The Sun.
London, England, 1864-01-02 00:00:00

LITERATURE.

A Woman's Ransom. By Frederick William
Robinson, author of " Grandmother's Money,"
&c. 3 vols. Hurst and Blackett.
A mania for excitement has unfortunately seized
upon the novel-writers and readers of the day, the
extravagant has taken the place of the natural, and
horror is regarded as the only legitimate element of
interest. To such an amount has this pernicious
influence extended, that even those fiction-writers
who had already distinguished themselves as truthful
painters of domestic life have been carried away by
the stream, and like the dog of the:fable who dropped
the substance for the shadow, have cast aside the
essentials to true success already within their grasp
in the hope of realising a shadowy popularity,which,
if attained by such means, could only prove evanes-
cent. Among this number we are sorry to find the
author of the popular novel of "Grandmother's
Money." His new work, " A Woman's Ransom,"
has actually been recommended to general admira-
tion as tie Novel of Crime I.—such an epithet being
undoubtedly in the present day an attractive dis-
tinction. Those, however, who may in consequence
turn to its pages as a delightful stimulant will be
also sadly disappointed. According to Lord Byron
( who was well qualified to give an opinion on the
matter, being himself a master in the delineation of
either character), Scott's Lord Marmion lacked the
essential elements of attraction, either good or bad,
being
" Not half a villain, and but half a knight I "
In like manner "A Women's Ransom," while emu-
lacing the horrible reputation of some of its con
temporaries, does not actually venture to realise its
own evil ambition. We hear of the elopement of
the wife of the bad hero of the book, but after
awhile it appears that the report is a falsehood
contrived by the husband himself, who is
the murderer of the unfortunate lady. An
interest is at length, after long and weary
delays, attracted by the supposed discovery
of the dead body, when, lo and behold, the lady is
alive, and no murder has actually been committed.
The character of Herbert Vaughan is a marvellous
compound of unnecessary criminality. He is evi-
dently'prepared to commit every evil under the sun,
and gives himself an immense deal of trouble to con-
coct and carry out schemes of Machiavellian dupli-
city without any adequate reason for their con-
trivance. The sister of this evil spirit,Mary Zitman,
is a young widow, who is left in possession of her
husband's large estates, on condition of her never
leaving the estate, or never taking another husband.
The brother contrives to enjoy the mastery of this
property, and takes every possible precaution to
prevent his sister's second marriage. The situation
is so far well contrived, and the question of Mrs.
Zitman's emancipation from this state of thraldom,
which is preying upon her health, and unsettling
her nerves, gives its title to the book—" A Woman's
Ransom." The character of Mrs. Zitman, which
at first promised well, degenerates as the story ad-
vances, and she becomes feeble and commonplace.
Far more interesting is old Mrs. Ray, the covetous
sister of the deceased Mr. Zitman, and who is to
inherit the property on the death or marriage of
the youthful widow. This old lady is a compound
of avarice and cunning, and her character, disagree.
able as it is, is cleverly drawn. A powerful scene
occurs, when at last her seared conscience is touched
with a late remorse; it is entitled

A WINDING SHEET IN THE CANDLE.
"Let me tell you, Mr. Gear," turning to me, " why I
came here such an awful night. I was in the house-
keeper's room counting the plate—l like to count the plate
myself, with a candle close at my elbow, 'cause my eyes
are bad—and Letty was practisin' her peanner in the
drawin'-room—she practises MO enough, now there's a
chance of marryin' that Vaughan."
"Marrying Vaughan!" exclaimed my mother.
"Don't you interrupt people." snapped Mrs. Ray;
"that's the tother story, which I haven't given myself the
'fluenz3 to come and tell you."
"Oh l" said my mother, completely silenced by this un-
complimentary remark.,
" And I was a-counting and a-counting," Mrs. Ray
continued, "and making one silver table short, which was
a hard loss, and was trying to recollect who was the big-
gest thief I'd got in the house, when I noticed—good for I
—I noticed the awfullest winding-sheet I ever seed in my
life. I was friz then, and forgot the oilver table, and
skreeked out, Mary Gear's a- goin' to die, and I haven't
told her on my sins yet.' And, oh, sir I is she wusl"
"Better."
The old woman's explanation of her visit had frozen my
own blood a little ; "Mary Gear's a-going to die," had been
uttered with an awful earnestness. My mother, a shade
more pale, too, sat and glared at Mrs. Ray.
" She'll be wus—she'll have a relapse—l must see her
to-night I"
" Impossible."
" I've come a long way on a night that few people would
ventur out—l've left a winding-sheet at home—l find
another here I"

