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No longer could the Catherine Morlands dare to put any faith in The Castle of Otranto or The Mysteries of Udolpho style of literature. By this one blow did Jane Austen clear the ground for the manly, healthy, historical romance of Scott and disperse the whole gang of foolish frighteners of youth who filled the minds of young girls with unimaginable horrors and sentimental tomfoolery.

Persuasion, the last of her novels, begins with as famous a sentence as that which I quoted from Pride and Prejudice, describing the joy which Sir Walter Elliot took in "the Snob's Bible," the Baronetage, and is famous for the fact that it contains about the only memorable incident recorded in any of her work: the accident that befell Louisa Musgrove on the Cobb at Lyme Regis. Here, too, occurs one of those rare descriptions of natural scenery of which, as a rule, Jane Austen is so sparing. She shows that she could observe when she wished inanimate objects in Nature with as acute an eye as she usually brought to bear on humanity. It was only that her fellowmen interested her more than Nature did. She watches them lynx-eyed, and, as her biographer says, "she never drops a stitch. The reason is not so much that she took infinite trouble, though no doubt she did, as that everything was actual to her, as in his larger historical manner everything was actual to Macaulay."

In all her gallery, as Macaulay noticed, she left scarcely a single LIVING AGE, VOL. VIII, No. 370.

caricature, and it is in this that Jane Austen approaches most nearly to the manner of Shakespeare. To be humorous, it has often been pointed out, it is necessary to exaggerate abundantly. Jane Austen has gone a long way to refute what else might seem an irrefutable argument.

Scott and Tennyson both spoke of her work in glowing terms, and from their day to this she has had no detractors among the greatest critics (with the sole exception of Charlotte Brontë), but only increased the circle of her readers.

Her plots, like Shakespeare's, were not in a high degree original or ingenious, her work is almost devoid of incident: she repeats not only her situations, but in a lesser degree her characters.

But, as G. K. Chesterton says, no other woman has been able to capture the complete common sense of Jane Austen. She knew what she knew, like a sound dogmatist; she did not know what she did not know, like a sound agnostic: she knew more about men than most women, and that in spite of the fact that she is commonly supposed to have been protected from truth. If that was so, it was precious little of truth that was protected from her. When Darcy says, "I have been a selfish being all my life in practice though not in theory," he approaches the complete confession of the intelligent male.

Womanly foibles have never before been so mercilessly exposed; compared with her astringent tonic properties, the satire of Addison or Steele is as barley water is to ammonia. Her pen has the point of a stencil and the sharpness of a razor-edge: there is nothing in her work of the vague or the shadowy; every character stands out like a cameo, every sentence was true to the ordinary speech of her day, and yet possesses that unfathom

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When the mosaic of daily life is in the making, the pattern is not apparent. It is afterwards that this pattern is seen to have changed day by day.

Many small things happened that summer in the little round of tennis parties and picnics. Rosa's conscience was still active, and where she could include Lucilla in the festivities it was done. But Christina did not happen to meet the girl. She had not the strength or the spirit for great exertion, and she had the constant fear of spoiling or limiting her children's gaieties.

She found her own pleasure in a dozen small occupations in her house and garden; a leisurely walk in the sunshine; a rest on the sofa with a book, a chat with one of her contemporaries, these were Christina's chief enjoyments.

She was deeply occupied in Rosa's trousseau. Her brother Edmund, always her favorite brother, had shown himself generous. He had arrived one morning in cheerful congratulatory mood.

To Edmund marriage was the one and only object of a woman's life, and he congratulated Rosa accordingly.

Edmund, stout, prosperous and well clad, was a pleasant figure. Christina felt a warm glow of pleasure in him as he sat in her little drawing-room.

"A very good match," he repeated for the tenth time; "she's a good little girl to be sensible. You'll miss her? Of course you will. my dear girl. But we parents can't

think of ourselves, can we? There'll be the visits home to Granny, eh?"

It

Edmund patted her knee and gave a chuckle. "I wouldn't say that before her, of course. But between ourselves, well, well, they never expect that development, do they? But you'll like to be a grandmother, Christina. keeps up one's interest in the world, doesn't it? Keeps one young yes, yes. Now there's her trousseau, my dear. See what you can do with a hundred pounds. Yes of course you'll take it from me. There, there!"

Edmund was benign. He inquired after Laurence, whom he distrusted not a little. He suspected Laurence of dangerous inconvenient things called "notions." He had never liked the boy, but he was at pains to conceal this from Christina, who, of course, knew it by instinct.

