ST. SIMON'S NIECE.*

A NEW and powerful novelist has arisen. We, at any rate, do not remember Mr. Benedict's name ; but we are not likely now to forget it. It is seldom that we rise from the perusal of a story with the sense of excitement which Mr. Benedict has produced. Not, indeed, with the elevated feeling of being braver and nobler, that a book here and there leaves behind it--we wish it were with more enduring effect, for the oppor- tunity is rare—but with the sense of having witnessed some terrible struggle, some great horror, in which human passion, or pain, or fear has unwittingly revealed itself, and cried out in its anguish. Mr. Benedict is a real dramatist, as this story of a girl, passionate, unprincipled, scheming, and worldly, and of her lover, not ambitious nor particularly worldly, but self-indulgent and unscrupulous, amply proves ; told, as it is in language that could scarcely be more expressive if it were that of personal experience, and with an interest that is as unflagging as it is painful through the whole three volumes. Fanny St. Simon is the creation of true insight; and, though less striking, because of far fewer and not in- consistent and clashing attributes, the hero's character is a most living sketch. Equally life-like, though of simpler elements, is that of her boy-lover, Roland; and there is not a single character in the story, numerous as the characters are, that we should stigmatise as a lay figure,—not even that of Mr. Alleyne, the ideal man who has a faith—very improbable—in St. Simon the sharper, and at whose possessions and position Fanny's ambition aims, though her pas- sionate heart ultimately rejects them. We don't remember any picture of the unregenerate, natural man—if we may be allowed the expression of a young woman—more powerful than this of Fanny St. Simon, with impulses of mixed good and bad, but without prin- ciple and with only enough propriety to keep her tolerably straight before the world. Her calm philosophy in misfortune, her perfectly Bohemian tastes, her readiness to extract every drop of honey from the commonest weed, her cheerfulness when there is not even a wild flower to pick ; her gentle kindness to all helpless creatures except men, and her patient good-humour with tiresome stupidity ; her power—born of her actress nature and tastes—of shining in the grand and respectable world, and her unfeigned delight in getting off her stilts and sporting in her natural Bohemian element with creatures as unlicensed as herself ; her cruel, tigress-nature towards those who have injured her or any one she loves, in which forgiveness and compassion are qualities un- known; and finally, her passionate devotion, uncontrolled by any laws of God—or of man, save such as bare respectability must obey —or considerations for the rights of others, and as merciless in its cruelty to the beloved object as to any other where its amour- propre has been wounded or its purposes thwarted ; these qualities make together a very interesting and very striking picture of a quite conceivable character. The opening scenes are admirable as illustrative of her cheerful philosophy in * St. Simon's Niece. 3 vols. By Frank Lee Benedict. London : Samuel Tinsley.

adverse circumstances, and of a sort of fond regret in the prospect of leaving its freedom and its cheap but highly-flavoured pleasures for the straight-lacedness of wealth and its conventional propritty. Her thoughtfulness for the old man, Beason, and for her half- • imbecile aunt—termed in affection "the Tortoise "—and her ten- derness, as far as it is consistent with her own gratification, to her poor little rival and to her boy-lover, complete the picture of the better and human side of her character, which is amply illustrated, though of course the more picturesque and vigorous characteristics of what we may call the carnal side, as containing more exciting elements for a story, receive the larger share of attention. Some of the cleverest passages in the book are those in which Fanny—by-the-bye, how can the author think "Fanny" such a beautiful name ?—appears to some extent in both characters ; that is, in which she uses her courageous and truthful instincts, with a half-honesty, to attract the regard and adhesion of her admirers ; confessing her manifold sins and wickednesses with an impulsive remorse, that only fills her hearer with admira- tion of her modest openness and with emulation of her courageous candour. Here is the outline of a scene in which the skill of the girl is scarcely less strikingly delineated than the strange delight of the cold-blooded man in finding himself actually warmed into something like passionate life. We must premise that she does not love him a bit, but is determined to secure him, and give him such half- revelations of herself as will acquit her—when acting is no longer possible and she is herself again—of having deceived him as to her real character :—

