

"Oh yes, I can understand that," returned Anna softly. She thought
Verity looked quite beautiful as she spoke; perhaps the costume of a
Roman peasant suited her, but Anna, who was standing quite close to
her, noticed the wonderful softness of the brown eyes and the length
of the curling lashes. Babs had grown drowsy at last, and Verity had
placed her in the cot. Then they all sat down for a brief chat
before it was time for Malcolm to take Anna home.

They had been talking about Amias Keston's unfinished picture, and,
as usual, Malcolm had been holding forth in his role of art critic,
when one of those sudden pauses which seem to drop softly between
intimate friends followed his concluding speech. Verity held up her
finger with the hackneyed allusion to a passing angel, at which
Malcolm laughed scornfully.

"You are too poetical, my dear Verity," he observed; "it was no
white-robed celestial vision brushing past us in the twilight and
fanning us with plumed and balmy wings; the gliding shadow that
moved between us was merely the guardian genius who presides over my
destiny. But as he passed I touched his mantle"--and here Malcolm
regarded his audience with infinite meaning.

No one hazarded an observation. Amias, who had been filling his pipe
with tobacco, looked at it longingly and returned it to his pocket.
This process he repeated at intervals from sheer force of habit.
With his pipe alight he was an ideal listener; without it his
attention wandered and grew drowsy. But Malcolm, wrapt up in his own
visionary conceits, did not see the pathos of the action.

He was on his favourite hobby-horse--life, and its limitations, its
enforced denials and futile sacrifices, was opening before his eyes.

"I am going to write a book," he announced abruptly. "I mean to take
the world by storm--to say my say--for once. It will not be a novel.
The public is inundated by the flood of fiction that threatens to
engulf it. We have biographies by the ton, in two, three, or four
volumes; in every public place in England we set up our golden
image, and we bid men, women, and children fall down and do it
homage. Hero-worship is our favourite cult; woe to that man who
refuses to burn incense before it!"

"I suppose you intend to bring out a volume of essays?" queried
Amias lazily.

"No, my dear fellow," returned Malcolm rather mendaciously, for he
was planning a series of essays at that very time. "No trifles and
syllabubs for me--froth above and sweetness and jam beneath. Every
one writes essays nowadays, and tries to stir with his little
Gulliver pen the yeasty foam raised by a Carlyle or an Emerson. One
might as well watch the effort of a small hairy caterpillar to
follow in the wake of a sea-serpent. Oh ye gods and little fishes,
could anything be more grotesque!"

"But the book?" growled Amias, with a surreptitious glance at his
pipe.

"Oh, the book," returned Malcolm loftily, "it is a sudden
inspiration, but I feel the grip of my Frankenstein already; I have
not yet let go the mantle of my guardian genius. It will be
autobiographical, expansive, and deep as human nature itself, and I
shall call it 'The Record of an Impotent Genius.'"

"Good lack!" observed Amias in a disgusted tone, "what a drivelling
title! Why impotent, in the name of all that is rational?"

"My dear old Philistine," returned his friend in a measured voice,
"I use the word impotent in the meaning attached to it in Holy Writ,
and as my beloved and well-thumbed Thesaurus uses it: impotent,
powerless, unarmed, weaponless, paralytic, crippled, inoperative,
ineffectual, inadequate. Think of the strong man bound for a
lifetime, Goliath--of a dumb and palsied genius gazing out of a
prison-house. Could even a blinded Samson equal the pathos of such a
picture?"

Amias shook his head mutely, and felt a third time for his pipe, and
plugged the tobacco tenderly with his finger. In some moods he never
argued with Malcolm.

"I shall write the autobiography of this poor tormented soul," went
on Malcolm--"this dumb poet, this crippled artist, to whom the
birthright of failure has descended, who has to look on for a
lifetime at other men's labours, and to whom the power of expression
and creation is denied, who has been gifted with the seeing eye in
vain."

"Oh that seeing eye!" groaned Amias, who had heard this observation
at least a hundred times. Then Verity began to laugh, and, to Anna's
surprise, Malcolm followed suit. Then he clapped Amias heavily on
the shoulder.

"Where's your pipe, Goliath? Poor old Philistine, he is a gone coon
without his baccy. Fetch him a match somebody." And as Amias feebly
protested against this, he went on--"Anna is quite a Bohemian, and
rather likes the smell of tobacco. I will have a cigarette to keep
you company," and in another minute Amias's broad countenance wore
its usual expression of placid enjoyment.