"I hope he has no thoughts of marriage yet," said Edmund; "hard work is what he should think of."

Christina made her little boasts proudly. Mr. Marshall, one of the partners, had spoken very highly of Laurence. It was likely that he might get a rise if young Mr. Jeffers went to America, as he proposed to do, and then Laurence could marry if he wished. The mother felt piqued by the indifference of the uncle. She upheld early marriages for young men.

"Besides, he'll be thirty soon, and it's natural for a man to want to settle down in his own home."

"But what would you do?" Edmund asked.

"Oh! I should be all right."

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"Only sons always are, my dear girl."

Christina was silent. She was fond of Edmund but he had never understood Laurence.

Another day had its bearings on the pattern of things. It was a hot August Sunday and Rosa, a little out of temper, walked with her mother to church.

"I don't see why Laurence shouldn't come," she said; "why are men never to do anything disagreeable? Women take it as a matter of course that they'll go to church even if it is hot, and if the sermon is certain to be dull. Yes, I blame the system, mother."

"What system, dear?"

"The old Victorian system that ordained that men must never be asked to do anything tiresome. Why should men never be bored? Women are suffering bores gladly all day long. Do I ever interrupt Mr. Ingleby when he's talking about things I don't understand? No, I listen smiling. But you wouldn't catch Laurence listening to a Mrs. Ingleby in the same way." "That's just life," answered Christina vaguely.

"But it shouldn't be. If ever I have sons I'll bring them up to a different system."

Christina smiled but said nothing. She never argued with Rosa: perhaps she still thought of her as a child. Besides she was very hot and tired.

Rosa had not received an expected letter from Jack Brown that morning, and her attitude towards life was a little out of focus.

"Mother, Laurence really ought to be warned about Lucilla."

"Warned? What do you mean?" "I mean they're being talked about. Oh! yes, the Wallers and the Nesbits were joking about it. Mr. Nesbit said he hoped Laurence wouldn't burn his fingers. I have tried to be decent to Lucilla this summer, but personally I think she's impossible. But Laurence is forever championing her, and then there was that dreadful affair of the picnic."

"What affair?"

"That picnic to Matlock Bath. Laurence and Lucilla got separated from the rest. He says he never meant to, so of course he didn't, but I believe Lucilla did."

"Rosa! we must be just."

"Yes, but I know her, mother. She hurt her foot, or pretended she did, and they both missed the others, and the train, and had to come on by a much later one. Of course people thought they did it on purpose."

"I never heard all that, Rosa." "No, we didn't want you to be bothered; we never do. But really Laurence ought to be careful, if it's only for Lucilla's sake. Of course he doesn't mean to marry her, so he shouldn't get her talked about."

Christina's thoughts that morning in church wandered far from the General Confession and Absolution, and, later, from the Litany.

She thought with a deep regret of Hermione, who was even now in the novitiate at the Sisterhood in Westhampton. She had gone to the ceremony of Hermione's clothing as a novice with a feeling akin to repulsion. This deliberate initiation into a hard and self-sacrificing life was repulsive to her. It did not occur to her that a girl's betrothal is akin to it and an augury too of renunciation and trial.

But she had come away soothed and uplifted. The ceremony had

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mione's happy face under her white veil had been reassuring too. There seemed comfort in the fact that this life of prayer and effort and special consecration was entwined in the life of the town. Its austere happiness seemed to testify to the reality of that supernatural region which is so vague and unbelievable even to virtuous matrons like Christina. She apprehended that day the reality of religion, but she realized, as she looked at Hermione, that it was yet outside her own life. She had little beyond an ethical sense and an inherited code of piety.

Then her thoughts wandered to her son, and to Lucilla. Should she warn him, or should she be wise and forbear?

That evening her chance for decision occurred in the garden. She had gone out to water the parched sweet peas, and Laurence joined her. She was conscious, as she had been for some time, of a vague restraint between them. They were both inclined to talk eagerly of trivial matters, as if to Cover up some subject of which each thought constantly.

Christina, tending her flowers, showed no signs of moral combat, but yet the decision to warn her son cost her troubled heart-beats, and a strong effort. The effort made her manner abrupt, and not quite natural.

"Dear," she said, "sometimes chivalry leads a man. . and a woman too into false positions. One's got to be careful."

Laurence's face set into hard lines. Before he answered he walked to the wall and looked into the Brown's garden. There was no pitcher either of long or short ears to hear him, so he came back to the sweet pea hedge. "Now, mother, what does that mean exactly?"

