Augusta Evans Wilson - "At the Mercy of Tiberius"

John Arbuthnot - "The History of John Bull"

Fergus Hume - "Madame Midas"

Alexandre Dumas, Pere - "The Man in the Iron Mask"

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: A Laodicean

T >> Thomas Hardy >> A Laodicean




'He was probably there on account of his sister,' said
Somerset, trying to escape the mental picture of farewell
gallantries bestowed on Paula.

'It was hinted at in the papers the other day.'

'And it was flatly contradicted.'

'Yes. Well, we shall see in the Lord's good time; I can do no
more for her. And now, Mr. Somerset, pray take a cup of tea.'

The revelations of the minister depressed Somerset a little,
and he did not stay long. As he went to the door Woodwell
said, 'There is a worthy man--the deacon of our chapel, Mr.
Havill--who would like to be friendly with you. Poor man,
since the death of his wife he seems to have something on his
mind--some trouble which my words will not reach. If ever you
are passing his door, please give him a look in. He fears
that calling on you might be an intrusion.'

Somerset did not clearly promise, and went his way. The
minister's allusion to the announcement of the marriage
reminded Somerset that she had expressed a wish to know how
the paragraph came to be inserted. The wish had been
carelessly spoken; but he went to the newspaper office to make
inquiries on the point.

The reply was unexpected. The reporter informed his
questioner that in returning from the theatricals, at which he
was present, he shared a fly with a gentleman who assured him
that such an alliance was certain, so obviously did it
recommend itself to all concerned, as a means of strengthening
both families. The gentleman's knowledge of the Powers was so
precise that the reporter did not hesitate to accept his
assertion. He was a man who had seen a great deal of the
world, and his face was noticeable for the seams and scars on
it.

Somerset recognized Paula's uncle in the portrait.

Hostilities, then, were beginning. The paragraph had been
meant as the first slap. Taking her abroad was the second.




BOOK THE FOURTH. SOMERSET, DARE AND DE STANCY.



I.

There was no part of Paula's journey in which Somerset did not
think of her. He imagined her in the hotel at Havre, in her
brief rest at Paris; her drive past the Place de la Bastille
to the Boulevart Mazas to take the train for Lyons; her
tedious progress through the dark of a winter night till she
crossed the isothermal line which told of the beginning of a
southern atmosphere, and onwards to the ancient blue sea.

Thus, between the hours devoted to architecture, he passed the
next three days. One morning he set himself, by the help of
John, to practise on the telegraph instrument, expecting a
message. But though he watched the machine at every
opportunity, or kept some other person on the alert in its
neighbourhood, no message arrived to gratify him till after
the lapse of nearly a fortnight. Then she spoke from her new
habitation nine hundred miles away, in these meagre words:--

'Are settled at the address given. Can now attend to any
inquiry about the building.'

The pointed implication that she could attend to inquiries
about nothing else, breathed of the veritable Paula so
distinctly that he could forgive its sauciness. His reply was
soon despatched:--

'Will write particulars of our progress. Always the same.'

The last three words formed the sentimental appendage which
she had assured him she could tolerate, and which he hoped she
might desire.

He spent the remainder of the day in making a little sketch to
show what had been done in the castle since her departure.
This he despatched with a letter of explanation ending in a
paragraph of a different tenor:--

'I have demonstrated our progress as well as I could; but
another subject has been in my mind, even whilst writing the
former. Ask yourself if you use me well in keeping me a
fortnight before you so much as say that you have arrived?
The one thing that reconciled me to your departure was the
thought that I should hear early from you: my idea of being
able to submit to your absence was based entirely upon that.

'But I have resolved not to be out of humour, and to believe
that your scheme of reserve is not unreasonable; neither do I
quarrel with your injunction to keep silence to all relatives.
I do not know anything I can say to show you more plainly my
acquiescence in your wish "not to go too far" (in short, to
keep yourself dear--by dear I mean not cheap--you have been
dear in the other sense a long time, as you know), than by not
urging you to go a single degree further in warmth than you
please.'

