A GOOD NOVELLETTE.* As admirable little miniature painting, with no
dreary padding, and only one fault, a bad title, which hardly suggests anything at first, and even when explained by the story is not found to fit it_ In that State of Life' is a quotation from the Church Catechisur where the catechumen concludes his answer concerning his duty to his neighbour by confessing that he ought "to labour truly to get his own living, and to do his duty in that state of life into- which it shall please God to call him:" The little novellette should, therefore, if it answered to its title, be a sort of pictorial lesson ow the distinction between the way of duty indicated by Providence, and the way of self-will ; but this it certainly is not, being a very much more lifelike and fascinating story than any composed with so didactic a purpose could have been. No
doubt it is intended to be conveyed that the heroine, who runs away from a very unhappy though stately home—the home- of her step-mother's second husband, the step-mother being a weak amiable creature, and her husband a hard, worldly, county gentleman,—deliberately abandons "that state of life to which it has pleased God to call her," for one of her own choice, and that the trouble into which she plunges is caused by that rebellion, against Providence. But as it is entirely through this act of self- will that she gets introduced to "that state of life" to which she appears to be ultimately called, and as she never repents of her self-will or returns to "that state of life" which she had aban- doned, and as her ultimate fate or "state of life" turns out to be a very happy one, though we cannot say we approve her choice,. the moral is rather poorly worked out, and is indeed, fortunately for the story, a mere peg for a certain good curate's remon- strance and advice, and not really the central idea at all. If it were more than this, very difficult practical questions would arise. It might be fairly asked, for instance, whether Maud Pomeroy's- character being what it was, proud, vehement, wilful, and unworldly,. and her step-father's also what it was, hard, wilful, and worldly, her flight was an act of free-will or an irresistible out-break of char- acter and temperament, due as certainly to causes independent of her free choice, as the recoil of the needle from the reversed magnet is; independent of any choice in itself. At least, if it were not so,. the moral of the story is rather lame, for Maud comes in for a full' share of sunshine without once being brought even to regret her rebellion against Providence. The difficulty, indeed, of interpret- ing at critical moments what " that state of life to which it shall please God to call you" is, is so great, that it is clearly not a subject for fiction where the author manipulates not only the difficulties, but the destinies of his heroes and heroines, and can thus give a false clearness to his principles. That Mr. Hamilton Aide has not done so, only shows that he is a much better artist than theoretic moralist, and that he would have done better to leave the good curate'sr principle to its dramatic place, and not mislead the reader by making it the title of his story.
The story itself, then, considered apart from its somewhat ill- devised moral, is a really skilful bit of plot and painting. Maud herself is not over-interesting, but her situation in the disguise of a lady's-maid amongst vulgar servants is so naturally introduced' and so well sketched, -that we give to her false position the sympathy we should hardly give to herself, and yet, on the other- hand, we can hardly help sympathizing with the servants amongst whom she is placed when we read of her naturally enough very distant manners,—her "stuck-up-hairs" as they are described irr the kitchen. Let us give her first conversation with Mr. Dapper,. the butler. The sentimental reader will, of course, sympathize- with Maud,—or Mary Hind, to call her by her assumed name.. We are not sure that our principal feeling is not sympathy with the good-natured, though vulgar butler :—
" The train was scarcely in motion when he began, with an oily- briskness of manner :—' Fine morning for the time of year, miss ?'— 'Yes.'—' Going far on the rail ? What station ?'—' Beck worth?— ' Really? Indeed ! That's curious, now. I don't know your face.. You're a stranger in these parts, eh ?'—`Yes, I am,' said Maud, shortly:. she did not fancy this interrogatory, and looked out of window again.— • In that State of Life. By Hamilton Aide. London : Smith and Elder. 'I know most of the faces about Beckworth.' A pause : then, seeing that this drew forth no reply, he added, with a captivating smile, And yours is too 'andsome a one to be forgot.' She turned round, and looked at him steadily without a word. Nothing daunted, he continued, with a laugh: 'No offence, I 'ope. It ain't the first time you have been told so, I'm sure. Going out to service, eh ?' This time Maud only nodded her head—and it was half out of window. How she wished her short journey at an end ! The man's familiarity was very offensive, and she made up her mind that she would answer no more of his questions. 'Who are you going to? Squire Barnby, or the Rectory? Both close to us—can tell you all about 'em.' Still no reply. A full minute's pause. Then the same mellifluous accents : 'No cause to cut up rusty, my dear, because I called you 'andsome. We shall be neigh- bours, and may as well make friends—oh? Allow me to offer you an orange ?' He plunged his hand into one of the hampers and produced the fruit, which he held out with the seductive air of a Satan tempting Eve. She thanked him, dryly, and shook her head, without looking at him. 'In the kitchen, or the nursery, is it?' he pursued. 'I 'ope it ain't at the Rectory, that's all—they're regularly starved there, and such a fuss about broken victuals I every crust and scrap used up, they tell me. Such mean ways wouldn't suit me, nor you, neither, I should say ? You look as if you'd bin used to good food, and plenty of it: ha, ha!'"
