The Way We Live Now

  CHAPTER II.

  THE CARBURY FAMILY.

  Something of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the readerin the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added.She has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has alsoshown that she was not a woman whose words about herself could betaken with much confidence. If the reader does not understand so muchfrom her letters to the three editors they have been written in vain.She has been made to say that her object in work was to provide forthe need of her children, and that with that noble purpose beforeher she was struggling to make for herself a career in literature.Detestably false as had been her letters to the editors, absolutelyand abominably foul as was the entire system by which she wasendeavouring to achieve success, far away from honour and honesty asshe had been carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty thingsamong which she had lately fallen, nevertheless her statements aboutherself were substantially true. She had been ill-treated. She hadbeen slandered. She was true to her children,--especially devoted toone of them,--and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so shecould advance their interests.

  She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years sincehad done great things as a soldier in India, and had been thereuponcreated a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and,having found out when too late that he had made a mistake, hadoccasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill used her. Indoing each he had done it abundantly. Among Lady Carbury's faultshad never been that of even incipient,--not even of sentimentalinfidelity to her husband. When as a very lovely and penniless girlof eighteen she had consented to marry a man of forty-four who hadthe spending of a large income, she had made up her mind to abandonall hope of that sort of love which poets describe and which youngpeople generally desire to experience. Sir Patrick at the time ofhis marriage was red-faced, stout, bald, very choleric, generous inmoney, suspicious in temper, and intelligent. He knew how to governmen. He could read and understand a book. There was nothing meanabout him. He had his attractive qualities. He was a man who mightbe loved;--but he was hardly a man for love. The young Lady Carburyhad understood her position and had determined to do her duty. Shehad resolved before she went to the altar that she would never allowherself to flirt and she had never flirted. For fifteen years thingshad gone tolerably well with her,--by which it is intended that thereader should understand that they had so gone that she had been ableto tolerate them. They had been home in England for three or fouryears, and then Sir Patrick had returned with some new and higherappointment. For fifteen years, though he had been passionate,imperious, and often cruel, he had never been jealous. A boy anda girl had been born to them, to whom both father and mother hadbeen over indulgent;--but the mother, according to her lights, hadendeavoured to do her duty by them. But from the commencement of herlife she had been educated in deceit, and her married life had seemedto make the practice of deceit necessary to her. Her mother had runaway from her father, and she had been tossed to and fro betweenthis and that protector, sometimes being in danger of wanting anyone to care for her, till she had been made sharp, incredulous,and untrustworthy by the difficulties of her position. But she wasclever, and had picked up an education and good manners amidst thedifficulties of her childhood,--and had been beautiful to look at.To marry and have the command of money, to do her duty correctly, tolive in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition,--andduring the first fifteen years of her married life she was successfulamidst great difficulties. She would smile within five minutes ofviolent ill-usage. Her husband would even strike her,--and the firsteffort of her mind would be given to conceal the fact from all theworld. In latter years he drank too much, and she struggled hardfirst to prevent the evil, and then to prevent and to hide the illeffects of the evil. But in doing all this she schemed, and lied, andlived a life of manoeuvres. Then, at last, when she felt that shewas no longer quite a young woman, she allowed herself to attempt toform friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of theother sex. If fidelity in a wife be compatible with such friendship,if the married state does not exact from a woman the necessity ofdebarring herself from all friendly intercourse with any man excepther lord, Lady Carbury was not faithless. But Sir Carbury becamejealous, spoke words which even she could not endure, did thingswhich drove even her beyond the calculations of her prudence,--andshe left him. But even this she did in so guarded a way that, as toevery step she took, she could prove her innocence. Her life at thatperiod is of little moment to our story, except that it is essentialthat the reader should know in what she had been slandered. Fora month or two all hard words had been said against her by herhusband's friends, and even by Sir Patrick himself. But graduallythe truth was known, and after a year's separation they came againtogether and she remained the mistress of his house till he died. Shebrought him home to England, but during the short period left to himof life in his old country he had been a worn-out, dying invalid.But the scandal of her great misfortune had followed her, and somepeople were never tired of reminding others that in the course of hermarried life Lady Carbury had run away from her husband, and had beentaken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.