.4, Decide what ?' she asked.—' Your future and mine.'—' A little

• while ago I was telling myself that I had none,' she murmured, as if thinking aloud.—' I did not suppose any woman could ever be to me what you have grown during these weeks,' he continued.—' You are not just yourself to-day,' returned she, dryly. You have never ap- proved of me, Mr. Alleyne. I have been wretchedly brought up, or rather I have never been brought up—I have been pushed along like a bad weed. I have been accustomed to petty artifices for years. St. Simon is the best-hearted man in the world, and the most improvident and careless. I know all sorts of things and people that I oughtn't to know I have a thousand ideas and habits which would shock you. I can smoke a cigarette and dance a bolero—' She had spoken rapidly, half in a deprecating, half a defiant tone ; she broke off to laugh again.

Why do you tell me these things ?' he asked.—' Because I want to be honest too—besides, it will spare you the trouble of saying anything more. You can forget your little lapsus linguae, as Mrs. Pattaker would say.'—' Do you want to stop me ? Is it to save me pain, feeling thAt you can give no hope ?'—She struck her hands together, crying, I'd give my life to be loved! See, I'd burn my ten fingers off in this fire— suffer torture—anything—to be loved! I'm so lonely,—my life is so empty! Oh, why do you come to torment me ? It is cruel ; it is like showing a mirage to a desert-benighted traveller parched and dying with thirst:—He caught the cold quivering fingers in his ; a more passionate emotion than he had ever felt for her throbbed at his heart. I do love you,' he said, his slow, grave voice warming into eagerness. You charm and fascinate me. You have come into my life and brightened it so, that I cannot cast you out if I would.'—She did not draw her hands away. Her head sank against the cushions of her chair, and he heard her whisper,—' I must be dreaming,—I must be !'

'It sounds very tempting,' she said, with a beautiful smile. Are you sure you are making no mistake ? Don't rouse me out of my chill apathy, my dull patience, into a dream, from which I must

wake to suffer. I can suffer so ! Careless and reckless as I seem, I have such capabilities for pain.' The smile died in a

look of terror ; she hid her face in her hands 'I know,' he said ; I think I understand you better than you can suppose. It sounds vain and conceited, but indeed it is not that ; only, from the first you interested me so strangely that I could not help studying you.'—' But you believe me better than I am, and you will not let me undeceive you. If you had only met me long ago, when I was a mere girl, before this weary life had taken my freshness and youth away.'—' With that impulsive nature you will always be young,' he said. Why, you have your whole life before you ; you are only just out of early girlhood now.'—' I'm a hundred thousand years old,' she answered ; but I'm a child all the same. Oh, you frighten me ! I am so afraid you will be disappointed when it is too late ! I want to tell you so many things, and I can't get my poor head straight.'—' I have been too abrupt.'—' No, it is so sweet—I didn't mean to say that! But it is so odd to think you could actually love me—and I have loved no one! Once or twice I have fancied I did, and wept, and raved, and

suffered, to End my idols only clay. I can suffer so And now,' he asked, can you care for me ?'—' I don't know,' she answered, with another of her marvellous smiles. 'Downright love would be such a serious business to me. I'm afraid of it. I like you so much—you are so strong, and honest, and decided, and I am such a weak, wavering wretch ! And oh, if you deceived yourself,—if the old dream were to come back Let me tell you about that season, and you will see how impossible it Don't tell me I' she pleaded. 'Don't let me ever know who the woman was; • tell me she is dead,—anything I should hate her, if we were ever to stand face to face, and I recognised her'