" But winding sheets, Mrs. Ray," explained my mother,
who seemed well versed in those articles, "only foretell
death in the house wherin they are seen first."
" Get out 1" said Mrs. Ray, " they tell the death of the
one you are thinkin' the most on, and the most troubled
about. That's Mary Gear to me—and she's ill and agoing
to die. I'm as sure o' that, as I'm a living woman sitting
here 1"

" It's very wrong to sit there, saying such awful things,

reproved my mother, " putting such awful things in my
boy's head."
" So I couldn't rest," continued Mrs. Ray, deaf to the
reproof; "I felt if death was about here, and I must not
let an hour go by and not ask your wife to forgive me all
my trespasses against her. I tried to think, at fust, that
to-morrow would do, that it was an awful night, that I was
old, and excitement was bad for me, but the wind said No'
to it, and ttie rain said 'No' to it, and God Almighty said
No' to it, I'm sure I"
She held her hand up to prevent all interruption, strug-
gled with her breath,'and then went on again :
"So I dressed and came out. I ordered the horses to be
put to the carridge, and Miss Ray not to be disturbed at her
peanner—and the noise she made herself, drownded any
other I—and I came away to see your wif9, sir."
" I am very sorry, Mrs. Ray, that you have put your-
self to this unnecessary trouble, but—"
"But you'll let me see her?"
" I dare not, for her health's sake."
" If she were to die to-night, sir I" she entreated.'
" I do not think there is any fear," I replied ; she has
been mercifully spared to me, and I entertain great hopes
of seeing her well and strong again."
"Mr. Gear, she affirmed, with a persistency that was
terribly depressing, .4 it's the snuff of the candle only
brightening up a bit. She'll die, she'll die, I tell you!"
" I will pray not."
"And I must see her. I must whisper to her that did
her harm once, that I planned harm against her, and
built upon her death and money. Oh I I must tell her
that."
"I pledge you my word that she will forgive you, Mrs
Ray."
" It's a weight upon an old woman's soul, and ony she
can lift it off me. You're a man who won't be hard upon
me, in this late hour, when I've better thoughts ?"
" In a few days you may see her."
" Too late I" she affirmed; "I've dreamed all that's
coming—l've seen her dead face in my sleep—it's not only
the winding-sheet that's brought me here."
She continued to plead her cause—l to remain deaf to
it. This old woman's excitement was deep and intense,
and must arouse Mary's. There was danger to my wife,
and I was her guardian to protect her from it.
The old lady, however ultimately obtained her
object—
" I have come, Mary Zitman," murmured Mrs. Ray, still
in the same posture, and bestowing on my wife the old and
more familiar title, "I've come before death parts you
and me—sooner than either on us thinks, perhaps—to ask
your forgiveness for past sin. I wished you dead once—
and I—l tried to kill you I" •
" No—no," answered Mary.
" You had my brother's money, and I had a miser's love
for it. It seemed my right, and I was poor and wretched.
I—l prayed every night that you might die, and leave me
rich, when I thought you would'not marry agin. It was
the one prayer that I taught myself."
" Forgiven!" said my wife.
Mrs. Ray's excitement was on the increase, and I could
see my wife was anxious to abridge the interview, although
fearful of an abrupt termination thereto. Janet, with folded
arms, stood by my side, intensely watchful.
" James Baines—your brother's mau—and I had a long
talk together at last—in the very room downstairs I've
run away from. God forgive me 1 but—but I promised him
a thousand pounds when you ware dead, knowing he was a
villain who never studied life reuch. I tempted him, and
he watched you—plotted against your life—opened your
winder, when you were sleeping, that God'© air might turn
murderer against yeti, too—ho was my tool, and he
worked on in the dark."
Mary closed her eyes—l coull see the red blood mantling
ner face and neck.
" Janet," I whispered, "this must cease now."
" It's a' doon—the warst be oot," muttered Janet.
" You d,,nt say, ' Forgiven' unto that 1' Mrs. Ray
screamed, with a vehemence that alarmed us all. "You're
going to die, and leave me aecarsed. Oh, Mary Zitman I