DAISY NICHOL.*
"TnE present writer once travelled with a wag who amused his fellow- Fassengers with a thousand jokes, and, amongst others, by assuring them that his influence with the servants of the company, in whose 'carriages they were, was unbounded, and that he had only to put his head out of the window and tell them where to go and when to stop, and they would do just as—they pleased. This is exactly the sort of influence which we seem to have over novel-writers ; we preach to them incessantly, advising them where to go and when to stop, and they do just as they please. For instance, we have en-
* Daisy Mahal. By Lady Hardy. London: Sampson Low, Son, and Marston.
treated and reasoned against bad titles and painful endings, and yet here is Lady Hardy writing a very good novel, but with oh, such a title!. and such a tragic and sad conclusion ! The former speaks for itself,—ugliness and sentimentality combined,—like an objectionable old maid with ringlets and a simper; and the latter will stand revealed when we state that the three young men and the three young women whose story is told, all alike come to unmitigated grief. We have no intention of laughing at Lady Hardy's tale, which cannot be mistaken for one of the weeds which abound in this field of literature—we wish we could bind them—not in calf to honour, but in bundles to burn them—but if we knew Lady Hardy we would entreat her to write a happy sequel to recompense us for the very un- necessary pain which, in spite of our frequent and pathetic appeals to the authors of fiction, she has so heartlessly and un- pityingly inflicted ; we are occasionally able to find solace in arranging a different denouement for ourselves, but we fancy that Lady Hardy suspected as much, and with a refinement of cruelty of which we should scarcely have believed her capable, took precau- tions to defeat our end ; the complications being so numerous that Wilkie Collins himself could not unravel them, for all the three ladies are given over, heart and soul, to the same one of the three gentlemen, and the lady that he marries is precisely she alone who might have been made happy by another of the three gentle- men, if she could have been weaned from her love for the loved- of-all-three ; and the loved-of-all-three has bound himself irrevo- cably not to the only lady that he did love, and she has bound herself irrevocably to an unloved one also ; so that things are difficult—" double-us all round and which-ways," in fact—and we relinquish the idea of asking Lady Hardy for a sequel.
Lady Hardy is not new to novel-writing, and she does it with so much cultivation, so much insight into character and so much ability in portraying strong feeling naturally and without the false ring of the melodrama or the stage, that we wonder she should find it necessary to introduce a veritable she-devil in order to render her story interesting. If she had made her heroine simply selfish and worldly, she could have found situations just as painful and just as effective, whether for serving the moral purpose of showing the impolicy of selfish scheming, or the literary one of powerful description of the workings of the affections and passions. Lady Hardy has gone out of her way to compass these ends, and has landed herself—we think unintentionally—in unreality and sensationalism. The story is unreal, because crimes that are con- ceivable in those left in childhood to the guidance of mother-wit alone, without principle or education, are quite inconceivable in a girl born of kind and good parents, and far above all the tempta- tions, not merely of poverty, but of a condition of life which might nourish envy and discontent ; it is inconceivable, too, that such wickedness should grow and prosper without the very nearest and dearest friends either suspecting it or dis- covering the acts which spring from it ; nor is it possible that a true and noble-minded man could be recaptured by the allurements of a woman who had displayed the cloven foot and trampled under it every remnant of the commonest human kindness and the last scruple that withheld her from actually base crimes. And it is sensational, for Lady Hardy creates intricate machinery, and startling and improbable—even impossible—situations for the purpose of defeating the schemer by her own agency alone, in order to bring out vividly the ruin which ambition, overleaping itself, causes, when in defiance of all right it attempts to make the circumstances that are to ensure success ; and as a secondary purpose to exhibit the wide- spread desolation which follows unhesitating and unmixed self- seeking.
Though the English is not perfect, the style is polished and re- fined, and the story travels on, almost too smoothly, sunk amongst such cushions and gently swayed by such springs as are only enjoyed in the purely aristocratic vehicle ; but there is a little too much mild and plaintive religion, and rather more of the ean- sucree element than we enjoy ; too many epithets like "child- woman," "girl-wife," "wee wide," "smiling up" and "smil- ing down" into beloved faces, "hearts singing like a bird," "a great lump climbing up into his throat," a "voice full of tears," &c. ; and too much appropriateness in the condition of the weather to that of the heart. The first volume, too, is slow, and the greater part of the last dull; but, on the whole, it is an interesting story, and with some really grand and dramatic scenes, and many quiet and pleasant ones;—as, for instance, the following, which will serve also to show Lady Hardy's hearty sympathy with the feel- ings of the young, and her true appreciation of the inestimable value, in after-life, of the fund of light-hearted memories which they store away, with unconscious wisdom, in the hours given over to nonsense and merriment :—
" They took their seats in high glee ; the boatman steering, and Dunstan and Kenneth each taking an oar. Slowly the boat pushed off from the land. They were both good oarsmen, and rowed with steady, dexterous strokes' as they had rowed together years back on the bosom of the Thames at Oxford in the old college-days, which seemed already a far-off time. The girls chatted and laughed, and made merry music with their own sweet voices. More than once the rowers rested on their oars, hypocritically declaring they were tired ; and while they rested from their labour, coaxed the girls to sing, which they did right willingly. Now and then, as the boat rocked lazily on the waters, the manly voices crept in, artistically though, perhaps putting in a second or uniting a tolerably good tenor to Mabel's sweet soprano, at last even creating a chorus where no chorus was intended to be? But what did it matter ? they only wished to please themselves, and they were pleased ; and though they were not particularly wise, they were particularly happy. After all, when we look back upon bygone years, we find it was not the wisest things that made us the happiest ; and the memory of many an hour, which has been filled with pleasant looks and foolish words only, will bring smiles, with half-tears into the eyes, giving a sort of solemn sunshine to the heart even now, while our wisest days are left shivering in the shade of years, unloved, perhaps unremembered."
