s a first
novel; and there are indeed signs of this in a certain verbosity and
diffuseness of attack. But it is at least equally clear that the writer,
CLEMENCE DANE, has the root of the matter in her. As in the book with which
I have compared it, the setting of this is scholastic--a girls' school
here, with all its restricted outlook, its small intrigues, and exaggerated
friendships, mercilessly exposed. You will be willing to admit that it is
at least aptly named when I tell you that not till page 135 does so much as
the shadow of a man appear, and then but fleetingly as the father of the
poor child, _Louise_, the tragedy of whose death is the central incident of
the book. Naturally it can be nothing else than a painful story; in
particular the figure of _Clare_, the adored teacher, whose cruel
egoistical friendship, with its alternations of encouragement and
brutality, first drives _Louise_ to suicide, and all but wrecks the life of
the young assistant-mistress, _Alwynne_, has in it something coldly
sinister that haunts the memory. But of its power there can be no question.
On one small point of psychology I am at issue with the writer. I doubt
whether the child _Louise_ could have played _Arthur_ in the school
theatricals so marvellously as we are asked to believe without cheering
herself, by such an artistic success, out of the temptation to suicide. But
the ways of morbidity are unsearchable, and this is no more than an
expression of individual opinion. It is not meant to qualify my admiration
for the skill of this remarkable and arresting story.

* * * * *

If the long postponement of the appearance of another novel--_Vesprie
Towers_ (SMITH, ELDER)--by the late Mr. THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON, means (I am
careful not to say it does) that the author never intended it to see the
light of day, honesty obliges one to admit that there may have been wisdom
in that decision, for the story of _Violet Vesprie_, though touched with a
certain charm and distinction, sadly lacks the imaginative intensity of
_Aylwin_. The plot is commonplace, being the familiar record of how the
country seat of a once illustrious family nearly, but of course not quite,
passed into the hands of strangers when the last of the race came to
poverty. Even the inevitable flight to London is not spared us or the
heroine, and it is really only when the writer tires of his attempted
conventionality that he comes more nearly to