A NEW novel from the pen of Miss Coleridge is
an event the pleasure of which is enhanced by the comparative rarity of its occurrence. For she is one of that rare band of modern writers of fiction who have not been beguiled into over-pro- duction by an initial success, preferring to write at their own paca and only under the impulse of the story-telling instinct; and for the existence of such writers we cannot be too thankful. Such a temper is not only a guarantee against slipshod work, but it indicates a restraint and a capacity for self-criticism all too rare at the present day. But these, after all, are only negative recommendations, excellent in themselves, no doubt, but not necessarily arguing the possession of the sovereign qualities which ensure success in a field every plot and corner of which has been cultivated with such formidable industry. What distinguishes Miss Coleridge from the mass of her con- temporaries is not merely her leisurely method of production, but an individuality of outlook, a romantic idealism, a hero- worship of fantastic chivalry which lends her work an ethereal atmosphere strangely refreshing to those who resent the tyranny of actuality and the obsession of realism. The fallacy of supposing, as some writers do, that it is impossible to be poignant without insistence on the gross and sordid facts of life is exposed by such work as hers, which excites the liveliest sympathy while eliminating or minimising realism. The gift of vision, rather than of faithful observation, is Miss Coleridge's forte. Her landscape, figures, and incidents have always something dream-like about them; they do not call up precise, clear-cut pictures, but rather suggest the views seen from "magic casements." Hence, in scenes where circumstantial details are essential to carry conviction, we are occasionally conscious of the defects of her qualities,—as, for example, in the episode of the fire in the present story, where the vagueness and improbability of the narrative seriously interfere with the impressiveness of the incident.
To sketch in detail the plot of such a novel as The Shadow on the Wall is no easy task where so much depends on atmosphere, and where the actions of several of the principal characters are dominated by varying degrees of attachment to a man who is no longer alive when the story opens. Charles Rackenham, the dead man, was the illegitimate son of a country gentleman, heir to a fine property, whose irregular life had led to a complete estrangement with his father. Charles cute himself adrift from his connections, and establishes himself in Paris, where his genius as a painter, coupled with his engaging personality, make him the idol of his intimates. It comes, however, to the know- ledge of his most devoted friend, Basil Daymer, that Rackenham is on the point of eloping with a married woman who is not only unworthy of him, but is sure to drag him down to her own level, and seduce him from his allegiance to art. Rackenham's relations with her have hitherto been blameless, but Gex, an ill-conditioned friend of his, jealous of Daymer's influence over his hero, and solely anxious to make mischief between them for his own ends, contrives to persuade Daymer that Rackenham has already compromised the lady. On this Daymer, resolved at all costs to rescue Rackenham from the ruinous consequences of his infatuation, picks a quarrel with him, and being a dead shot, kills him in a duel.
The Shadow on the Wall. By M. E. Coleridge, London: Edward Arnold. Du.]
Daymer, however, contrives to keep the episode so completely hushed up as to control all possible leakage of the true facts of the case, though Gex suspects him of having made away with his friend. Indeed, so secure is Daymer against detection that. he exhibits at the Academy in Rackenham's name a portrait painted by himself of his dead friend. The story proper opens with Daymer's return to London, and his stealthy visit at night to Burlington House in order to add a touch of blood- red paint to the palette held by the figure in the picture. Then—by one of those strange coincidences which are the privilege of romance-writers—we find him staying in the country, in the immediate neighbourhood of the mansion which belonged to Rackenham's grandfather (but which is now the property of the vulgar elderly husband of Racken- ham's siren), and taken by an artist friend to call on two young ladies, one of whom is not only enthusiastic about the mysterious portrait, but attracts him in spite of himself by her resemblance to its original. These hints lead up to the revelation that she is, without knowing it herself, Rackenham's sister, and that Rackenham left Daymer his fortune on condition that he married her. Enough has perhaps been said to give a general notion of the character of this strange, wild romance, the further and equally fantastic developments of which must be left to the reader to follow for himself. For its due appreciation one must be prepared to accept the large proposition that a man may so love his friend that he will kill him rather than allow him to be untrue to his genius. This is the keynote of the whole story, and it is maintained with persistence through- out all its unexpected and surprising developments. Miss Coleridge defines her attitude clearly enough when, in her prefatory "letter to the reader," she pleads eloquently for the recognition of the impossible, and frankly states of her new venture :—" It was not written for those who hold that friendship is less romantic than love—and love is not romantic at all." We cannot altogether persuade ourselves that her peculiar talent is shown to as great advantage in a contem- porary environment as in one removed from the possibility of comparison with the facts of actual experience. Some readers will find the passion too rarefied, the motives too unfamiliar. But all who are able to emancipate themselves sufficiently from the tyranny of circumstance can hardly fail to recognise the charm of this delicately fantastic melodrama.
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