Daisy, as so often happens, is not really the centre of interest, but only the instrument upon which her adopted sister plays, and we are not surprised, therefore, that the conception of her character displays nothing like the originality which we find in that of the owner of the "angel's form and devil's heart." Daisy is meant to be piquante and exceedingly clever, but she is only a natural and intelligent child, spoilt by " archness " and too demonstrative an affectionateness. The absolutely unforgetful, unvaried selfishness of Mabel is grandly conceived, were it not made to lead her to the felo- nies and wickedness which we have said are all but impossible in her circumstances, and which are, too, inconsistent with her careful- ness never to compromise herself or risk her future. Her lover, Dunstan, is also admirably drawn, and his character, excepting the improbability of his return to his allegiance, is consistently sus- tained till the end, when, for the sake of an effective drop-scene, he loses all self-control, as no true gentleman, however maddened and enraged, would have done. Of course Mabel is perfectly lovely, and Dunstan a wonder of ability, but that is excusable in a novel, indeed exactly as it should be. The scenes in which Mabel endeavours to persuade her lover not to search for the suspected rightful successor—of whose existence and whereabouts she alone knows—to a title and estate of which Dunstan is heir-presumptive, are those of the greatest interest and power. Mabel's skilful choice of words to make the palpable robbery look something quite different, and the gradual rising of their indignation—righteous and unrighteous—to the climax, as he sees her drift, and she realizes the powerlessness of her influence, could not be more admirably done ; but it is far too long to extract, and each sentence depends so entirely on the rest, that an isolated paragraph would give no fair idea of its power.
The old rector's son and daughter do not figure very promi- nently, but are thoroughly true to nature ; they win our regard by their unobtrusive and simple goodness, though there is a little too much of the "I am but a rough soldier" dodge in Kenneth's modest self-depreciation ; but that is all, and his sister Esther is a copy from life in her unhesitating acceptance of all the old religious beliefs, her undeviating submission to custom in all that it is pro- per for well-brought up people to do or avoid, and her prompt but gentle admonitions when others are less docile or patient.
It is difficult to choose a passage for quotation when so many are very good, but we will take one where this 'rough soldier,' who has loved Daisy, calls on Dunstan to urge him not to wreck
hi wife's happiness by yielding to the temptation of Mabel's society :— " Look here, old man, there need not be any false pretence between us two ; I'll speak out. I fancy that Daisy has learned something of the old passages between you and Mrs. Denison.'—' Then you have turned informer ! ' exclaimed Dunstan, shaking Kenneth's hand from his arm, and turning upon him with a face ablaze with passion—all the thoughts and suspicions, which he never would have uttered in his calmer moments, flashed from him in a few brief words ; you, a man of honour, and a soldier, to creep into a man's house, and slander him to his wife!' —' Hush, for God's sake !' exclaimed Kenneth, amazed at the unex- pected outburst ; you will be sorry for this, one day. I shall not stoop to defend myself.' He advanced his hand as he was speaking, as though to arrest the words on Dunstan's lips, who perhaps mistook the move- ment, for, quick as thought, he dashed Kenneth's hand away, and struck him a back-handed blow upon the face. Kenneth's steel-blue eye flashed fire. He made no attempt to return the blow, but his strong hand grasped Dunstan's wrist till he could have screamed out with pain ; it was as though a mailed, hand was crushing his very bones. Kenneth said, in a low, hoarse voice, 'I am no coward, but I could no more lift a hand against you than I would strike a child in arms !' He loosened his hold as he spoke, and Dunstan's arm fell from his grasp. 'I cannot for- get old times,' he added, though they are dead to you. I came here as a friend to you both—for her sake, I own, not yours—and I thought you would hear me patiently. That woman (it sickens me to name her) has laid her band upon your life again. You are yielding blindly to her influence. That is nothing to me ; but, between you, you are killing the woman I love—and that is something ! I will not see her die—die by inches—Without making an appeal for her! You can save her. I know you keep a horrible silence upon the past ; she knows it, and is always. peeping furtively, feeding herself to death upon it. Tell her the truth,. avoid Mrs. Denison and her set in future, and our little Daisy will soon be herself again. Think, too, of yourself ; to what can this mad passion for Mabel Denison—for another man's wife—lead you? '— Dunstan's, heart echoed to every word Kenneth said. A terrible anguish was- painted on his face, his limbs trembled, he was wounded, and he had no shield. Still ho was ice—he would not show what he.
felt—and he answered Kenneth with a white, frozen look. It is rather a good idea for you to reproach me for what you call my " mad passion" for Mrs. Denison—another man's wife—while you are' bragging of your love for mine, before my face too l'—'Brag of it, I do. not,' said Kenneth ; but I would not be ashamed to own it before her- dead father's face, before yours—before God's self. Yes, I do love hart and shall love her always, so long as I have a thought left. I love her so well, that if I could only know she was happy, I would turn my face- away, and never look on her again ! If it would only bring back the el& merry sunshine to her face again for a single hour, I would sit still here- and let you brand me on the open brow ! Well,' he added, after a painful.
pause, and stifling a sigh, came here to do good ; but I am a blundering soldier, after all : I have lost my friend, and injured the cause I would have died to save.' The honest and generous impulse of Dunstan's nature had been striving mightily against his worsor self a flood of the boyish recollections came over him ; he gripped Kenneth's hand, and burst forth, with the old strong feeling,—' No; you have not lost your friend, good, true old Ken ! Your love is nobler, better than. mine ! I wish to God she had chosen you! But I will do my best—she- shall be her old bright self again. After this night, I will never,. never look on Mabel Denison again—I swear it! "
Previous page