Christina's heart failed her. Laurence's voice was cold, and he looked

at her unsmilingly. He seemed not her son, but some alien severe man who resented her interference. "I mean," she said hesitating, "that it is rather dangerous for a man to befriend a woman."

"So I perceive," he said bitterly.

"Oh! my dear, I know how you've meant it, but people don't understand and they talk . . . and that's not good for a girl."

"Exactly! Mrs. Grundy is a model of British charity, isn't she?"

"No, dear, she's not charitable, but she has her uses, and at my age one sees it."

"When one gets old one accepts conventions more readily I suppose," said Laurence; "it's not worth fighting. But to come to facts, you mean that

that Lucilla Brown is being talked about, and that I'm the cause?"

"Yes. Unfortunately, poor girl, her history makes her likely to be criticised the more. I don't mean that you shouldn't be nice to her, dear, I know your motives, but . . . "

"But a lot of cats are wagging their whiskers at us? Who are they? One never runs these stories to earth. I suppose this picnic story is going the rounds?"

"I don't know."

"I know it is. Oh! it's hateful. They drive people into false positions. Do you consider I've . . . that I've compromised Lucilla over that train business?"

"No, dear, of course not," Christina answered hastily, "things like that die out soon. New stories go round, old ones are forgotten. No, of course no one thinks any real harm of either of you. It was only a word of caution, dear."

"I see."

Laurence looked sternly before him. "Thank you," he added doubtfully. "I know you meant it kindly."

Christina had an anxious night.

She often slept badly, and the sense that she had spoken rashly troubled her thoughts.

But the next day brought startling news not surprising to the world that knew him. Mr. Warwick Brown had, in his capacity as stock-broker, been speculating with trust money, and he had lost both money and honor so heavily that an immediate journey across the Atlantic was imperative. For the second time his name was the cause of scandal in Westhampton. The town was full of it. Christina and Rosa, as they took their afternoon tea, talked of it together,

"Well!" said Rosa, "that'll be an end of the Warwick Browns, for of course they'll go. They've relations in Jamaica, quadroons you may be sure. I shall be glad to see the last of them. I wouldn't trust Laurence not to make a fool of himself. Lucilla is pretty and . . . oh! yes, she makes us all look dull and dowdy, I know it; perhaps it's jealousy that makes me dislike her."

...

"Perhaps it is, dear. One has horrid subconscious reasons for things. But . yes, I shall be glad when they go, Rosa. They're dangerous sort of people. I don't know poor Lucilla, indeed, I pity the girl, but somehow I'm afraid of her. Laurence has a future I believe it-with the right wife and a good chance. He is clever. They all say so at the office. But he's erratic too. If he gets a chance to plan a cathedral he may do wonders."

Rosa sighed and went on with her sewing. She was making toilet covers for her Canadian home. Already she felt matronly and responsible, and, perhaps, a little patronizing to the unmarried and disengaged community.

"Laurence is young for his age," she said. "He's easily influenced. It'll be far better when Lucilla goes. Out of sight, out of mind."

"Yes," Christina agreed, and she

sighed with pity for the fever that is youth.

The two women felt tranquilly domesticated as they took their tea. The French window into the garden was open. The afternoon sun shone kindly on the silver teapot and sugar bowl. Theresa had made a ginger cake, and it showed a generous angular hole where Rosa had cut it. This seemed one of those moments when life is so tranquil that one expects it to continue thus till eternity. Change seems remote, and action an affair of fiction and the newspaper. Christina had, at such moments, the habit of inarticulate thanksgiving. Like many women she never trusted her happiness.

At the close of the moment there came a man's step on the flagged path and the small rattle of the latchkey. Christina's face grew bright as it had done for a man's return home on most evenings of her life.

"That's Laurence," she said; "the tea is hot still, and he'll like the cake."

Laurence came in. He squeezed round the table and kissed his mother according to invariable custom.

“Well, darling, I'm sure you're hot," said Christina. "You're out early today."

"Yes, I got leave."

Laurence stood with his back to the wall, his face flushed and a little defiant.

"Mother, I've news for you and for Rosa, too. You'd better hear it now."

The two women were silent, watching his face. Rosa with her cake poised between mouth and plate, Christina with her hand on the teapot handle.

"It's this," Laurence blurted out, "I proposed to Lucilla Brown an hour ago and she accepted me."

Rosa said "Oh!" and then bit her cake.

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