The conversation turned on Cedric Templeton, and Malcolm asked
Verity if she could transform the lumber-room into a bedroom for two
or three nights for the use of his friend. This she at once
cheerfully undertook to do, and promised to have it ready by the
following evening, and then he informed them of his intended visit
to Staplegrove.

Verity's eyes at once challenged her husband. "Staplegrove," she
said in a surprised voice, "do you mean Staplegrove in Surrey? Why,
that is the very place where the Logans live."

"Are you speaking of Matt Logan?" asked Malcolm.

"Of course he lives down there; but I heard the other day that he
had come in for some money, and had gone abroad for his wife's
health."

"Oh, that's right enough," returned Amias. "Verity and I saw them
off two days ago. They have gone to the Black Forest. I meant to
have told you before, but something put it out of my head--that he
has lent us his cottage."

"What a piece of good luck! Upon my word, I am inclined to envy you,
Goliath."

"There is no need for you to do that," returned Amias cordially.
"There will be a 'prophet's chamber' ready for you when you feel
inclined to run down. It is a nice little place enough. 'The Crow's
Nest' they call it, though I am not sure there are any crows about.
Verity and I ran down to have a look at it. The house is a mere
cottage, only just room to swing two cats and a kitten--not a corner
for any impotent genius to woo the drowsy god in," and here Amias
gave a great laugh; "but there is a queer sort of garden room Logan
has built which he calls his workshop, and part of it is partitioned
off as a bedroom. It is a bit airy in the winter, he says, but
simply perfect in the summer. You can sleep with your window wide
open, and great tea-roses nodding in at you, and now and then a
night-jar or a black-winged bat flitting between you and the moon."

"It is a little bare certainly," observed Verity, "but so pleasant,
and I think I could make it comfortable for you, Mr. Herrick. The
side window looks out on a flower-border. There are great yellow
clumps of evening primroses and milky white nicotiana, and the roses
are simply everywhere."

"How long shall you stay?" asked Malcolm in an interested voice.

"Well, the Logans have offered it to us until the end of October,"
returned Verity; "and as it is so hot in town, Amias proposed this
morning that we should try and get off in another ten days. I think
we shall stay there until the end of summer."

"And what am I to do without you both--a lonely bachelor?" exclaimed
Malcolm. "For selfishness and want of feeling commend me to married
people. With regard to their less fortunate fellows they have simply
no conscience."

"My dear fellow, you will be as right as a trivet," returned Amias.
"You will have the Snark to attend to your comforts, and the
maternal Snark--a sad-faced but most respectable woman--to attend to
her daughter's. We have the Logan's servant, and a slip of a girl
besides, a sort of Marchioness, who answers to the name of Miranda.
Verity will find her a comfort with Babs."

"And I am to run down to the Crow's Nest when I like?" Then Amias
nodded a cheerful assent.

"We shall expect you from Saturday till Monday, and as many more
days as you like to give us. You are part of the household, my dear
fellow. I wish we could offer a room to Miss Sheldon; but we shall
have to turn the spare room into a nursery. By the bye, Malcolm, I
strolled down the road with Logan and passed the Wood House. It
looks a charming place, and it is only a stone's throw from the
Crow's Nest."

Malcolm felt vaguely interested. What a small world it was after
all! He was going to make acquaintance with Cedric's people in this
remote corner of Surrey, and lo and behold, Goliath and his
belongings were following him.

Well, he was sick of the heat and turmoil of town, and it would not
be a bad plan to take possession of the garden room, and make Verity
find a quiet nook where he could write undisturbed. He really had a
brilliant scheme in his head--some essays which should interlace and
overlap each other like a linked chain of curious workmanship. He
had already accumulated his material, and he only wanted leisure to
write. He knew his trade well, and his strong, vigorous style, his
admirable choice of words, his pure English, and above all, his
complete knowledge of his subject, were already bringing him into
notice with the critics.

Yes, his summer holiday should be spent at the Crow's Nest, and he
would work and play at his own sweet will. It was a pity Anna could
not join them for a week or two. She and Verity would have become
such friends; and then he remembered his mother's prejudices.
Besides, she was thinking of going to Whitby, and if so she would
expect Anna to accompany her.

It was time for them to go now; but, as they drove home in a hansom,
Malcolm suddenly laid his hand on Anna's. "You are very quiet,
dear," he said gently. "Have I tired you, or has your day
disappointed you?" But he was amazed when the girl turned her face
to him, for he saw her eyes were full of unshed tears.

