The Way We Live Now (119 page)

‘You given up the
Pulpit
?' asked Lady Carbury with astonishment, readjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether any and if so what advantage might be taken of Mr Alf's new position. He was no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibility would no longer exist – but he must still have influence. Might he not be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she not succeed if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground before him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poor struggling woman?

‘Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of course that I should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand again.'

‘And you are no longer an editor?'

‘I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruples of those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crime against the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament while I was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course I know where it came from.'

‘Where did it come from?'

‘Where should it come from but the
Breakfast Table
. Broune and I have been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I know he is the most jealous.'

‘That is so little,' said Lady Carbury. She was really very fond of Mr Broune, but at the present moment she was obliged to humour Mr Alf.

‘It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in Parliament than an editor of a newspaper – that is if he is capable as an editor.'

‘No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you.'

‘The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double work. I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the paper. I almost regret it'.

‘I dare say you do,' said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely anxious to talk about her own affairs instead of his. ‘I suppose you still retain an interest in the paper?'

‘Some pecuniary interest – nothing more.'

‘Oh, Mr Alf – you could do me such a favour!'

‘Can I? If I can, you may be sure I will.' False-hearted, false-tongued man! Of course he knew at the moment what was the favour Lady Carbury intended to ask, and of course he had made up his mind that he would not do as he was asked.

‘Will you?' And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as she poured forth the words of her prayer. ‘I never asked you to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think it right, and I would not do it I took my chance like others, and I am sure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace. I never complained. Did I?'

‘Certainly not'.

‘But now that you have left it yourself – if you would have
The Wheel of Fortune
done for me – really well done!'

‘The Wheel of Fortune
?'

‘That is the name of my novel,' said Lady Carbury, putting her hand softly upon the manuscript ‘Just at this moment it would be the making of a fortune for me! And oh, Mr Alf, if you could but know how I want such assistance!'

‘I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady Carbury.'

‘Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it certain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. I have taken so much pains with it'.

‘Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits.'

‘Don't say that, Mr Alf. The
Evening Pulpit
is like – oh, it is like – like – like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before it? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once – that is if it were done really con amore.' Mr Alf looked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. ‘The paper stands so high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is asking you, Mr Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives.'

‘I do not think that it has ever been done by the
Evening Pulpit!

‘I have seen books praised.'

‘Of course you have.'

‘I think I saw a novel spoken highly of.'

Mr Alf laughed. ‘Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object of the
Pulpit
to cry down novels?'

‘I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here. I would be so thankful – so grateful.'

‘My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing to do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue.'

‘Oh no,' she said, not quite understanding what he meant.

‘The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the justice of my successor.'

‘I shall never know your successor.'

‘But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for my sister.' Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. ‘Send the book out, and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been eulogized as a mark of friendship.'

‘No, I shan't,' said Lady Carbury. ‘I don't believe that anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. I don't know how they manage it, but they do.' Mr Alf shook his head. ‘Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you have been a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the
New Cleopatra
is a very handsome woman.' Lady Carbury must have been worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to lose her temper as to bring against Mr Alf the double charge of being too fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed the justice of his columns to that improper affection.

‘At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you allude,' said Mr Alf, getting up to take his leave; ‘and I am quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book – if there be any such lady and any such book– had never seen her!' And so Mr Alf departed.

Lady Carbury was very angry with herself; and very angry also with Mr Alf. She had not only meant to be piteous, but had made the attempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger. She had degraded herself to humility, and had then wasted any possible good result by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in which she had to live was almost too hard for her. When left alone she sat weeping over her sorrows; but when from time to time she thought of Mr Alf and his conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. What lies he had told her! Of course he could have done it had he chosen. But the assumed honesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than his lies. No doubt the
Pulpit
had two objects in its criticisms. Other papers probably had but one. The object common to all papers, that of helping friends and
destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the
Pulpit
. There was the second purpose of enticing readers by crushing authors – as crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged when executions were done in public. But neither the one object nor the other was compatible with that Aristidean justice which Mr Alf arrogated to himself and to his paper. She hoped with all her heart that Mr Alf would spend a great deal of money at Westminster, and then lose his seat.