'Have no fear,' he said, and she could hear his voice tremble. 'A whole new world opens before me—a new life—a new heart—you will be queen there. Fanny. Mayn't I call you so? Such a pretty name,—just made for you, my Fanny, my own! '—She leaned towards him as he took her hands again, then drew quickly back. 'I wish you would go away; she cried, petulantly. 'No, I don't mean that,—I beg your pardon! I wish I could believe you; but I'm so afraid of you and myself! I should be jealous—exacting; ice one minute—hating you almost—ready to die the next to prove my repentance. There are no

half-feelings in my nature, and I am full of caprices,—suspicions. Oh, you had better let me alone! Life did very well ; it was stale and tiresome, but I knew how to manage You may trust me, Fanny, and I am not afraid:—She turned almost savagely upon him. You come to offer me a calm, quiet affection,' cried she ; esteem, friend- ship, all that,—it would not be enough ! The man I marry must love me with his whole heart and soul. I have those or nothing.'—' And I think you may be sure of it,' he said, his face so changed and tremulous that it scarcely looked the same. Truly, all this was very different from the picture be had drawn ! Well, so much the better perhaps. lie would like to be eager, to feel his heart bound into now warmth from under the cold ashes where it had lain so long

'Only a little while ago, Fanny,' he said, the feelings you ascribe to me might have been my real ones ; but I have gone beyond them. You have promised me nothing yet, still already you have carried me into a new world.'—' If we could stay there she murmured.—' Surely it depends on ourselves. Put your hand in mine, Fanny; come with me into the new path ; don't be afraid.'—' I am sorely tempted to say- yes,' smiled she ; ' and with my usual inconsistency, almost as much tempted to send you angrily away. I'll do neither,—I won't give you

any answer at all.' 'A few days ago I should have said that would be wise,' be replied ; 'but I don't half like it now.'—' But we- are old people, worn, debillusionne's ; we must not run any risks as a boy and girl might.'—' We will insist on our youth, and it shall prove eternal !' cried he, vaguely wondering the while if it could be actually Gregory Alleyne who spoke, and was in earnest too.—' And if during this journey you come back to reason—and—and if you think of her —oh, don't let us ever mention the past again !'—' I think this last hour has swept it out of existence,' returned he. I shall have only one- thought in my mind—the return.'"

But we must give the other side of the picture, in which she is not acting. It is almost grand in its portraiture of her rage, love, despair, and cold presence of mind, and of her lover's unmanly anguish and self-abandonment. It is only a portion of the parting scene, which is evenly powerful throughout :-

"' You will not speak, you will not give me even that poor comfort. to take with me into the darkness. Oh, my God, Fanny, if I were dying you would not refuse to own the truth ! It is just the same— death could not part us more effectually than we are parted now ! I shall never see you any more—never any more ! I couldn't—you are right ; to see you married, to know—oh, I should murder that man before your eyes !' He flung his head upon the table and groaned aloud. She was white as a ghost ; nothing looked alive about her except the great brown eyes dilated with agony.—' You suffer,' she said, in a strange voice, you suffer ! Well, I have suffered first and last also.'—' Yes, I do suffer ; and you have no pity.'—' I never had any for myself,' she answered. You have said hard things to me this morning,. Talbot ; you have said many such during the past weeks—it is a man's way ; you men always hurt the thing you fancy you love.'—'If there was anything for which you wanted revenge, you have it,' he said, raising

his troubled countenance. am wretched enough to satisfy even you, Fanny.'—' I don't want you to be wretched,' she cried out, her fingers twisting themselves together, her head moving wearily from side to side like a person struggling against the delirium of fever. 'I did want you to be when we met at Baden, I'll own that ; I had no more pity for you than for myself, but it hurts me so—I can't bear it ! I'd rather tell you anything than see you suffer like this ; I think I have not mach pride

— oh, Talbot, Talbot !' He was on his feet again ; her look and gesture stopped him. Don't make it all worse than it is,' she said. Suppose we were dead and met, we should tell the truth quietly ; we are the- same as dead, let us do it now.'—' Fanny, Fanny!'—' You want to know if I cared; you fancy I did, but you don't know how much. I don't mind telling you—why should I? Care ! Oh, my God, Talbot Do. you remember when we parted in Italy ? It was you who went away.'

