"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 ma.n.u.script. "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 a.s.sistance!"

"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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the justice of my successor."

"I shall never know your successor."

"But I must a.s.sure 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 auth.o.r.ess 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 auth.o.r.ess 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 a.s.sumed 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 ma.n.u.script 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 the 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 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. Browne 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. n.o.body 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?"