But by far the best sketch in the book is that of Dapper's mistress, the English-French Mrs. Carteret, the bright-eyed, dis- orderly, idle, active-minded, vain, keen, kindly, passionate old lady, with her loyal devotion to the banished Bourbon, her enthusiasm for the old stilted school of French literature, and the very easy parental morality which accompanies her really profound affection for her dissipated son. This is a rare kind of picture, and no painting could be better. Take this, for instance, on the first day the supposititious Mary Hind has entered her service :—
"Maud entered Mrs. Cartaret's room again, an hour later. That lady cried out, on seeing her: 'Here, Mary, come and draw a chair close to the bed, and go on at the place you left off. Stay, though— you shall first answer this rascally letter for me. There is pen and ink.'—'I can't write with that, ma'am. It has got no nib.'—'Mon Dien! It does well enough for me. Did they give you nibs at your school ? How they do spoil the children nowadays ? Here, then is a steel one, now—write quick. Do not be an hour over it. You spell correct, do you? Here is a bit of paper.'—' It is only half a sheet, ma'am, and it has a blot.'—'Juste Ciel! Who taught you to be so particular? The blot will not blind the man, will it? and he can read what I have to say on half a sheet as well as a whole one. Go on—"Sir, I have many impertinent applications from you. One answer for all—my son's debts contract when—"'—' Contracted ?' suggested Maud.—' Well, yes, oon- tracted—ah you are grammatical, are you ?—" when he was at college, were paid by me when he came of age. He entirely denies the justice of your claim. I have no more to do with his bills. He has his own fortune, and I desire no more vile letters—"'—' Vile? Is not that rather strong, ma'am ?'—' No, no, write it—I wish to be strong—" vile letters may be addressed to me on the subject." Here give me the pen, and I sign it—mon Dien ! petite—what a good hand you write. Now, then, that is done. Here is the book, and here is where you left off. " Artamene regards le Roy d'Assirie avec une douleur inconcev- able, et le Roy d'Aasirie regarda Artamiine avec un ddaespoir qua ron ne scauroit exprimer." Ah ! quo c'est beau ; qua c'est touchant! Do you know who the Grand Cyrus was, child ?' She read with her eyes and with her voice, but not with her mind ; and Mrs. Carteret stopped her at last with an impatient exclamation : 'There! that will do shut up the book. You have never been in love yet, eh, Mary Hind, or you could not read that touching passage like a frog—so cold. Now, get me my bath. Ah ! but that miserable creature, Jane, has let out the fire!' She clutched at the bell-rope, tore at it, hung on it, with an energy which brought the blood into her face, and which Maud expected would arouse the entire household. But some minutes elapsed before Jane answered the summons, in no way discomposed by its violence, and regarding it apparently as a matter of course. ' Why do you not bring coal here, you wretched do-nothing ?' screamed Mrs. Carteret, beating her little fat hands upon the bed. Am I to be left to die of cold, with ten servants in the house? How often do'I tell you to come and look at the fire once in the hour? Ed? Thought the new maid was with me ? Well, and if she was, she can't make coals, I suppose ? Hold your tongue, you lazy wretch, you are only good to eat—eat—eat—all day long. Come, don't stand staring there at me, but away with you, and fetch the wood. Now, Mary Hind, there is your dinner-bell. Go along. I shall not get up till you come back ;' and she flounced down again among her pillows secretly by no means sorry of the (license for indulging in another half-hour of her beloved bed."
After this, the sketch of the curate, who is a good, but rather conventionally good curate, the conventionally good curate of novels, we mean,—saved from utter identity with the type only by having a red nose and shuffling feet,—is a little poor. Mr. Hamil- ton Aide should hardly have put so little finished a picture into this rather important place in his little group, for Mr. Miles's figure is really needed, and does a good deal to neutralize the disagreeable feeling arising from young Mr. Cartaret's success with Maud. As we close this charming little novellette, we are aware that the author means us to understand that, as in real life, the best are by no means the happiest,—at least, not in any generally accepted sense of the word "happiest." And this we do feel, and it reconciles us to the story; but we should feel it a far more satisfactory one if the Rev. John Miles had been made distinct to us by something beyond his sturdy independence of character, his marvellous self- denial, and his red nose and shuffling feet. There should have been a little delineation of the man's intellect, something to raise him above that feeling of half-pity, half-respect, with which he affects the mind of the reader. If the curate had been as carefully painted as Mrs. Carteret, the novellette would have been a gem in its way. Even as it is, it is one of the most taking little stories we have read for many months past.
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