To the befogged Londoner there is perhaps no greater treat than to
escape for forty-eight hours to the seaside even in the depths of
winter, and whilst spinning along by the London, Brighton, and South
Coast express, there is a pleasurable sense of excitement in the feeling
that you are going to breathe the fresh sea air of Eastbourne untainted
by smuts and smoke. "The Empress of watering-places," as a well-known
journalist has named it, is now seen in its best aspect. It presents
quite a different phase in August and September, when the residents,
almost to a man, desert the town, having previously with great prudence
let their houses at a high figure, and the place is given over to the
holiday-makers, nigger minstrels, braying bands, and itinerant beach
preachers. Now its genial, pleasant society is in full swing, and merry
golf parties are the order of the day. Few places have increased with
more rapid growth during the last fifteen or twenty years, or become
more popular as a residence than Eastbourne, partly owing to the
excellent train service, partly to the well-organised supervision over
every detail in the whole town, and again probably more to the bright,
healthy atmosphere, which registers three hundred days of sunshine as
against sixty-nine in London.
In one of the prettiest roads in this pleasant seaside town stands--a
little way back from the red-and-black tiled pavement--a large brown
creeper-covered house with red tiled roof built in the Gothic style of
architecture. Though it has only been constructed during late years, the
gables and points give it an old-fashioned and picturesque look, but
beauty and variety of style are studied at Eastbourne, and each house is
apparently designed with a view to artistic effect. College Road is
bordered on either side by Sussex elms. The approach is by gates right
and left which open into a garden filled with shrubs. On seeking
admittance you are taken up to a bright, cheerful room which faces the
west, and has all the outward and visible signs of being devoted to
literary and artistic pursuits. As the young author, Edna Lyall, rises
from the typewriter in the corner opposite the door, with kindly
greeting, you are at once struck with her extremely youthful appearance.
She is about the medium height, pale in complexion, with dark hair
rolled back from a broad forehead which betokens a strongly intellectual
and logical cast of mind. She has well-defined, arched eyebrows, and
very dark blue eyes, which light up softly as she speaks. Her manner is
gentle and sympathetic, and her voice is sweet in tone. She wears a
simply-made gown of olive-green material, relieved with embroidery of a
lighter colour.
The room seems exactly what one would expect on only looking at her. It
is the room of a student who prefers books to society, and every part of
it bears evidence of the simplicity, refinement, and quiet comfort of
her tastes. It is square and low, with a broad cottage window,
commanding a lovely view over the Downs, which have somewhat of an
Alpine look, the high hills in the distance, and the furthermost broad
belt of trees in the grounds of Compton Place are tipped with snow, as
also are those in the foreground, belonging to some private gardens. The
whole scene, now flooded in sunshine, is a constant delight to Edna
Lyall, who says that she "rejoices in the knowledge that it can never be
built out." Over the window hangs a wrought-iron scroll-work fern
basket, which looks like Italian manufacture, but is in reality made by
the boys of St. John's, Bethnal Green Industry, developed by Miss
Bromby. Under this is a broad, low shelf, covered with terra-cotta
cloth, which is the repository of many little treasures. The floor is
covered with Indian matting, strewn about with a few brightly-coloured
Indian and Persian rugs; and in the centre is a comfortable couch with a
guitar lying on it. The pretty American walnut-wood writing-table
against the wall on the right has a raised desk and little cupboards
with glass doors, which reveal many good bits of china. On the further
side is a handsome revolving table filled with books, and in the corner
stands an old grandfather clock of the seventeenth century. There is a
neat arrangement for hiding manuscripts out of sight, a tall piece of
furniture with little narrow drawers, also a piano opposite, and a
variety of quaintly-shaped chairs; but the feature of the room is a
large ornamental book-case on the left, filled with a hundred or so of
standard volumes. On the mantelshelf, amongst odds and ends of china,
stand some favourite portraits, and the author particularly calls
attention to a photograph of her great friend, Mrs. Mary Davies, whom
she describes as "a woman of most beautiful character." Another is of
Captain Burges, R.N., who was killed at Camperdowne, a third is a
platinotype head of George Macdonald, a fourth is of Frederick Denison
Maurice, the theologian, the others represent some of her principal
heroes, Sir Walter Scott, Algernon Sydney, John Hampden, and Mr.
Gladstone. There are many good pictures on the walls, a few pretty
landscapes in water-colours, a fine photograph of Sant's "Soul's
Awakening," and an Irish trout stream in oils; two are especially
attractive, the large and beautifully-executed photograph over the
fireplace of Hoffman's "The Child Christ in the Temple," and "The Grotto
of Posilipo," the grotto described by Edna Lyall in her novel, "The
Knight Errant."