- Fanny, have a little mercy Do you remember when we met

afterwaids ? It was you who went away.'—' You hate me—you mast hate me, or you could not torture me liko this !' he moaned.—' Do you remember last autumn, when we met in the street?' she continued, in the same hollow tone, her hands always twisting themselves slowly together, her head moving from side to side. 'I was quiet enough ; you wanted to go—I couldn't keep you.' 'If I had known—.' There is no good of any more words,' she interrupted. 'You and I have come to the end. Go away now. There is nothing more to tell— we have come to the end !' He rose again ; his features were livid and seamed with anguish, his beautiful blue eyes looked actually dead and cold Will you give me your hand, Fanny ? it is the last time, you know.'—She held up her perfect hand, then drew it back, saying, piteously, You kissed it once there—and there! I never wear rings on those fingers, Talbot, because I can feel those kisses yet It is another man's hand now ; I cannot give it you again.'—' And it is all over —all over !'he moaned.—' All over she repeated ; the end has come.' He turned away and sat down again in the nearest chair, hiding his face on his arm. She went swiftly up to him ; before he could stir she pressed her icy lips upon his forehead—once—twice ; her hand flattered like to bird's wing across his golden curls—then she was gone."

But even these are only two phases of Fanny's many-sided- character. When she is with her uncle she is playful and wily,. loving him for his lightheartedness and gaiety, sympathising with his unscrupulous use of any means most likely to secure success, but seeing through and despising him, and mockingly reproaching him for not admitting his rascality openly, as she does hers.. Withher aunt or old Beacon she is tender, and motherly, and patient ; with her boy-lover she is affectionate and wise. But always and everywhere she is consistent, because impulse and not principle is her rule always ; unless impulse would defeat her ends,—and then she puts it aside with business-like readiness, as she might her natural dress, if she had occasion to assume the costume of a character which seemed more expedient. As it should be, her schemes collapse, and the scene in which she is left alone in the deserted ballroom, and her tempter reappears in the hour of her utter desolation, is both pathetic and tragic. She is saved from ruin by her boy-lover, and the mingled hatred and submission which she gives him are the occasion of a fine struggle with herself, in which she well-nigh goes mad. We regret exceedingly the denouement, which, in deference, we suppose, to public morality, Mr. Benedict thinks it necessary to produce. The railway accident and her lover's death may be well enough, but it is false to all the unity of the story that, in his delirium, he should break her heart by calling incessantly for his poor, innocent little wife ; and it is still more absurd that so utterly unprincipled and passionate a creature as Fanny should recover from so fatal a blow, and it is unlikeliest of all that she should repent, and become a pattern of Christian life and good works.

One word for those who do not take so leading a part as Fanny and Talbot and Gregory Alleyne. Mr. Benediet's picture of the boy-lover, unsophisticated and chivalrous, but true to his principles, is admirable, and we pity him from our heart. The history of Marian's broken heart is very pathetically told, and the hopeless, one passion of the old man Besson is a true page from real life. Helen Devereux is the only one of whom we have to say that she is not interesting, but she also is real in her common- sense and matter-of-factness.

And now to turn, in fairness, for a moment to other defects besides those of Fanny's repentance and reform. The book is too long, containing too many similar scenes. It is unnecessarily disagreeable, including, as the cast does, besides the central sharper, St. Simon, a number of minor personages of no principle, so that there is an uncomfortable expectation throughout of an earthquake, in the shape of a silver mine, to open at our feet and swallow up good and bad alike in impartial ruin. The coincidences, as is usual, are occasionally absurd ; and there is a little mawkish twaddle about " mouse" Marian. There is also too strong a flavour of Dickens in Mrs. Pattaker, with the "family atti- tude" and the traditions of her great ancestor, the signer of the Declaration of Independence ; and in the poor "Tortoise," who is always dropping to pieces, and thinks she conceals the fact that she takes snuff. There is real humour, however, in the description of the former and of her followers, and originality in the concep- tion of the subdued "Tortoise ;" but both are somewhat vulgar pictures and are overworked, and especially the latter,—who is, moreover, painfully unpleasant. Finally, the English is not altogether the purest we know. Such expressions as "on the hill, back of the house," "conscious of a dampness, back of their eyelids," "they helped kill me." are annoying. Perhaps Mr. Benedict is American, as he writes so much of Americans, and that it is a trick of theirs to leave out the prepositions ? But whether English or American, we rejoice to recognise a new novelist of real genius, who knows and depicts powerfully some of the most striking and overmastering passions of the human heart.