FICTION

HEALING THE SICK

Shepherd Easton's Daughter. By Mary J. H. Skrine. (Arnolds. 7s. lid. act.) WE enter into the atmosphere of Shepherd Easton's Daughter as into a country where innocence and beauty still remain, and

the very air is comfort and grace. What a relief we feel, how tranquil we become, how refreshed ! Our novelists have snarled at us, poisoned us with innuendoes, reminded us on every page that the springs of virtue are horribly contaminated with vice. And we are grateful to them : they have taken a good deal of the stuffing out of us and "conscious virtue " no longer straddles across civilization. But we are in danger of forgetting that people can be simple and good.

Dorcas Easton as a child was gentle and selfless. Her father, " Shepherd," was a good, sincere, taciturn man, rather matter- of-fact, perhaps, but none the less " near the Kingdom." Her mother was as sincere and charitable as he, and in addition she had something of the nature of visionaries and saints—her grandparents had been converts of John Wesley, and from them she had inherited her depth of belief and her quiet joy in Christianity. Dorcas, brought up to their love and integrity, had in herself a radiance of spirit and simplicity of nature that made her of another world.

When Alice Peters, the wife of the old Methodist local preacher, was slowly dying in great pain, Dorcas sat beside her and read to her from the Bible. Suddenly a paroxysm of pain came to the invalid. " Dan'l, 'tis come back," she cried. " Oh, Dan'I—oh, Lord—oh, Lord ! " And Daniel prayed in anguish for her pain to leave her, and tears ran down his cheeks for the knowledge of his helplessness. But Dorcas took the wasted arm and stroked it firmly and steadily : her lips moved with his in prayer.

" It was not quite instantly that the cries began to hush. But the tense, tortured limb relaxed ; giving itself to the gentle grasp at once, it grew slowly still. Then amazed, he saw the storm of anguish clear, and pass. . . . At length, the little, clear face turned to him, white, tired, the eyes veiled, the lips softly shaking. Asleep,' the loud whisper said. Slowly she rose to her feet. Brother Peters' old face was wet. He took a gentle hold on the child. Drawing her towards him, he kissed her. . . . She looked back mutely as out of a tired dream. The latch scarcely sounded, as she went out gently, without a word. The young man and the old stood silent, looking at the sleeping woman. Then Brother Peters began to shake all over. He sat down suddenly in the arm-chair. Ye shall lay hands on the sick,' he said in a loud whisper, and they shall recover.' "

The minister at the nearest Chapel tries to appropriate Dorcas for his own glory, and calls on her parents. He explains to Mrs. Easton that the occasion calls for a thanksgiving before the Lord. But she understands the simplicity and modesty of Dorcas, and how impossible it would be to make a display of her. " If you've come about anything of that, Mr. Wheeler," she replies, " I should wish for to fetch my 'usband. He's only up wi' the sheep." Shepherd comes in, rather uncomfortable at meeting the minister in his work-day clothes, covered with mud and wet with perspiration.

" I'm anxious, Mr. Shepherd,' said the minister, ` have an opportunity of prayer with your little daughter, who, as I under- stand, have received a great spiritual gift.' Was you, sir ? ' said Shepherd solidly. His wife attempted a telegraphic glance. Early training made him treat every blackcoat as though it were a Church parson ; for which there was no call. But Shepherd wan contemplating his boots. The thing, as you will see, Mr. Shepherd,' said the minister, with the air of one instructing, is a very sing'lar and strikin' event. 1 hold that it calls for partic'lar thanksgivin' in Chapel. In worldly circles even it'd be considered a prodigy. Your little girl, as I understand, is a good little girl ; biddable in Sunday School. The Lord reveals to babes — Mr. Wheeler paused. So did Shepherd. Mrs. Easton poured water, rather loudly, into the pot. Mr. Wheeler came from the town. To a fine sense of the vernacular a' vulgar manner o' speakin' is offensive. And Mr. Shepherd ! ' The man might have known bettor than that ! I wished for you to hear, my clear,' sho observed, with the same rather stilted air of marital dutifulness, 'for we to toll Mr. Wheeler whether we approves of it.' Shepherd looked from one to the other. A slow smile grew upon his long mouth. He knew what was up now. He delighted to see Molly in a taking. I don't know as I does,' be said squarely. ' Don't seem decent like a child like that helm' named out in the Chapel.' " So Dorcas is saved from publicity, and grows up to use her gifts freely and naturally. She soothes pain wherever she

finds it ; she works with a single mind in deeds of charity ; and in her spirit she walks with God." She finds herself at home with the service of the Church of England ; but her creed is straightforward and undifferentia.,:d : the nice points

of theology have no meaning for her. In consequence of her unorthodoxy one zealous and narrow-minded clergyman is considerably put out by her : she allies herself in good works with Methodists or with any sect, and he is a :Item and stubborn Anglo-Catholic who has not yet learned tolerance. He cannot see sainthood in a rustic whom he knows ; and Dorcas might

well be a trial to him. " The Reverend," she reports, " were right down shocked 'cause I told'n I didn' never do no sins." She goes tranquilly through difficulties and persecutions, and, solitary in her communion with heaven, is yet full of humility and kindliness among her restless neighbours.

M. Jean Cocteau's novel is in extreme contrast to the late Mrs. Skrine's. M. Cocteau is clever, and would be thOught more clever than he is : he is sophisticated, he is modern," he is trivial. The hero of Thomas the Imposter is a born liar who believes in all his lies ; and by contagion everyone he meets believes in them too. The War gives him his greatest opportunity for imposture. He makes himself out to be the nephew of a great General, and all doors are open to him. " It is worthy of remark," the translator asserts, " that this liar, as all right-minded people must unreservedly call him, does not commit a single base action throughout the story, never displays himself to be ignoble in thought or in words. Even more extraordinary is the fact that he is a hero without

heroics, a gentleman and yet always a child." There is a

sufficiency of wit in the book, but it is strained and inconse- quent. The translation adds difficulties to the reader directeur, for example, is always turned into " director,". iditeur into " editor."

The Age of Miracles is of the familiar type of novels of gallantry, something like Mr. Jeffery Farnol at his best ; but the setting is in our own times. Lord Dazincourt is a kindly, chivalrous, middle-aged man, whose absurd modesty is con- tinually in the way of his happiness. He is so mild and mannerly that when he is given as co-respondent in a divorce case he refrains from clearing his character, though he has never met, or even heard of, the respondent. This happens most awkwardly for the parties to the suit ; they find them- selves divorced when all they had wished to do was to black- mail Lord Dazincourt himself. But Lord Dazincourt was always as timid and self-depreciatory as that ; he allowed the most scandalous tales to be reported ci his almost blameless

past, and he found it impossible to believe that anyone could take him seriously. It took the whole of the War, and shell- shock, and the direct wooing of the young girl with whom he was desperately and silently in love, to rouse him into taking any account of himself. The Age of Miracles is one of the gayest and wittiest of novels ; and when Mr. O'Riordan needs to be tragical and affecting he can manage it by a, mere, change from gaiety to wry humour. The book is nothing : but it is a most engaging and laughable nothing.