BOOKS.
MRS. WARD'S NEW NOVEL.*
THE novelist's is, after all, a narrow field. Convention, or shall we say the universal expectancy of mankind, requires that the idylls of the novel shall be strung on a tale of love, and that at once limits and restricts, for, as Bacon said long ago, the stage, and so romance, is more beholden to love than life. If a funeral, reduced to its elements, is only "wood, pitch, a mourner, and an urn," a novel—in England, at any rate—is in the last resort nothing but a man and a maid, and the force of circumstances which first "joins them to divide," and then either reunites them or separates them for ever,—according as the novel is a tragedy or a comedy. In Mrs. Ward's new story the man is the head and representative of an old Catholic family in Westmorland, a layman and a squire by accident, but in spirit a priest, and by his way of life an ascetic who makes his religions being his prime care. The woman is a wayward, clever, affectionate, and yet fiercely self-willed girl, who, because agnosticism was the creed of the father she worshipped, adopts agnosticism with the passion and devotion of a zealot. She does not know what agnosticism means—does not even adopt the name— but she worships as an idol her father's scorn of beliefs, and creeds, and superstitions. Her superstition is in fact to have no superstitions, and she holds her unbelief as some- thing sacred. She is pious, that is, in the strictest sense of the word, and would suffer all things rather than desert the dreary altars of scepticism to which she considers herself to have been devoted by her father. Laura Fountain is the girl's name. Her mother died when she was a child, and her father married in later years a Miss Helbeck, a Roman Catholic, and the sister of the hero. Mrs. Fountain, the step- mother, while the agnostic father lives, keeps her religious convictions in a state of suspended animation. When he dies they revive, and she becomes once more a fervent Catholic. This ends her estrangement with the brother, the priest-ridden Squire of Bannisdale. Bat Mrs. Fountain is an invalid, and when she goes to stop at Bannisdale the agnostic step- daughter goes with her. Of course the monkish Lord of Bannisdale falls deeply in love with her, and she with him. But, alas a stormy sea of theological controversy flows between them, and though they struggle hard and make brave efforts, first to join hands across it, and then for the girl to pass over, they are in the end strangled in the tide. All this sounds very tiresome, will be our reader's first com- ment P No doubt ; and when we add that—whether by design or by misconception we know not—Laura Fountain is presented in the first chapters as belonging to that odious type of girl who is always flopping down on her knees beside the largest collie-dog available, putting her arms round its neck, and making play at the company between its ears, we shall only increase the impression of dis- pleasure. Yet in spite of this, and in spite of the atmosphere of doctrinal controversy, very few men or women will, we predict, be able to close Mrs. Ward's book without the sense that they have been profoundly interested and deeply touched. We follow the searchings of heart experienced both by Laura and the Squire with intense interest, and note with admiration the depth of that sympathy of comprehension which has enabled Mrs. Ward to produce a catholic atmosphere without caricature or distortion, and also to make the crude agnosti- cism of her heroine neither puerile nor offensive. How the story ends we will not say ; but these excursions and alarms of the spirit are finely rendered, and, what is more, are told with a full remembrance that the book is a novel, not an essay on Catholicism. We never lose our human interest, nor do the chief combatants ever cease to be real people. We may yearn to cut the bonds of scruple in which they are enmeshed, but given the psychological circumstances, we have to admit that Laura and Alan tread the path that they would and must have trod in real life. Incidentally, the book illustrates the truth of Swift's famous remark that it is impossible to reason people out of things which they have never been reasoned into. If Laura had become an agnostic by a logical process, one feels that the Squire's goodness, fervour, and energy, working upon a nature essentially religious, would have easily made her a convert. A woman in love might have been induced to
• Hotbed of Banniedale. By Mn. Humphry Ward. London : Smith, Elder, and 00.
retrace her steps along the road of reason. Bat since Laura's agnosticism was to her a matter of piety and love, not of logic, the sacred fire handed down to her by her father—since, in fact, it had a non-rational basis—it stood firm as a rock against all assaults of argument. No doubt this blind devotion to her father's nnbeliefs is not the only ground for Laura's resistance. She has also in her, though unconsciously, a certain strain of healthy Protestantism which makes her revolt against the martyrs and virgins and saints, in whose pious deeds Mr. Helbeck is perpetually absorbed. It is difficult to choose any representative passage for quotation, but the following, which illustrates the Protestant side of Laura's revolt against Catholicism, shows the really wonderful art with which Mrs. Ward combines her theology and the dialogue appropriate to a work of fiction :— ''Do you like me to read your books ?' she said abruptly, her question swooping hawk-like upon his and driving it off the field. He paused—to consider, and to smile. I don't know. I believe you read them perversely I know what you read this morning. Do you—do you think St. Francis Borgia was a very admirable person ? '—' Well, I got a good deal of edification out of him,' said Helbeck quietly.—' Did you ? Would you be like him if you could ? Do you remember when his wife was very ill, and he was praying for her, he heard a voice—do you remember ? '—' Go on,' said Helbeck, nodding.—' And the voice said, "If thou wouldst have the life of the Duchess prolonged, it shall be granted; but it is not expedient for thee"—" thee," mind—not her ! When he heard this he was penetrated by a most tender love of God, and burst into tears. Then he asked God to do as He pleased with the lives of his wife and his children and himself. He gave up—I sup- pose be gave up—praying for her. She became much worse and died, leaving him a widower at the age of thirty-six. Afterwards —don't please interrupt !—in the space of three years, he disposed somehow of all his eight children—some of them I reckoned must be quite babies—took the vows, became a Jesuit, and went to Rome. Do you approve of all that ?' Helbeck reddened. 'It was a time of hard fighting for the Church,' he said gravely after a pause, and the Jesuits were the advance guard. In such days a man may be called by God to special acts and special sacrifices.'