  Sir Patrick had left behind him a moderate fortune, though by nomeans great wealth. To his son, who was now Sir Felix Carbury, he hadleft L1,000 a year; and to his widow as much, with a provision thatafter her death the latter sum should be divided between his sonand daughter. It therefore came to pass that the young man, who hadalready entered the army when his father died, and upon whom devolvedno necessity of keeping a house, and who in fact not unfrequentlylived in his mother's house, had an income equal to that with whichhis mother and his sister were obliged to maintain a roof over theirhead. Now Lady Carbury, when she was released from her thraldomat the age of forty, had no idea at all of passing her futurelife amidst the ordinary penances of widowhood. She had hithertoendeavoured to do her duty, knowing that in accepting her positionshe was bound to take the good and the bad together. She hadcertainly encountered hitherto much that was bad. To be scolded,watched, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she was atlast driven out of her house by the violence of his ill-usage; to betaken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would forthe remainder of her life be unjustly tarnished; to have her flightconstantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become for a yearor two the nurse of a dying debauchee, was a high price to pay forsuch good things as she had hitherto enjoyed. Now at length had cometo her a period of relaxation--her reward, her freedom, her chance ofhappiness. She thought much about herself, and resolved on one or twothings. The time for love had gone by, and she would have nothingto do with it. Nor would she marry again for convenience. But shewould have friends,--real friends; friends who could help her,--andwhom possibly she might help. She would, too, make some career forherself, so that life might not be without an interest to her. Shewould live in London, and would become somebody at any rate in somecircle. Accident at first rather than choice had thrown her amongliterary people, but that accident had, during the last two years,been supported and corroborated by the desire which had fallen uponher of earning money. She had known from the first that economywould be necessary to her,--not chiefly or perhaps not at all from afeeling that she and her daughter could not live comfortably togetheron a thousand a year,--but on behalf of her son. She wanted no luxurybut a house so placed that people might conceive of her that shelived in a proper part of the town. Of her daughter's prudence shewas as well convinced as of her own. She could trust Henrietta ineverything. But her son, Sir Felix, was not very trustworthy. And yetSir Felix was the darling of her heart.

  At the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our storyis supposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money. Sir Felixwas then twenty-five, had been in a fashionable regiment for fouryears, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once, hadaltogether wasted the property which his father had left him. So muchthe mother knew,--and knew, therefore, that with her limited inco
meshe must maintain not only herself and daughter, but also thebaronet. She did not know, however, the amount of the baronet'sobligations;--nor, indeed, did he, or any one else. A baronet,holding a commission in the Guards, and known to have had a fortuneleft him by his father, may go very far in getting into debt; and SirFelix had made full use of all his privileges. His life had been inevery way bad. He had become a burden on his mother so heavy,--andon his sister also,--that their life had become one of unavoidableembarrassments. But not for a moment had either of them everquarrelled with him. Henrietta had been taught by the conduct of bothfather and mother that every vice might be forgiven in a man and ina son, though every virtue was expected from a woman, and especiallyfrom a daughter. The lesson had come to her so early in life that shehad learned it without the feeling of any grievance. She lamentedher brother's evil conduct as it affected him, but she pardoned italtogether as it affected herself. That all her interests in lifeshould be made subservient to him was natural to her; and when shefound that her little comforts were discontinued, and her moderateexpenses curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was hisown, was now eating up also all that was his mother's, she nevercomplained. Henrietta had been taught to think that men in that rankof life in which she had been born always did eat up everything.

  The mother's feeling was less noble,--or perhaps, it might betterbe said, more open to censure. The boy, who had been beautiful as astar, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on whichher heart had rivetted itself. Even during the career of his follyshe had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the purport ofstopping him on his road to ruin. In everything she had spoilt himas a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a man. She wasalmost proud of his vices, and had taken delight in hearing of doingswhich if not vicious of themselves had been ruinous from theirextravagance. She had so indulged him that even in her own presencehe was never ashamed of his own selfishness or apparently consciousof the injustice which he did to others.

  From all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in literaturewhich had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure inthe work, partly as a passport into society, had been converted intohard work by which money if possible might be earned. So that LadyCarbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her struggleswas speaking the truth. Tidings had reached her of this and the otherman's success, and,--coming near to her still,--of this and thatother woman's earnings in literature. And it had seemed to her that,within moderate limits, she might give a wide field to her hopes. Whyshould she not add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felixmight again live like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in LadyCarbury's look-out into the future, was destined to make all thingsstraight! Who was so handsome as her son? Who could make himself moreagreeable? Who had more of that audacity which is the chief thingnecessary to the winning of heiresses? And then he could make hiswife Lady Carbury. If only enough money might be earned to tide overthe present evil day, all might be well.

  The one most essential obstacle to the chance of success in allthis was probably Lady Carbury's conviction that her end was tobe obtained not by producing good books, but by inducing certainpeople to say that her books were good. She did work hard at whatshe wrote,--hard enough at any rate to cover her pages quickly;and was, by nature, a clever woman. She could write after a glib,common-place, sprightly fashion, and had already acquired the knackof spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vastsurface. She had no ambition to write a good book, but was painfullyanxious to write a book that the critics should say was good. Had Mr.Broune, in his closet, told her that her book was absolutely trash,but had undertaken at the same time to have it violently praised inthe "Breakfast Table," it may be doubted whether the critic's ownopinion would have even wounded her vanity. The woman was false fromhead to foot, but there was much of good in her, false though shewas.

  Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by badtraining, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It ishardly possible that he should not have been better had he been takenaway as an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers.And yet again it is hardly possible that any training or want oftraining should have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feelingfor others as was his. He could not even feel his own misfortunesunless they touched the outward comforts of the moment. It seemedthat he lacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery thoughthe futurity to be considered was divided from the present but bya single month, a single week,--but by a single night. He liked tobe kindly treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed andcaressed; and they who so treated him were his chosen friends. Hehad in this the instincts of a horse, not approaching the highersympathies of a dog. But it cannot be said of him that he hadever loved any one to the extent of denying himself a moment'sgratification on that loved one's behalf. His heart was a stone. Buthe was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent. He wasvery dark, with that soft olive complexion which so generally givesto young men an appearance of aristocratic breeding. His hair, whichwas never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was softand silky without that taint of grease which is so common withsilken-headed darlings. His eyes were long, brown in colour, andwere made beautiful by the perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow. Butperhaps the glory of the face was due more to the finished mouldingand fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than to his other features.On his short upper lip he had a moustache as well formed as hiseyebrows, but he wore no other beard. The form of his chin too wasperfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of expression,indicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys. He was aboutfive feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure as in face.It was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women that no manhad ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admittedalso that he never showed consciousness of his beauty. He had givenhimself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poor fool,while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his armystanding till he lost it; and especially on the score of superiorityin fashionable intellect. But he had been clever enough to dresshimself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance of thoughtabout his outward man. As yet the little world of his associates hadhardly found out how callous were his affections,--or rather howdevoid he was of affection. His airs and his appearance, joined withsome cleverness, had carried him through even the viciousness ofhis life. In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment'sweakness had injured his character among his friends more than he haddone by the folly of three years. There had been a quarrel betweenhim and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and,when the moment came in which a man's heart should have producedmanly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the whitefeather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived theevil;--but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had beencowed, and had cowered.

  It was now his business to marry an heiress. He was well aware thatit was so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny. But he lackedsomething in the art of making love. He was beautiful, had themanners of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity,and had no feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he didnot feel. But he knew so little of the passion, that he could hardlymake even a young girl believe that he felt it. When he talked oflove, he not only thought that he was talking nonsense, but showedthat he thought so. From this fault he had already failed with oneyoung lady reputed to have L40,000, who had refused him because, asshe naively said, she knew "he did not really care." "How can I showthat I care more than by wishing to make you my wife?" he had asked."I don't know that you can, but all the same you don't care," shesaid. And so that young lady escaped the pit-fall. Now there wasanother young lady, to whom the reader shall be introduced in time,whom Sir Felix was instigated to pursue with unremitting diligence.Her wealth was not defined, as had been the L40,000 of herpredecessor, but was known to be very much greater than that. It was,indeed, gen
erally supposed to be fathomless, bottomless, endless.It was said that in regard to money for ordinary expenditure, moneyfor houses, servants, horses, jewels, and the like, one sum wasthe same as another to the father of this young lady. He had greatconcerns;--concerns so great that the payment of ten or twentythousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing to him,--as to menwho are comfortable in their circumstances it matters little whetherthey pay sixpence or ninepence for their mutton chops. Such a manmay be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that to any onemarrying his daughter during the present season of his outrageousprosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed. Lady Carbury,who had known the rock on which her son had been once wrecked, wasvery anxious that Sir Felix should at once make a proper use of theintimacy which he had effected in the house of this topping Croesusof the day.

  And now there must be a few words said about Henrietta Carbury. Ofcourse she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, whowas a baronet, the head of that branch of the Carburys, and hermother's darling; and, therefore, a few words should suffice. Shealso was very lovely, being like her brother; but somewhat lessdark and with features less absolutely regular. But she had in hercountenance a full measure of that sweetness of expression whichseems to imply that consideration of self is subordinated toconsideration for others. This sweetness was altogether lacking toher brother. And her face was a true index of her character. Again,who shall say why the brother and sister had become so opposite toeach other; whether they would have been thus different had both beentaken away as infants from their father's and mother's training, orwhether the girl's virtues were owing altogether to the lower placewhich she had held in her parent's heart? She, at any rate, hadnot been spoilt by a title, by the command of money, and by thetemptations of too early acquaintance with the world. At the presenttime she was barely twenty-one years old, and had not seen much ofLondon society. Her mother did not frequent balls, and during thelast two years there had grown upon them a necessity for economywhich was inimical to many gloves and costly dresses. Sir Felix wentout of course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home withher mother in Welbeck Street. Occasionally the world saw her, andwhen the world did see her the world declared that she was a charminggirl. The world was so far right.

  But for Henrietta Carbury the romance of life had already commencedin real earnest. There was another branch of the Carburys, the headbranch, which was now represented by one Roger Carbury, of CarburyHall. Roger Carbury was a gentleman of whom much will have to besaid, but here, at this moment, it need only be told that he waspassionately in love with his cousin Henrietta. He was, however,nearly forty years old, and there was one Paul Montague whomHenrietta had seen.