Ada Ellen Bayly (Edna Lyall) was born and educated at Brighton. Her
father, Mr. Robert Bayly, barrister-at-law, of the Inner Temple, died
when she was eleven, and three years later she lost her mother. Always a
thoughtful, studious child, at the age of ten she had already written
some short stories, which were read and thought promising by her
parents, who, however, wisely made her understand that story-writing
must stand second to her own training. From that time forward she was
always preparing for her future profession. After losing both her
parents the young girl made her home with a sister, who had married
Canon Crowfoot, of Lincoln. It was shortly after leaving school that she
wrote her first book, "Won by Waiting," a story of home life in France
and England. It is a charming story, simple in sketch and style, with
some clever bits of character-painting, in which, as her later books
show, she excels.
There is a peculiar interest in her second novel, "Donovan." This work
was written at intervals during three years. "When beginning it," says
the young author, "I had very little notion of what I had undertaken.
Sometimes I wrote easily; sometimes I was at a standstill." But the
reason is easily explained. It was about that time that she began to
experience a great mental conflict. Profoundly religious by nature, she
entered deeply into the theological questions of the day, and though the
struggle was deep and painful, she never rested until her mind was
satisfied. "No one can regret," says Edna Lyall, "having been forced to
face the problems which 'Donovan' had to face, and I am very thankful to
have had that struggle. I wished to draw the picture of a perfectly
isolated man and his gradual awakening. He had, of course, to begin by
professing himself an atheist and a misanthrope; but very soon he begins
to love a child, then a dog, then a woman. By these means he comes to
realize his selfishness, and to detest it; he begins to love humanity,
to pity and help his worst enemy, and finally to 'love the highest'
when he sees it. Someone made me laugh the other day by saying that 'it
was stated on the best authority that Edna Lyall had cried most bitterly
at the thought of having written "Donovan" and "We Two," and would give
anything to recall them.' I can only tell you that all that makes life
worth living came to me through writing those books. So much for gossip!
The struggle is one which we have each to go through. We must think it
all out for ourselves," she goes on to say softly, whilst a bright, glad
smile illumines her face; for light and peace have come to her, and she
describes herself as having surmounted the storm, and achieved the haven
of rest and happiness in her belief. "Won by Waiting" and "Donovan" had,
according to the author, "fallen flat."
In 1884 she introduced "We Two" to the world. This book, which is a
distinct story, is yet in a sense a continuation of the former, and was
the outcome of all that she had lived through in the preceding years. It
was so well reviewed in all the leading journals, and became so much
talked about, that people began to ask for "Donovan" so extensively,
that it took a new lease of life, and was soon as popular as or more so
than its sequel. These two works were brought out by Messrs. Hurst and
Blackett.
In September, 1884, Edna Lyall came to Eastbourne, and established
herself with her sister, Mrs. Jameson, whose husband, the Rev. Hampden
Jameson, is attached to the handsome church, St. Saviour's, standing
close by, and she is herself a member of the congregation. Soon after
her arrival a new book was begun; this is a historical novel, and the
author gives an interesting account of the facts which suggested the
work. "Shortly after I had finished 'We Two,'" she says, "I happened to
visit an uncle and aunt of mine, whose charming old house in
Suffolk--Badmondisfield Hall--was connected with some of the happiest
days of my very happy childhood. The place had always been an ideal
place for dream stories and old-world plays. I knew every nook of the
quaint old hall and garden and park, and now the spell laid hold of me
again, and the characters of Hugo and Randolph, with whom I had had such
delightful imaginary games in old days, started into life once more. One
morning, pacing to and fro beside the bowling-green between the house
and the moat, the thought flashed into my mind that the time of the Rye
House plot would best develop the character of my hero--a naturally
yielding and submissive boy, whose will was held in bondage by the
stronger will of his elder brother. Little by little the outline of the
story shaped itself in my mind. Every history of England to be found in
the ancient bookcases was pulled down, old papers relating to the old
house and its owners looked through, old pictures studied, and the
possibility of Hugo's escapade in the musician's gallery at the end of
the dining-hall tested by an inch tape and elaborate calculations."
On leaving Suffolk, Edna Lyall went up to London to study the reign of
Charles II in the reading-room of the British Museum. The story was
published in 1885 under the title of "In the Golden Days"--"a title
which," she says, "some people fancied I had meant seriously, but which,
of course, referred to the first line of the 'Vicar of Bray.'" In this
work are undoubtedly some of the finest characters of Edna Lyall's
creation. The chapter headed "The Seventh of December" contains a most
touching account of the patriot Algernon Sydney's death. Whilst still
engaged on this book the author spent many weeks yachting in the
Mediterranean, and during one visit to Naples and its neighbourhood used
some of the experience she had gained during former visits to Italy to
begin and think out the plot of "Knight-Errant." "The motive of that
book," she remarks, "is, I think, so distinctly expressed that I need
not say much about it. The motto I chose for the title-page shows that
in its central idea--reconciliation--it is the completion of 'Donovan'
and 'We Two,' though, naturally, as a story of stage life, it is quite
unlike them in plot and surroundings. I dislike 'novels with a purpose'
as much as any one," she adds, "but at the same time it seems to me that
each book must have its particular _motive_."