When this was posted he again turned his attention to her
walls and towers, which indeed were a dumb consolation in many
ways for the lack of herself. There was no nook in the castle
to which he had not access or could not easily obtain access
by applying for the keys, and this propinquity of things
belonging to her served to keep her image before him even more
constantly than his memories would have done.

Three days and a half after the despatch of his subdued
effusion the telegraph called to tell him the good news that

'Your letter and drawing are just received. Thanks for the
latter. Will reply to the former by post this afternoon.'

It was with cheerful patience that he attended to his three
draughtsmen in the studio, or walked about the environs of the
fortress during the fifty hours spent by her presumably tender
missive on the road. A light fleece of snow fell during the
second night of waiting, inverting the position of long-
established lights and shades, and lowering to a dingy grey
the approximately white walls of other weathers; he could
trace the postman's footmarks as he entered over the bridge,
knowing them by the dot of his walking-stick: on entering the
expected letter was waiting upon his table. He looked at its
direction with glad curiosity; it was the first letter he had
ever received from her.

'HOTEL ---, NICE,
Feb. 14.

'MY DEAR MR. SOMERSET' (the 'George,' then, to which she had
so kindly treated him in her last conversation, was not to be
continued in black and white),--

'Your letter explaining the progress of the work, aided by the
sketch enclosed, gave me as clear an idea of the advance made
since my departure as I could have gained by being present. I
feel every confidence in you, and am quite sure the
restoration is in good hands. In this opinion both my aunt
and my uncle coincide. Please act entirely on your own
judgment in everything, and as soon as you give a certificate
to the builders for the first instalment of their money it
will be promptly sent by my solicitors.

'You bid me ask myself if I have used you well in not sending
intelligence of myself till a fortnight after I had left you.
Now, George, don't be unreasonable! Let me remind you that,
as a certain apostle said, there are a thousand things lawful
which are not expedient. I say this, not from pride in my own
conduct, but to offer you a very fair explanation of it. Your
resolve not to be out of humour with me suggests that you have
been sorely tempted that way, else why should such a resolve
have been necessary?

'If you only knew what passes in my mind sometimes you would
perhaps not be so ready to blame. Shall I tell you? No.
For, if it is a great emotion, it may afford you a cruel
satisfaction at finding I suffer through separation; and if it
be a growing indifference to you, it will be inflicting
gratuitous unhappiness upon you to say so, if you care for me;
as I SOMETIMES think you may do A LITTLE.'

('O, Paula!' said Somerset.)

'Please which way would you have it? But it is better that
you should guess at what I feel than that you should
distinctly know it. Notwithstanding this assertion you will,
I know, adhere to your first prepossession in favour of prompt
confessions. In spite of that, I fear that upon trial such
promptness would not produce that happiness which your fancy
leads you to expect. Your heart would weary in time, and when
once that happens, good-bye to the emotion you have told me
of. Imagine such a case clearly, and you will perceive the
probability of what I say. At the same time I admit that a
woman who is ONLY a creature of evasions and disguises is very
disagreeable.

'Do not write VERY frequently, and never write at all unless
you have some real information about the castle works to
communicate. I will explain to you on another occasion why I
make this request. You will possibly set it down as
additional evidence of my cold-heartedness. If so you must.
Would you also mind writing the business letter on an
independent sheet, with a proper beginning and ending?
Whether you inclose another sheet is of course optional.--
Sincerely yours, PAULA POWER.'

Somerset had a suspicion that her order to him not to neglect
the business letter was to escape any invidious remarks from
her uncle. He wished she would be more explicit, so that he
might know exactly how matters stood with them, and whether
Abner Power had ever ventured to express disapproval of him as
her lover.

But not knowing, he waited anxiously for a new architectural
event on which he might legitimately send her another line.
This occurred about a week later, when the men engaged in
digging foundations discovered remains of old ones which
warranted a modification of the original plan. He accordingly
sent off his professional advice on the point, requesting her
assent or otherwise to the amendment, winding up the inquiry
with 'Yours faithfully.' On another sheet he wrote:-

'Do you suffer from any unpleasantness in the manner of others
on account of me? If so, inform me, Paula. I cannot
otherwise interpret your request for the separate sheets.
While on this point I will tell you what I have learnt
relative to the authorship of that false paragraph about your
engagement. It was communicated to the paper by your uncle.
Was the wish father to the thought, or could he have been
misled, as many were, by appearances at the theatricals?

