MISS SAUNDERS' "JOAN MERRYWEATHER."*
IF Miss Saunders meant to call her book of tales after the best of their number, she has certainly not chosen the right name. "The Haunted Crust" is one of those unintelligible titles which appear on London walls about six weeks before Christmas, and which are supposed to secure the fortune of a book—or it may be of a candle—by working up the public mind to a pitch of ungovernable curiosity. The volumes before us stand in need of no such illegitimate attraction. We like, indeed, the "name-story" less than any one of its companions. Like everything else in the book, it is clever, and forcibly written ; but the situa- The Haunted Crust, ,te. By Katherine Saunders, author of "The High Mills," &c. 2 vols. London : Strahan and Co. 187L
tions of the tale and the characters are conventional, and there is something strained and unnatural about its tone: No such fault can be alleged against the story which occupies the second place, "Joan Merryweather." It is seldom that a critic has occasion to complain of the breuity of the works which he reviews. Nor do we wish that "Joan Merryweather" had been prolonged to the ordinary three volumes. But it certainly deserves to have appeared in an independent form. We cannot express our opinion of its extraordinary merit more emphatically than by say- ing that it deserves to rank among short stories not far from Silas Marner. It cannot, indeed, claim the merit of a skilfully con- structed plot. It has nothing like that masterpiece of plot- weaving, the discovery of Silas's treasure ; in fact, it is nothing but a simple, straightforward narrative, without complications or surprises. Nor has it much variety of character ; Joan and her husband Humphrey, and the old farmer, a alight but graphic sketch, with the apprentice and Hutnphry's little son by his first marriage, are all the dramatis persona:. But the impression which these figures make upon the reader is fresh and vivid to a degree which we have seldom seen equalled, and its pathos is simply overpower- ing. We will not seek to conceal from our readers that the story is one of the saddest kind, so sad that we, not liking such stories, should have been inclined to pass it over, but for the sense of its most uncommon literary merit. And we shall be surprised if they do not feel when they come to the ending, what the present writer felt, a sense of personal trouble and loss such as fictions, or even real events that do not touch, personal interests and affections, very rarely arouse.
Humphrey Arkdale, an enterprising Lancashire barber, goes to Sturbridge fair to buy flaxen hair in the;way of his business. There he meets Joan, a girl of no great beauty, but with a wonderful wealth of the locks which he covets. He is lucky enough to pro- tect her by an opportune fiction of relationship from the attentions of two tipsy Cantabs, and obtains, or rather takes, permission to see her part of her way home. Joan is a solitary creature, lodging in the farm-house which had once belonged to her family, and earning a scanty subsistence by her spinning-wheel. Humphrey finds out her story, learns that she longs to join her father in America, but has no hope of obtaining the means, and finally offers to buy her hair. Nothing could be more naturally drawn than the sudden wrath of the girl—though she had been anything but en- couraging to her supposed admirer—when she finds that he had been following her not for herself, but for her hair. But a bid of twelve pounds recalls her to herself, and when this is increased to fifteen, she yields. Humphrey shall go to the farmhouse with her—it lay on the opposite side of the Cam—and there complete the bargain. But he must see its length, and while the ferryman is taking them to their destination she lets her tresses down. The scene on the ferryboat is exquisite :— " If a mermaid had risen from the water, put Joan Merryweather from her place, and sat and smiled before him, the young man could scarcely have gazed on her with more amazement. Joan's hair, silky, yellow, rippling, and long enough to touch with its pale golden waves the river's silver ones, was indeed her glory. The letting of it down about her was like the sudden shining of the sun upon a landscape, the glimmer of the moon on grey waters. The modest consciousness of its beauty gave a new aspect to her face. Its self-reliant, stern, business-like air vanished ; its sternness became softness, the eyes glowed with deeper colour, the dull cheeks brightened to faint rose-tints, the lips relaxed and became rounder, the whole face was seized with the sweet weakness and confu- sion of beauty, which made it nearly as charming as beauty itself. It was the fairest of September evenings ; the dew fell, and all nature: weary and athirst, steeped her lips in it, and drank with a silent and a deep joy, which was shown in every trembling leaf, and reed, and blade of grass. Arkdale gazed at her in the greatest wonder, but Joan knew he was not looking only at her hair. Sometimes the hubbub of the fair came in a faint sound over the fields, like the noise of the old world, which it seemed to Arkdale they had left behind."