On the following morning she herself took the manuscript to Messrs Leadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respect which seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the work of six months; her very blood and brains – the concentrated essence of her mind – as she would say herself when talking with energy of her own performances; and Mr Leadham pitched it across to a clerk, apparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the parcel unceremoniously under a counter. An author feels that his work should be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands, and held thoughtfully, out of harm's way, till it be deposited within the very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if it should be lost! – or burned! – or stolen! Those scraps of paper, so easily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be acknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than their weight in gold! If
Robinson Crusoe
had been lost! If
Tom Jones
had been consumed by flames! And who knows but that this may be another
Robinson Crusoe
– a better than
Tom Jones'!
‘Will it be safe there?' asked Lady Carbury.

‘Quite safe – quite safe,' said Mr Leadham, who was rather busy, and who perhaps saw Lady Carbury more frequently than the nature and amount of her authorship seemed to him to require.

‘It seemed to be – put down there – under the counter!'

‘That's quite right, Lady Carbury. They're left there till they're packed.'

‘Packed!'

‘There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's down in Skye, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack.'

‘Do they go by post, Mr Leadham?'

‘Not by post, Lady Carbury. There are not many of them would pay the expense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this time of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before the winter.' Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey by long sea to Glasgow!

That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr Broune came to
her. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existed between Lady Carbury and the editor of the
Morning Breakfast Table
, which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further literary favour. She fully recognized – no woman perhaps more fully – the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might come within reach. With such a son, with such need for struggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? But this man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for which – though she had refused him – she felt infinitely grateful. And though she had refused him, he had lent her money, and had supported her in her misery by his continued counsel. If he would offer to do this thing for her she would accept his kindness on her knees – but even she could not bring herself to ask to have this added to his other favours. Her first word to him was about Mr Alf. ‘So he has given up the paper?'

‘Well, yes – nominally.'

‘Is that all?'

‘I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobody likes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. As for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch Melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a candidate as they'll get now?'

‘He was here yesterday.'

‘And full of triumph, I suppose?'

‘He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my new book – my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothing further to do with the paper.'

‘He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say.'

‘That was just it. Of course I did not believe him.'

‘Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. If we can't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. Let me see – what is the name?'

‘The Wheel of Fortune
' Lady Carbury, as she told the title of her new book to her old friend, seemed to be almost ashamed of it.

‘Let them send it early – a day or two before it's out, if they can. I can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will go to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. God bless you.' And as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility were returning to him.

As she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all – thinking of her own circumstances and of his kindness – it did not occur to her to call him an old goose again. She felt now that she had mistaken her man when she had so regarded him. That first and only kiss which he had given her, which she had treated with so much derision, for which she had rebuked him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. Through it all the man must have really loved her! Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And how had it come to pass that she in all her tenderness had rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?

When Hetta Carbury received that letter from her lover which was given to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend in any way to alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it over half-a-dozen times, she could not bring herself to think it possible that she could be reconciled to the man. It was not only that he had sinned against her by giving his society to another woman to whom he had at any rate been engaged not long since, at the very time at which he was becoming engaged to her – but also that he had done this in such a manner as to make his offence known to all her friends. Perhaps she had been too quick – but there was the fact that with her own consent she had acceded to her mother's demand that the man should be rejected. The man had been rejected, and even Roger Carbury knew that it was so. After this it was, she thought, impossible that she should recall him. But they should all know that her heart was unchanged. Roger Carbury should certainly know that, if he ever asked her further question on the matter. She would never deny it; and though she knew that the man had behaved badly – having entangled himself with a nasty American woman – yet she would be true to him as far as her own heart was concerned.