'If I am not to write to you without a professional reason,
surely you can write to me without such an excuse? When you
write tell me of yourself. There is nothing I so much wish to
hear of. Write a great deal about your daily doings, for my
mind's eye keeps those sweet operations more distinctly before
me than my bodily sight does my own.

'You say nothing of having been to look at the chapel-of-ease
I told you of, the plans of which I made when an architect's
pupil, working in metres instead of feet and inches, to my
immense perplexity, that the drawings might be understood by
the foreign workmen. Go there and tell me what you think of
its design. I can assure you that every curve thereof is my
own.

'How I wish you would invite me to run over and see you, if
only for a day or two, for my heart runs after you in a most
distracted manner. Dearest, you entirely fill my life! But I
forget; we have resolved not to go VERY FAR. But the fact is
I am half afraid lest, with such reticence, you should not
remember how very much I am yours, and with what a dogged
constancy I shall always remember you. Paula, sometimes I
have horrible misgivings that something will divide us,
especially if we do not make a more distinct show of our true
relationship. True do I say? I mean the relationship which I
think exists between us, but which you do not affirm too
clearly.--Yours always.'

Away southward like the swallow went the tender lines. He
wondered if she would notice his hint of being ready to pay
her a flying visit, if permitted to do so. His fancy dwelt on
that further side of France, the very contours of whose shore
were now lines of beauty for him. He prowled in the library,
and found interest in the mustiest facts relating to that
place, learning with aesthetic pleasure that the number of its
population was fifty thousand, that the mean temperature of
its atmosphere was 60 degrees Fahrenheit, and that the
peculiarities of a mistral were far from agreeable.

He waited overlong for her reply; but it ultimately came.
After the usual business preliminary, she said:--

'As requested, I have visited the little church you designed.
It gave me great pleasure to stand before a building whose
outline and details had come from the brain of such a valued
friend and adviser.'

('Valued friend and adviser,' repeated Somerset critically.)

'I like the style much, especially that of the windows--Early
English are they not? I am going to attend service there next
Sunday, BECAUSE YOU WERE THE ARCHITECT, AND FOR NO GODLY
REASON AT ALL. Does that content you? Fie for your
despondency! Remember M. Aurelius: "This is the chief thing:
Be not perturbed; for all things are of the nature of the
Universal." Indeed I am a little surprised at your having
forebodings, after my assurance to you before I left. I have
none. My opinion is that, to be happy, it is best to think
that, as we are the product of events, events will continue to
produce that which is in harmony with us. . . . You are too
faint-hearted, and that's the truth of it. I advise you not
to abandon yourself to idolatry too readily; you know what I
mean. It fills me with remorse when I think how very far
below such a position my actual worth removes me.

'I should like to receive another letter from you as soon as
you have got over the misgiving you speak of, but don't write
too soon. I wish I could write anything to raise your
spirits, but you may be so perverse that if, in order to do
this, I tell you of the races, routs, scenery, gaieties, and
gambling going on in this place and neighbourhood (into which
of course I cannot help being a little drawn), you may declare
that my words make you worse than ever. Don't pass the line I
have set down in the way you were tempted to do in your last;
and not too many Dearests--at least as yet. This is not a
time for effusion. You have my very warm affection, and
that's enough for the present.'

As a love-letter this missive was tantalizing enough, but
since its form was simply a continuation of what she had
practised before she left, it produced no undue misgiving in
him. Far more was he impressed by her omitting to answer the
two important questions he had put to her. First, concerning
her uncle's attitude towards them, and his conduct in giving
such strange information to the reporter. Second, on his,
Somerset's, paying her a flying visit some time during the
spring. Since she had requested it, he made no haste in his
reply. When penned, it ran in the words subjoined, which, in
common with every line of their correspondence, acquired from
the strangeness of subsequent circumstances an interest and a
force that perhaps they did not intrinsically possess.