They arrive at the farm-house, and preparations are made for cutting off the hair. But Humphrey's hand lingers ; it cannot do the deed ; at last, being an adventurous person, he speaks out,—
" the hair and face together would be of infinitely greater value than the hair alone." At this point—Joan sitting in a sheet, with her light golden hair about her, and the barber holding her hand— the farmer and his sons appear at the door. Humphrey is equal to the occasion. "Joan and myself," he promptly explains to the farmer, "have decided that we will no longer keep our courtship a secret from you ;" and he explains his occupation and prospects.
The farmer is incredulous, and suspects him of being "one o' they 'Varsity whipper-snappers." What follows is admirably comic :—
"` Sir,' answered Arkdale, with perfect good-humour, since the only drawback to our better acquaintance appears to be a doubt on your part as to the truth of what I have said respecting my trade, allow me to remind you that you can prove that to your entire satisfaction in the space of a few minutes. You have a week's beard on your chin ; would you like a shave? Do, 'tis mighty refreshing.' The farmer, who, during Arkdale's speech, had dropped his pitchfork and seated himself on the bench, was too much amazed by the young man's question to utter a word. His consternation was increased by the sight of the razors and soap-balls, which were produced, as if by magic, from Ark- dale's pockets, and by the cool, easy grace with which his guest possessed himself of some water from the pot over the fire. My cha-
racter,' said Arkdale, while preparing the lather, think I may flatter myself, stands as high as most men's for honesty, industry, and perse- verance. Allow me !' And the poor old farmer was seized by the nose, and gagged by a dab of lather, before he could speak or move to help himself. The two sons stood with mouths agape, staring from one to the other. Arkdale lathered away coolly, and went on recommending himself to Joan's guardian. I never,' said he,' 'allow a good chance to slip through my fingers for want of a little enterprise. I have some valuable trade secrets. I hope one day to be a rich man. At all events, Joan shall not want. She, too, is industrious. I think we are admir- ably suited to each other.' The farmer, unable to move.a hair's breadth for fear of the razor, fixed his round eyes on him with a look of stolid wonder and wrath."
The reader must find for himself how the courtship progressed after this. The next act of the story introduces us to married life. Joan's first trial is a bitter disappointment about her home. She had dreamt of some pleasant little place, but she finds that sheis to live in a cellar in Bolton. Her wrath—and she has a fierce temper of her own—blazes out wildly against her husband. No- thing could be more touching than the scene in which a reconciliation, is worked. In her blind fury she grows jealous of the little boy, her step-son :—
" He put out his hand to stroke her face. Joan held him off. The little fool she said. How can I love thee while thy father loves thee better than me?' She was determined to quarrel with Dick, but Dick would not be quarrelled with. As she grew more and more angry, Dick grew more convinced all was meant for fun. At last, when, after his bath, glowing with Joan's hard usage, ho sat in his little shirt on her knee, Joan paused a moment in her task, and gazed at him. She thought him the very loveliest thing her eyes had ever seen. He must alwaya love thee more than me, and I must always hate thee,' she said, in her passionate heart. Dick's eye caught the glimmer of her hair ; his hand. snatched at it, and pulled it down about them both like a mantle of sun- shine. Glad of the excuse, Joan slapped the dimpled arm smartly, almost violently. The two men heard the sound ; and one, unnoticed by Joan,. came from the shop, to which her back was turned, and stood watching and listening. Dick gave one cry, that caught up all his breath, and then paused with his mouth wide open and his head thrown back. Joan, now full of remorse, drew him to her, and kissed the hurt arm, trembl- ing at the thoughts of the outcry that would come with his breath, Dick's breath did not come in good time, and with it not the expected screams, but a peal of fresh, bubbling laughter, while his eyes smiled up at her through their tears, with a look that said, 'You cannot cheat me ; I knew 'twits fun.' Tears streamed from Joan's eyes. She bent- over him with a gaze of passionate love and awe. 'Thou blessed little child!' sobbed she, aloud. Sure thou didst share thy mother's heavenly birth ere thou west born to us, for thou art an angel, and I unworthy of serving thee.'"
But a more serious trouble remains. Humphrey is an inventor„. hard at work on a new spinning-machine, and Joan is a spinner,. with all the passionate prejudices of her class against machinery. The interest of the drama deepens, and the power of the writer seems to grow with her subject. The contest in the woman's heart between love and the sense of justice—for she feels intensely' the imagined wrong to those who, like herself, have earned their bread by spinning—is drawn with rare power, and all the perplexi- ties and sorrow which follow are most pathetically described. There could be, we suppose, but one end to them ; but as we close the book, we feel something of that unavailing longing to- recall the past which one knows so well, and feel it with a reality which bears the strongest testimony to the powers of the writer.
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