ONLY THREE WEEKS.*
IF we had only such spirited little novels as these to read and criticize, how pleasant our work would be Or so it seems now, but probably we should get tired of spirited little novels, and want something else, verifying the scepticism of a small and tearful philosopher we once knew, of three years old, who, on being advised to emulate the contentedness of a cheerful little con- temporary who was bowling his hoop, demurred to the conclusion, suggesting, "I daresay he wants a drum." But though our pre- sent hoop is a very lively recreation, it is not nearly round, and it is very unequal in its proportions. Only Three Weeks has, in fact, great strength and great weakness. It is a tragedy without adequate cause,—" much ado about nothing." Its sketches of character are lively ; some of them admirable, some caricatures, and some both, at different times. Its descriptions of scenery are delightful, and its dialogue easy and clever, but a suffi- cient ground-work for the feelings and incidents to rest upon is absent. It is not even left to the imagination of the reader to supply it. For unusual and unsatisfactory as it would be to write of the terrible consequences of conduct which remained a mystery, we might, if we found these consequences worth it, consent to provide the cause from the stores of our own imagination. But in this story the origin of one set of incidents comes to light and, in our humble estimation, is ludicrously in- adequate to its results ; while that from which the rest spring is asserted by the author—or authoress, as we rather suspect—but not made at all real to our apprehension. These mysterious causes are nothing more nor less than the depravity of a lady of a senior and of a gentleman of a junior generation. The latter loves the daughter of the former, but his parents, who have narrowly escaped a family connection with the wicked woman in their own generation, will not hear of it in their child's. His mother turns red if the forbidden name is mentioned, and he is threatened with the most unalterable determination of disinheritance if he prosecutes his suit. No reasons are given ; it is simply too dreadful to speak of. As he is a passionate, impulsive young man, this only makes his purpose more attractive, and mischief ensues. But what is this unspeakable sin ? The lady did not love her husband, and lived in Paris instead of at home. There is nothing else against her, and while we admire the simplicity in
• Only Vow Weeks. By the Author of "Ereighda Castle." London: Chapman and Hall. 1872.
our authoress which thinks this so terrible a sin, and are of opinion ourselves that it showed a culpable selfishness and very lax view of duty, still we cannot conceive why the blood should mantle in a lady's face at the mention of her name, or her daughter be brought up in profound ignorance of the simple truth, or a young man's happiness in life be wrecked because his proposed mother-in-law found life in the west of Ireland unendurably dull. And mountain number two bears almost as close a resemblance to a mole-hill. The said impulsive young man—who is constantly described as oppressed with the weight of dreadful sins, though we hear of nothing but the too ordinary extravagance and thoughtlessness of aristocratic youth—labouring under a mistake, engages himself to an eligible partie in England ; but during his farewell visit to Ire- land, before his marriage, learns his mistake, and wanting courage to tell his beloved of his engagement, and knowing how fruitless straight-forward proceedings will be, both with her and his parents, persuades her to elope. For this piece of disingenuousness and faith- lessness he is punished by the unutterable contempt of his wife, who spurns him from her with the most unmeasured scorn ; and as she sacrifices her life to save her father's before she has an opportunity of expressing any abatement of her anger, the clever, loving, kindly, faulty youth has nothing for it but—in obedience to her commands —to end his life in the priory of a severe and ascetic order of monks. Now this is all very absurd ; either the authoress's moral ideal is so high that these grave defects of character and errors of conduct are really regarded as heinous crimes, in which case she is unfit to draw pictures of life as it is, or she has been unable to devise more likely sources of the troubles she so ably describes. We think that the latter explanation is the true one, and that it only betrays a young hand. We are confirmed in this opinion by fre- quent evidences of youthfulness, amongst which the unequal power displayed is the most striking. Of less important indications of