'People cannot' (he wrote) 'be for ever in good spirits on
this gloomy side of the Channel, even though you seem to be so
on yours. However, that I can abstain from letting you know
whether my spirits are good or otherwise, I will prove in our
future correspondence. I admire you more and more, both for
the warm feeling towards me which I firmly believe you have,
and for your ability to maintain side by side with it so much
dignity and resolution with regard to foolish sentiment.
Sometimes I think I could have put up with a little more
weakness if it had brought with it a little more tenderness,
but I dismiss all that when I mentally survey your other
qualities. I have thought of fifty things to say to you of
the TOO FAR sort, not one of any other; so that your
prohibition is very unfortunate, for by it I am doomed to say
things that do not rise spontaneously to my lips. You say
that our shut-up feelings are not to be mentioned yet. How
long is the yet to last?

'But, to speak more solemnly, matters grow very serious with
us, Paula--at least with me: and there are times when this
restraint is really unbearable. It is possible to put up with
reserve when the reserved being is by one's side, for the eyes
may reveal what the lips do not. But when she is absent, what
was piquancy becomes harshness, tender railleries become cruel
sarcasm, and tacit understandings misunderstandings. However
that may be, you shall never be able to reproach me for
touchiness. I still esteem you as a friend; I admire you and
love you as a woman. This I shall always do, however
unconfiding you prove.'



II.

Without knowing it, Somerset was drawing near to a crisis in
this soft correspondence which would speedily put his
assertions to the test; but the knowledge came upon him soon
enough for his peace.

Her next letter, dated March 9th, was the shortest of all he
had received, and beyond the portion devoted to the building-
works it contained only the following sentences:--

'I am almost angry with you, George, for being vexed because I
am not more effusive. Why should the verbal I LOVE YOU be
ever uttered between two beings of opposite sex who have eyes
to see signs? During the seven or eight months that we have
known each other, you have discovered my regard for you, and
what more can you desire? Would a reiterated assertion of
passion really do any good? Remember it is a natural instinct
with us women to retain the power of obliging a man to hope,
fear, pray, and beseech as long as we think fit, before we
confess to a reciprocal affection.

'I am now going to own to a weakness about which I had
intended to keep silent. It will not perhaps add to your
respect for me. My uncle, whom in many ways I like, is
displeased with me for keeping up this correspondence so
regularly. I am quite perverse enough to venture to disregard
his feelings; but considering the relationship, and his
kindness in other respects, I should prefer not to do so at
present. Honestly speaking, I want the courage to resist him
in some things. He said to me the other day that he was very
much surprised that I did not depend upon his judgment for my
future happiness. Whether that meant much or little, I have
resolved to communicate with you only by telegrams for the
remainder of the time we are here. Please reply by the same
means only. There, now, don't flush and call me names! It is
for the best, and we want no nonsense, you and I. Dear
George, I feel more than I say, and if I do not speak more
plainly, you will understand what is behind after all I have
hinted. I can promise you that you will not like me less upon
knowing me better. Hope ever. I would give up a good deal
for you. Good-bye!'

This brought Somerset some cheerfulness and a good deal of
gloom. He silently reproached her, who was apparently so
independent, for lacking independence in such a vital matter.
Perhaps it was mere sex, perhaps it was peculiar to a few,
that her independence and courage, like Cleopatra's, failed
her occasionally at the last moment.

One curious impression which had often haunted him now
returned with redoubled force. He could not see himself as
the husband of Paula Power in any likely future. He could not
imagine her his wife. People were apt to run into mistakes in
their presentiments; but though he could picture her as
queening it over him, as avowing her love for him
unreservedly, even as compromising herself for him, he could
not see her in a state of domesticity with him.

Telegrams being commanded, to the telegraph he repaired, when,
after two days, an immediate wish to communicate with her led
him to dismiss vague conjecture on the future situation. His
first telegram took the following form:--

'I give up the letter writing. I will part with anything to
please you but yourself. Your comfort with your relative is
the first thing to be considered: not for the world do I wish
you to make divisions within doors. Yours.'

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday passed, and on Saturday a
telegram came in reply:--

'I can fear, grieve at, and complain of nothing, having your
nice promise to consider my comfort always.'