— So you do approve ? Papa was a member of an Ethical Society at Cambridge. They used sometimes to discuss special things— whether they were right or wrong. I wonder what they would have said to St. Francis Borgia ? ' Helbeck smiled. Merci- fully, darling, the ideals of the Catholic Church do not depend upon the votes of Ethical Societies !' He turned his handsome head towards her. His tone was perfectly gentle, but behind it she perceived the breathing of a contempt before which she first recoiled—then sprang in revolt. As for me,' she said, panting a little, when I finished the life this morning in your room, I felt like Ivan in Browning's poem—do you recollect ? —about the mother who threw her children one by one to the wolves, to save her wretched self ? I would like to have dropped the axe on St. Francis Borgia's neck—just one—little—clean cut !—while he was saying his prayers, and enjoying his burning love, and all the rest of it !' Helbeck was silent, nor could she see his face, which was again turned from her towards the river. The eager, feverish voice went on : Do you know, that's the kind of thing you read always—always--day after day? And it's just the same now ! That girl of twenty-three, Augnstina was talking of, who is going into a convent, and her mother only died last year, and there are six younger brothers and sisters, and her father says it will break his heart—she must have been reading about St. Francis Borgia. Perhaps she felt "burning love" and had "floods of tears." But Ivan with his axe—that's the person I'd bring in, if I could.' Still not a word from the man beside her. She hesitated a moment—felt a sob of excite- ment in her throat—bent forward and touched his shoulder. Suppose—suppose I were to be ill—dying—and the voice came, "Let her go ! She is in your way; it would be better for you she should die "—would you just let go ?—see me drop, drop, drop, through all eternity, to make your soul safe?'—' Laura,' cried a strong voice. And, with a spring, Helbeck was beside her, capturing both her cold hands in one of his, a mingled ten- derness and wrath flashing from him before which she shrank. But though she drew away from him—her small face so white below the broad black hat !—she was not quelled. Before he could speak, she had said in sharp separate words, hardly above a whisper : It is that horrible egotism of religion that poisons everything ! And if—if one shared it, well and good, one might make terms with it, like a wild thing one had tamed. But out- side it, and at war with it, what can one do but hate—hate—hate it My God !' he said, in bewilderment, where am I to begin ? ' He stared at her with a passionate amazement. Never before had she shown such forces of personality, or been able to express herself with an utterance so mature and resonant. Her stature had grown before his eyes. In the little frown- ing figure there was something newly, tragically fine. The man for the first time felt his match. His own hidden self rose at last to the struggle with a kind of angry joy, eager at once to conquer the woman and to pieree the sceptic. Listen to me, Laura!' he said, bending over her. That was more than I can bear—that calls me out of my tent. I have tried to keep my poor self out of sight, but it has rights. You have challenged it. Will you take the consequences ? ' She trembled before the pale concentration of his face, and bent her head. I will tell you, he said, in a low determined voice, the only story that a man truly knows—the story of his own soul.
You shall know—what you hate.' And, after a pause of thought, Helbeck made one of the great efforts of his life."
We cannot tell here what Alan Helbeck told Laura, nor can we touch on the by-plot of the story, or on any of the sub- ordinate characters. These and the background of fell and flood we must leave to our readers to discover for themselves, —sure that they will draw from them a large store of pleasure and interest. They may not think this the best of Mrs. Ward's books, but unless their hearts are altogether hardened against the metaphysical novel—all Mrs. Ward's books are meta- physical novels, just as all Disraeli's are political—they will find Helbeck of Bannisdale extremely interesting. It is true there are weak points in the book--Mrs. Ward might have spared us the very conventional missing of the last train by the heroine, which makes her sleep in a quarry rather than be annoyed by the compromising company and attentions of a rowdy cousin—but they do not destroy either its charm or its readability. And before we take leave of her book we must pay Mrs. Ward a piece of homage which she deserves from all novel-readers and all reviewers. There is absolutely no padding in her book. It is strong, honest, sincere work throughout,—full measure, pressed down, and running over. There is not a page or a line or a word which is not felt, intended, and thought out. Instead of the dreary beating time which so many novelists employ to eke out their wants of head or heart, we feel that Mrs. Ward's difficulty was to select and eliminate, not to fill up. The book is, in a word, full of stuff. As one reads, one realises that not a single incident or phrase is without a reason for its existence, and so a necessary place in the story. On the whole, we shall ven- ture to predict for Mrs. Ward's new book a success quite as great as that which fell to her last two novels.
Our only personal quarrel with the book is that the Roman Catholic disputant so constantly gets the best of it, owing to the inability of Laura to seize the opportunity when, from the non-Roman but yet Christian point of view, he gives his case away. No doubt this is dramatically true, for it is of the very essence of the situation that the girl has no power of resistance but in her sense of what she owes to her father. Still, one longs for a thoughtful son of the Reformation able to meet Helbeck on his own ground, to confront his Catholicism with the spirit of reformed religion, not of mere negation, and so to do away with the impression, produced accidentally no doubt, that the only alternative to negation is Roman Catholicism. As Dryden said long ago :
"Let reason, then, at her own quarry fly, But how can finite grasp infinity ? "
The struggle was, of course, hopeless when poor Laura bad no instrument but her very finite reason with which to combat and understand her antagonist's spiritualities. Those, how- ever, will be much mistaken who assume that the spiritual victory here set forth belongs solely or essentially to Roman Catholicism. It is rather a victory for the religions spirit as a whole. Whether it was the exact intention of the author to convey this moral we cannot presume to say ; but in any case it is clear that Mrs. Ward is here, as in all her books, on the side of the angels, if not of the Anglicans.
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