NOVELS.
THE WAY OF A MIN.* IT was stated the other day that an American journal was in contemplation which should be written with an exclusive view to the requirements of nervous readers. Thus all news of an alarming or disquieting nature would be treated in the spirit of that figure of speech which grammarians call meiosis or litotes. We fear that Mr. Morley Roberts is not qualified to act as a contributor to this soothing sheet. The paregoric quality is sadly lacking in his romances. But if nervous and •• Th. Wept( a Man. By Morley Roberta. London ; Hutchinson and Co. [66,1
highly strung temperaments require a specially prepared literature, there must be, conversely, a demand for a mental pabulum designed for the stimulating of lymphatic, lethargic, or comatose dispositions. On such natures the inflaramatory novels of Mr. Morley Roberts should act
with the explosive effect of a gadfly. Even the most jaded and indolent reviewer can hardly fail to be stirred by the perusal of such an electrifying volume as The Way of a Man. It is like taking a trip on a racing motor-car or a
torpedo-destroyer, or spending a day in a boilermaker's yard. As a means of emancipating suburbanhouseholds, of combating the enervating effects of domesticity, and of encouraging the adoption of careers that are not conducive to longevity, his latest venture may be confidently recommended as the best possible modern substitute for the crude and antiquated
methods prescribed by Jack Sheppard and kindred romances.
Meta Cardew, the heroine of this rousing tale of love and war, was an orphan with £400 a year of her own. She was as red and white as a daisy, as upright as a sapling, and as rounded as a kitten. She walked with the spring of a young panther, her eyes were of a variable blue, and her hair was almost the colour of polished bronze. There was a Viking strain in her blood, her mind was as alert and restless as her body, and she lived at Wimbledon with an uncle and aunt who went regularly to church on Sundays and in all other respects lived a life of asphyxiating respectability. Jack Lawrence, her lover, was "a slender but powerful man fully six feet high. His hair was black and curly, his skin was clear olive, and his dark eyes were fire." But the poor fellow was only a stockbroker and a Lieutenant in the Honourable Artillery Company.
Meta therefore loved him, not for what he was, but what he might be. He had to justify his existence and his romantic exterior. Accordingly he went out in a storm to rescue the crew of a shipwrecked vessel on the Cornish coast and disap-
peared. A few months later he turned up in a revolution in South America, and Meta naturally enough went out to join him. But fate ordained that she should cast in her lot with the
other faction and lose her heart to its magnificent leader. Thus when at last they met Jack owed his life to the intervention of his successful rival. Personally we think that Jack had a most fortunate escape, since marriage with Meta would have been like living in a railway station. We are not so certain that Mr. Morley Roberts would be prepared to endorse this view,
but the following passage, describing an interview between the heroine and a friend of Jack Lawrence before her departure for South America, at least indicates that he admits
her to be open to criticism :—
"' I like walking on the edge of precipices,' said Meta. It was a form of moral exercise that made her aunt's blood run cold. And now there was a wild oversea precipice to walk on—one of the very wildest. Why should she wait until Jack sent for her ? He was obviously not coming back, and she thought she knew him well enough to feel sure that he would not send for her until he was in some kind of a position. She knew that this would prob- ably be a matter of years, and to wait in Wimbledon for years was an awesome prospect. She certainly had not driven him abroad in order to endure the continued discipline of home. Of course I meant I would go when he wanted me. If he loves me he must want me now. And if he has the courage to stay away, he is worthy. I will go to him.' Her arguments were specious when she did not use them aloud. She was not likely to dis- cover the fact that the grand major premise of all her sophistic syllogisms was the fact that she was utterly tired of being under her aunt's energetic thumb. If she discovered it. she did not mention it to Mrs. Cardew. She consulted no one but her god- father and Alfred King. Mr. King was her friend and Jack's, and had never been in sympathy with her aunt and uncle. Do you want advice ?' said King, 'or do you want the advice you
want ? Is there any difference, Alf ?'—` All the difference in the world. My advice is, to be patient and stay at home. The advice you want is to be impatient and run after Jack. And that is the only advice you will take.'—' How clever of you ' said Meta. But home is very trying, isn't it ? I don't care, I want something exciting. Is Wimbledon exciting ? You know it isn't. What can a middle-class girl do ? What kind of society can she
have ? You know Thank heaven I don't,' said King. have no society but a few chums and one or two blessed women.'— 'If I was a smart woman,' said Meta, and I think I could be a very nice one, life might be endurable.'—' As I understand it, smart society is the most exciting form of athletics,' said Alf. 'It is slack-wire walking without a net. And underneath you is the bottomless stage.'—' You mean the pit ? '—Alf shook his head. Certainly not. I mean the stage. You used to be more intern- gent.'—' You see, I'm thinking of Jack,' said Meta. And what happens if one falls off the dull bridge of middle-class society ?'- 'You You usually marry. There is ar net there?"
Once Mr. Morley Roberts transports his heroine to the con. genial soil of a South American Republic during the progress of a savage civil war, there is no lack of excitement, blood- shed, and strong situations. Those who like this sort of thing will like The Way of a Man very welL It is at least free from the portrait fiction in which the author has latterly indulged so freely. For ourselves we find this exuberantly energetic romance almost as fatiguing as the long-drawn insipidities of the mid-Victorian school.
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