youth is the melodramatic scene—eminently youthful in concep- tion, though vigorous in execution—at thu edge of the cliff, when Nora threatens to precipitate herself into the angry sea if a boorish grandee who wants her to marry him does not go away ; also• the sentiments of elderly gentlemen on the duties of mothers, which our authoress seems to think she has hit off nicely, and which she, therefore, delights in repeating ; and a third is a funny story—which she tells a propos of the custom, of saying, " Not at home,"—so venerable in its antiquity that only a young person could have ventured to incorporate it into her book. The earlier and later portions of the story are in- comparably the best. The middle one, which describes the hero's life in London, and engagement to the rich, beautiful, and fashionable Florence, being of a very common-place kind. The authoress evidently knows the west of Ireland intimately, and is delightfully at home with the scenery, the peasantry, and the gentry of those parts. The scene, too long for quotation, in which we are introduced to the heroine, is as natural and truthful as ik is amusing. Nora is lecturing her provoking prot6gee, a hand- some young peasant -wife and mother ;—and the good sense, good humour, and unselfishness of the friend are admirably mingled with the imperiousness and impatience of the youthful patroness ; and in many after passages the touch of hardness and scornful uncompromisingness inseparable from an active conscience and firm will, as yet untested by any severity of discipline, though exaggerated in the last scene or two, is added, with such faithful- ness to life, that Nora stands out as either an admirable conception, or a keen, skilful study from nature. Her life, so unvaried, yet so. independent, as housekeeper to her father and her brother, is a touching and clever picture. But Nora is not only sensible, good- humoured, and imperious ; she is passionate and, of course, affectionate ; and we must not forget that she is very little more than a child in years,—only fifteen. Amongst other childish attri- butes is a devotion to a cow, of which—Nora would have said, of whom, by the bye, and its mange's, we confess, we get rather sick.. We can scarcely illustrate the impetuous, loving side of her nature better than by quoting a scene in which Nora, her brother—a year older—and the cow appear on the stage together. She has been to a ball, where her lover has danced with her to her heart's. content, and she is confiding her happiness to her cow :- "' I have been happy ever since the ball, Milly ; happier than I have ever been in my life before. And still, Milly, I don't know why. Perhaps if you had been at the ball, dearest, you could tell me. I declare you shall go to the next ! It is too bad you should not be allowed to ge to balls only because you are a cow. I am sure you would behave much better than a great many of the ladies. And red hair is all the fashion, you know, you dear old duck of a thing !' and Nora hugged and. kissed Milly's rough grizzly throat until Milly boo-booed loudly, think- ing herself in danger of being strangled, and feeling aggrieved at the non-appearance of the mangel-wurzels; her usual Sabbath festival, site thought, seemed likely on this occasion to become a severe fast. ' Hush,
Millicent!' said Nora, slapping her nose sharply ; can't allow you to make that noise on a Sunday morning. You have still a great many faults in your character which want correcting.' Nellie, Nellie ! where are you?' shouted Arthur's voice out of the window of the dairy. Nora flew to the dairy. 'How dare you come here ? You want to steal the cream, I suppose ; but you won't get it.' And she snapped up a small bowlful of cream, and running with it to a safe at one corner of the dairy, stuffed it quickly in, locked the safe-door, and put the key in her pocket; then stood upright before him, gave her head a little defiant
-nod, and pat her hands behind her back. could get that key from you if I chose,' he said tauntingly.—' Never ! I would die first !' and her eyes flashed.—' Well, what a temper you have, to he sure !' he exclaimed, staring at her. You are a regular virago.' A fight ensued; but Norah kept the key. After a time they made peace, and went to read together in Mr. Kavanagh's study. Norah sat in a large arm-chair, with her feet on a stool, reading, according to Arthur's advice, Mr. Dart's translation of Homer. She did not lock as if she was lounging. Nora never seemed to lounge : she always looked on the alert, and ready for a start ; she looked spirited even when sitting atilt and absorbed in a book. Well, how do you like it, Noll ?' said Arthur presently, looking up from his Virgil, and leaning back in his chair with his arms outstretched, while he sighed and yawned.