"Knight-Errant" is a book of thrilling adventure and absorbing interest;
the account of the attack on the hero, Carlo, in the Grotto of Posilipo,
is so powerfully drawn that it keeps the reader in breathless suspense.
Norway, too, is one of her favourite haunts, and in the land of the
mountain and the fjord she is quite at home. Intensely fond of nature,
she has depicted, in her latest three-volume novel (Hurst and Blackett),
"A Hardy Norseman," in most realistic language, the exquisite scenery
that she witnessed during some of her long, solitary carriole drives.
She spent many very happy days with her friends, Presten Kielland
(brother of the well-known Norwegian author, Alexander Kielland) and his
charming wife and children. "He and his eldest daughter," says the young
author, "are excellent English scholars, and I owe to them an
introduction to Norwegian life which as a mere tourist I could never
have gained."
None who read Edna Lyall's books can fail to be struck by her tender and
vivid word-painting of animals (the faithful dog, "Waif," is familiar to
all) and of little children, but here she can draw from the life, as
there are eight little nephews and nieces downstairs whom she adores,
and with whom she is a great favourite.
But the mid-day sun is high in the heavens, and your hostess proposes to
take you for a stroll round the grand extension parade below the Wish
Tower, and as you walk she beguiles the time with pleasant conversation
on personal incidents. Referring to a little sketch published in the
form of a shilling book by Messrs. Longmans in 1887, called the
"Autobiography of a Slander," "Ah!" she says smiling, "that _was_
written 'with a purpose,' and was suggested by a very disagreeable
incident. On returning from one of our delightful Norwegian tours, I was
greeted on every side by a persistent report that had been set afloat to
the effect that I was in a lunatic asylum! We found out at this time
that an impostor had been going about announcing that she was 'Edna
Lyall,' and that in Ceylon, and during her voyage home, she had
deceived many people. The only possible explanation of the lunatic
asylum slander seems to be that this woman was in reality mad. But the
episode was decidedly unpleasant, and set me thinking on the birth and
growth of such monstrously untrue reports. During the autumn of 1886 I
wrote the little story, taking different types of gossip for each stage
in the Slander's growth and baleful power--the gossip of small dull
towns, of country life, of cathedral precincts, of London clubs, and the
gossip of members of my own profession in search of 'copy.'"
By this time you have reached a spot called by the inhabitants Mentone.
The broad tiled walk is sheltered by the great cliff, behind which is a
steep embankment prettily planted with shrubs, and traversed here and
there by steep little zigzag paths running upwards to the heights,
whilst before you rises the grand outline of Beachy Head. The sky is
brilliantly blue as far as eye can reach all around. The sun (which you
had not seen in town for six weeks) is shining brightly, casting its
radiance on the calm sea, the little wavelets are gently breaking over
the pebbles below, and the fresh, pure air is most exhilarating. A few
invalids in bath chairs are being drawn slowly along, and all the beauty
and fashion of Eastbourne are out enjoying a sun-bath. Amongst the
_habitues_ you recognize many well-known faces. That tall, graceful,
Madonna-like woman, with her fair young daughter, surrounded by a group
of friends, is Mrs. Royston-Pigott, widow of the eminent scientist. The
handsome soldierly man with the benevolent face is General Buchanan, of
cavalry renown, and close to him strolls his youngest daughter, radiant
in the beauty of youth. Edna Lyall observes that Mr. Balfour is
occasionally to be seen on the links enjoying a game of golf. Everyone
seems revelling in the warmth of this January sunshine, but time
presses, and you may not linger. If aught could compensate for turning
away from such a scene, it is the charm of your hostess's conversation,
as she walks with you and speaks of her favourite poets--Tennyson, Mrs.
Browning, and Whittier, whilst she declares her favourite characters in
prose fiction are "Jeanie Deans" and Thackeray's "Esmond." Asking her
which are her special pets in her own books, she says laughing, "As
Anthony Trollope said when asked a similar question, 'I like them all,'
but perhaps Carlo the best, so far. You asked me just now, when we were
interrupted, how my books succeeded. 'Won by Waiting' had a very small
sale. It was favourably reviewed in several papers, and cut into
mincemeat by a very clever weekly journal, so wittily, that even a
youthful author could only laugh! Then it 'joined the majority.'
'Donovan,' in spite of many excellent reviews, shared the same fate;
only 320 copies sold, then he, too, sank into oblivion temporarily. It
was a hard time, and I could not resist weaving some of my memories of
those literary struggles into my latest story--a little sketch called
'Derrick Vaughan, Novelist,' published first in _Murray's Magazine_,
later, in one volume form, by Methuen. Since May, 1889, I have been
unable to write at all, owing to my long attack of rheumatism and fever,
but now that I am growing strong, I hope to set to work again"; and as
you bid adieu to this gifted and interesting woman, you heartily
re-echo the wish.
_Sic transit gloria mundi._ A couple of hours later the train has borne
you swiftly from the glorious sunlight and sea into the persistent gloom
and obscurity of London. The speed slackens, you glide into the station,
your brief holiday is at an end.
[Illustration: Rosa Nouchette Carey]