"Oh no, it has been perfect--you and your friends have been so good
to me, Malcolm. It will be like a beautiful picture--the river and
the studio and the sunset. But why must pleasant things come to an
end?" And then she sighed, and said half to herself, "There will be
no Wood House or Crow's Nest for me;" and Anna's voice was so sad as
she said this that Malcolm felt quite a pang of pity cross him. Why
was Anna's life so dull, and his so full of interest?




CHAPTER IX

THE WOOD HOUSE


Without love there is no interior pleasantness of life.
--SWEDENBORG.


It was a lovely July afternoon when Malcolm Herrick and his friend
arrived at Earlsfield. A smart dog-cart, Cedric's own especial
property, was waiting for them at the station. As they mounted to
their places, and Cedric took the reins from the groom, he pointed
out the good points of the mare with an air of complacency and
satisfaction that somewhat amused Malcolm; but the next moment he
said in a boyish manner, "You see, Herrick, I have not got quite
used to my new toy. My sisters gave me the trap on my last birthday.
I have had Brown Becky for two years. She is good for either driving
or riding; but I dropped a hint once, in Dinah's hearing, that I
longed for a dog-cart, and though she said nothing at the time, she
and Elizabeth put their heads together, and they got Mr. Brodrick, a
neighbour of ours, to choose it."

"Your sisters are very good to you," observed Malcolm in rather a
patronising manner. He even smiled to himself furtively at the
thought of the two gentle spinsters. "A good-looking boy like Cedric
is always spoilt by his womankind," he said to himself. "If I ever
get on intimate terms with them, which is very unlikely, I shall
tell them that all this petting and spoiling is not good for the
lad, and will only unfit him for his work in life. Women have no
sense of proportion," he continued rather irritably; "they either do
too much or too little, and the Misses Templeton seem to be no
exceptions to the rule."

They had left Earlsfield behind them, and were now climbing the
long, winding ascent that led to Staplegrove. As the road grew
steeper, Brown Becky slackened her pace.

The heavy storms had tempered the great heat, and though the sky was
cloudless and the sunshine brilliant, the trees meeting overhead
gave them a pleasant shade, and a soft, refreshing breeze blew in
their faces. Malcolm drew a long breath of delight.

"There is nothing like the country after all," he observed. "When I
have made my pile, I shall pitch my tent or build myself a hut far
from the madding crowd, and bid good-bye to Lincoln's Inn, and
Piccadilly, and club-land, and all the delights of modern
civilisation."

"Not you, old fellow," returned Cedric sagaciously. "Why, you would
be bored to death in no time." But Malcolm shook his head.

"Am I not a lover of the picturesque, my dear boy? Nature intended
me for a country gentleman." Malcolm so dearly loved argument for
its own sake that he did not always consider it necessary to weigh
the accurate truth of his words. He liked to take different views of
the same subject. On more than one occasion in Cedric's hearing he
had compared himself with Charles Lamb.

Custom had made the presence of society, streets and crowds, the
theatre and the picture-gallery, an absolute necessity. Why, in some
moods he would take this as his text, and discourse most eloquently
on what he called the spectacle of the streets. "There are few days
when there are not groups of Hogarth-like figures," he would say--
"sketches from the life, abounding in humour or infinite pathos.
There is a blind beggar and his dog over in a corner by the Temple
station," he continued, "that I never can pass without putting a
penny in the box. The dog's face is perfectly human in its
expression. The eyes speak. I gave him a bone once--a meaty bone it
was, too"--and here Malcolm looked a little ashamed of himself--"in
fact, it was a mutton chop, and I stole it off the luncheon table. I
kept the beggar in conversation while he ate it. Sir," for he was
addressing Amias Keston at that moment, "that dog positively
grovelled at my feet with affection and gratitude."

"How many mutton chops has he had since?" asked his friend.

"He never had another," responded Malcolm sadly. "The carriage of a
greasy paper full of meat is too much even for my philanthropy; but
I take him dry biscuits--sometimes Spratt's meat biscuits--and
tobacco for the beggar. He is an old soldier and wears his medal;
and the dog--Boxer is his name--is like Nathan's ewe lamb to him. He
has got a crippled son--a natural he calls him--who fetches him home
in the evening. I saw him once," went on Malcolm, puffing slowly at
his cigarette, "an uncouth sort of chap on crutches; and when Boxer
saw him he nearly knocked him down, jumping on him for joy; and they
all went home together, quite a cheerful family party."

"You would not be happy away from town, Herrick," persisted Cedric;
"that's such a jolly crib of yours at Cheyne Walk;" for he had been
greatly struck by the Keston menage, and had quite fallen in love
with his quaint little hostess; while Verity, on her side, had taken
very kindly to the handsome lad, and made much of him for Malcolm's
sake.