—' I think that Helen of Troy a worthless woman,' said Norah decidedly.—' Helen? My sweet, adorable, most lovely Helen ? How dare you say such a thing! She is the most perfect picture of a penitent that has over been drawn— a true and noble penitent.'—' Stuff ! There is no such thing.'—' No such thing as a penitent ! I declare you sh'an't read Homer any more !' and he jumped up to snatch the book from her. You have no more soul than that bookcase.'—' I've twenty times more than you. Every one knows I've always been ten times as clever,' said Nora, sitting on the book to prevent him from getting it, and tossing her head back as if she defied him to deny the fact. At that instant Milly, who by some means beat known to herself had got out of her shed, put her head in at the open window and gave a great snuff. Milly, you angel!' screamed Nora, jumping up and rushing to the window. Then, as the extreme indiscreetness of her favourite's conduct dawned upon her, her tone changed ' Millicent, how dare you come out of your shed upon a Sunday .morning? Yon know you ought not. Really, you have no conscience, you bad cow!"' And Nora is, besides, very clever, and deals out her irony with a most humorous skilfulness ; but we must pass to her lover, who also deserves notice. Dermot O'Olery is a capital sketch of a young Irishman, generous, courteous, tender and loving ; but unscrupulous, and utterly without moral courage or prin- ciple. Ready and amusing, he is a favourite with every -one — his sinister, worldly-minded brother excepted — not- withstanding his plain face and insignificant person, and his reputation as a scapegrace; but the sketch is so far imperfect that his outbreaks of passion are those of a madman, and his con- viction of his own unpardonable wickedness is, as we have said before, unexplained or exaggerated, as much as the opposite quality is exaggerated in Nora, namely, confidence in the unassail- a,bleness of her own rectitude, and consequent hardness and unfor- giviugness towards the sins of others. We have said that the story is tragic, but that we may not lead the reader to fancy it therefore also sad, we will, before we dismiss poor, hardly-used Dermot, quote his speech at a confirmation luncheon, only one of the many passages of either sprightly humour or good-natured irony—for our authoress in a pleasant spirit is down upon fast- ness' and other deformities—which abound in her story. Dermot's ideas of the privileges of a bishop are more novel than reverential, but we defy the rightest reverend of them all not to smile, should he meet with this story, however hard he may try to look properly displeased
"In the middle of luncheon a message came to Dermot, whose oratorical powers were known all over the country, to ask him to pro- pose the health of the candidates at the late confirmation. He instantly complied. ' I am sure,' he said, 'you will need no pressing invitation from me to—aw —persuade you to drink the health of the—aw—young and—aw—lovely beings—' Ho got so far very well ; for he, so to speak, took it at a gallop ; but here he came to a stop ; his breath had failed ; and the awful silence which was inevitable while he was recovering it overcame his courage and eloquence. At last he remembered hearing of people who, when they could not say what they wished, said what they thought; so, at all hazards, he proceeded to follow their example. 'The young and lovely beings on whose heads the Bishop has this day had the privilege of patting his hands. And though I have not hitherto had any idea of embracing the Church as a profession, still I must say, in thinking over the events of to-day, I feel much inclined, if I thought there was a chance of my being a bishop, to enter it at once.' (' Hear, hear !' and tremendous applause from all but the clergy.) There is one thing, however, I regret, which is the white veils and wreaths which are invariably worn on these interesting occasions by our sisters on the -other side of the Channel ; for to my mind—and I daresay to that of many here present—a woman never looks so lovely as in a wreath of -orange-blossoms and a long white veil.' (' Hear, hear!' and much pounding on the table from gentlemen of every profession.) "
John O'Clery and Anastasia Mullyns are well described, on the whole, and a scene between the latter and Nora is exceedingly spirited and droll. The seniors are not so ably done, unless we except Lady O'Clery—a sweet old lady, but not a difficult cha- racter to sketch—and the Rev. Mr. Dobbins, a caricature, though a clever and amusing one.
Let every one who wants to be refreshed by a bright and original story, and is not too sensitive about endings, send for Only Three Weeks.
Previous page
