Two Cases of Theft
The Decoy. By J. D. Beresford. (Collins. 7s. 6d.) The Bride's Prelude. By Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick. (Collins. 7s. 6d.)
THESE two novels have some things in common. In each the theme is a theft, by which the mere gross plunder of material things is involved with certain deadlier stealthS of honour and deprivations of love., Each author, again, has written a Credit- able book that Yet leaves a certain disappointment in the reader's mind, HA if the true, ethical crux of the situation had been evaded: In The Decoy one wonders a little if vain sacrifice be really a virtue in itself, and if it be indeed nobler to withhold pain from a rather chilly -uncle than to lessen anxiety In a quite adequate- friveetheart.. While in The Bride's Prelude one is inclined to meditate if it be exactly fair that the criminal butler who steals the pearls should be hunted off the scene with contumely, while Cressida, who with such poor excuse has committed a sin more immoral, though not illegal, should walk on velvet, folded in compassion.
Mr. Beresford's Decoy is one of his slighter works. It is always difficult to estimate the intention of a writer who has already created the charming and pathetic Imperfect Mother, clearly plotted the powerful impasse of The Prisoners of Hording, and lost himself in the too- vague idealism of Unify and Bakiliatiiii.„:"" Iii The Dediy. he Seenis to beresting; and merely' telling Aitory dfordiñâry jiiotife; ineistly isleaSant; Everything is without edges. The misery of-Philip, who is actingas a decoy to let his-guiltY cousin escape, and who finds himself regarded as the real criminal, is not prolonged. The few unsympathetic people are not successful in their malignity. Nina, though a frank and pleasant creature, is not an exciting heroine. Even the scenery of the Mediterranean coast does not importune your gaze, though there is an animated account of a forest fire. Yet the book is well written, and permeated with a certain sweetness of sensibility rarely absent from Mr. Beresford's work, slight or serious.
Those of us who have participated in the sardonic chuckle so contagiously overheard in Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick's chronicles of the minor exasperations of life, and relished her bland exposure of the ways of the grotesque human heart seeking its own comfort, will be slightly startled at her use of a Rossettian title re' calling the heaviest noontide in poetry, and faint syllables of shame and fear dropping half-audibly through the still air from the lips of the silver-hidden bride. Yet The Bride's Prelude does disclose in its modern way a similar situation—and a worse. Mrs. Sidgwick could not write a lifeless book ; and, if she committed herself whole-heartedly to the domain of tragic psychology, she would probably succeed in a new manner. But, after creating the tragic situation here, she either has a sudden distaste for the blind dark motions of mortal desire, recognized for one wrecking moment, or else she is bored by the melodramatic machinery of her plot (blackmailing butlers and so on) ; and her lively mind leaves Cressida, to glance about the more absurd minor figures of her drama in its blithe wicked way. But we are left blankly bewildered by that Cressida, who remains incothprehensible. She may have been spoilt, she may have some "temperament," she may have listened too much to the wild Miss Brown from Bohemia, may have been dazed by the thunder, a little wine, and propinquity. Unless she were as wanton as her namesake she could not have surrendered herself to Colin, who has, she knows, only a physical spell for her, the night before she meets her bridegroom, whom she does love. She is not supposed to be wanton ; we are re- quired to sympathize with her, to greet her kindly when she reappears after her honeymoon (during which we have been much amused by Sandy) as a devoted wife and a perfect lady. People do extraordinary things in moments of amazement ; in a novel we must be convinced, and here Mrs. Sidgwick won't take the trouble to convince. All the humorous side- play in the Cornish scene is a-kindle with gay malice : Cres- sida's suicidal moment is unreal beside any tea party at Mrs. Cotton's. Mr. and Miss Gilfoy are lovable figures. But there is a lack of cohesion. Comedy may wait on tragedy ; some undertone must sound a muted comprehension. Im- possible situations may be smoothed away by the human disinclination to confront a truth that would cause disrup- tion; yet insane actions have their subterranean sequels, and it seems as if the author had ignored some difficulties. However, if there be occasional confusion between accidentals and essentials, the comedy sparkles and dullness shadows no
Previous page