This was very pretty; but it admitted little. Such short
messages were in themselves poor substitutes for letters, but
their speed and easy frequency were good qualities which the
letters did not possess. Three days later he replied:--

'You do not once say to me "Come." Would such a strange
accident as my arrival disturb you much?'

She replied rather quickly:--

'I am indisposed to answer you too clearly. Keep your heart
strong: 'tis a censorious world.'

The vagueness there shown made Somerset peremptory, and he
could not help replying somewhat more impetuously than usual:-
-

'Why do you give me so much cause for anxiety! Why treat me
to so much mystification! Say once, distinctly, that what I
have asked is given.'

He awaited for the answer, one day, two days, a week; but none
came. It was now the end of March, and when Somerset walked
of an afternoon by the river and pool in the lower part of the
grounds, his ear newly greeted by the small voices of frogs
and toads and other creatures who had been torpid through the
winter, he became doubtful and uneasy that she alone should be
silent in the awakening year.

He waited through a second week, and there was still no reply.
It was possible that the urgency of his request had tempted
her to punish him, and he continued his walks, to, fro, and
around, with as close an ear to the undertones of nature, and
as attentive an eye to the charms of his own art, as the grand
passion would allow. Now came the days of battle between
winter and spring. On these excursions, though spring was to
the forward during the daylight, winter would reassert itself
at night, and not unfrequently at other moments. Tepid airs
and nipping breezes met on the confines of sunshine and shade;
trembling raindrops that were still akin to frost crystals
dashed themselves from the bushes as he pursued his way from
town to castle; the birds were like an orchestra waiting for
the signal to strike up, and colour began to enter into the
country round.

But he gave only a modicum of thought to these proceedings.
He rather thought such things as, 'She can afford to be saucy,
and to find a source of blitheness in my love, considering the
power that wealth gives her to pick and choose almost where
she will.' He was bound to own, however, that one of the
charms of her conversation was the complete absence of the
note of the heiress from its accents. That, other things
equal, her interest would naturally incline to a person
bearing the name of De Stancy, was evident from her avowed
predilections. His original assumption, that she was a
personification of the modern spirit, who had been dropped,
like a seed from the bill of a bird, into a chink of
mediaevalism, required some qualification. Romanticism, which
will exist in every human breast as long as human nature
itself exists, had asserted itself in her. Veneration for
things old, not because of any merit in them, but because of
their long continuance, had developed in her; and her modern
spirit was taking to itself wings and flying away. Whether
his image was flying with the other was a question which moved
him all the more deeply now that her silence gave him dread of
an affirmative answer.

For another seven days he stoically left in suspension all
forecasts of his possibly grim fate in being the employed and
not the beloved. The week passed: he telegraphed: there was
no reply: he had sudden fears for her personal safety and
resolved to break her command by writing.

'STANCY CASTLE, April
13.

'DEAR PAULA,--Are you ill or in trouble? It is impossible in
the very unquiet state you have put me into by your silence
that I should abstain from writing. Without affectation, you
sorely distress me, and I think you would hardly have done it
could you know what a degree of anxiety you cause. Why,
Paula, do you not write or send to me? What have I done that
you should treat me like this? Do write, if it is only to
reproach me. I am compelled to pass the greater part of the
day in this castle, which reminds me constantly of you, and
yet eternally lacks your presence. I am unfortunate indeed
that you have not been able to find half-an-hour during the
last month to tell me at least that you are alive.

'You have always been ambiguous, it is true; but I thought I
saw encouragement in your eyes; encouragement certainly was in
your eyes, and who would not have been deluded by them and
have believed them sincere? Yet what tenderness can there be
in a heart that can cause me pain so wilfully!

'There may, of course, be some deliberate scheming on the part
of your relations to intercept our letters; but I cannot think
it. I know that the housekeeper has received a letter from
your aunt this very week, in which she incidentally mentions
that all are well, and in the same place as before. How then
can I excuse you?

'Then write, Paula, or at least telegraph, as you proposed.
Otherwise I am resolved to take your silence as a signal to
treat your fair words as wind, and to write to you no more.'



III.

He despatched the letter, and half-an-hour afterwards felt
sure that it would mortally offend her. But he had now
reached a state of temporary indifference, and could
contemplate the loss of such a tantalizing property with
reasonable calm.