The Way We Live Now

  CHAPTER LXXXIX.

  "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE."

  It was a long time now since Lady Carbury's great historical workon the Criminal Queens of the World had been completed and given tothe world. Any reader careful as to dates will remember that it wasas far back as in February that she had solicited the assistance ofcertain of her literary friends who were connected with the daily andweekly press. These gentlemen had responded to her call with more orless zealous aid, so that the "Criminal Queens" had been regardedin the trade as one of the successful books of the season. Messrs.Leadham and Loiter had published a second, and then, very quickly, afourth and fifth edition; and had been able in their advertisementsto give testimony from various criticisms showing that Lady Carbury'sbook was about the greatest historical work which had emanated fromthe press in the present century. With this object a passage wasextracted even from the columns of the "Evening Pulpit,"--whichshowed very great ingenuity on the part of some young man connectedwith the establishment of Messrs. Leadham and Loiter. Lady Carburyhad suffered something in the struggle. What efforts can mortals makeas to which there will not be some disappointment? Paper and printcannot be had for nothing, and advertisements are very costly. Anedition may be sold with startling rapidity, but it may have been buta scanty edition. When Lady Carbury received from Messrs. Leadham andLoiter their second very moderate cheque, with the expression of afear on their part that there would not probably be a third,--unlesssome unforeseen demand should arise,--she repeated to herself thosewell-known lines from the satirist,--

  "Oh, Amos Cottle, for a moment think What meagre profits spread from pen and ink."

  But not on that account did she for a moment hesitate as to furtherattempts. Indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her"Criminal Queens" before she was busy on another work; and althoughthe last six months had been to her a period of incessant trouble,and sometimes of torture, though the conduct of her son had more thanonce forced her to declare to herself that her mind would fail her,still she had persevered. From day to day, with all her cares heavyupon her, she had sat at her work, with a firm resolve that so manylines should be always forthcoming, let the difficulty of making thembe what it might. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had thought that theymight be justified in offering her certain terms for a novel,--termsnot very high indeed, and those contingent on the approval of themanuscript by their reader. The smallness of the sum offered, andthe want of certainty, and the pain of the work in her presentcircumstances, had all been felt by her to be very hard. But she hadpersevered, and the novel was now complete.

  It cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special taleto tell. She had taken to the writing of a novel because Mr. Loiterhad told her that upon the whole novels did better than anythingelse. She would have written a volume of sermons on the sameencouragement, and have gone about the work exactly after the samefashion. The length of her novel had been her first question. It mustbe in three volumes, and each volume must have three hundred pages.But what fewest number of words might be supposed sufficient to filla page? The money offered was too trifling to allow of very liberalmeasure on her part. She had to live, and if possible to writeanother novel,--and, as she hoped, upon better terms,--when thisshould be finished. Then what should be the name of her novel; whatthe name of her hero; and above all what the name of her heroine? Itmust be a love story of course; but she thought that she would leavethe complications of the plot to come by chance,--and they did come."Don't let it end unhappily, Lady Carbury," Mr. Loiter had said,"because though people like it in a play, they hate it in a book. Andwhatever you do, Lady Carbury, don't be historical. Your historicalnovel, Lady Carbury, isn't worth a--" Mr. Loiter stopping himselfsuddenly, and remembering that he was addressing himself to a lady,satisfied his energy at last by the use of the word "straw." LadyCarbury had followed these instructions with accuracy.

  The name for the story had been the great thing. It did not occur tothe authoress that, as the plot was to be allowed to develop itselfand was, at this moment when she was perplexed as to the title,altogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what appellationmight best suit her work when its purpose should have declareditself. A novel, she knew well, was most unlike a rose, which byany other name will smell as sweet. "The Faultless Father," "TheMysterious Mother," "The Lame Lover,"--such names as that she wasaware would be useless now. "Mary Jane Walker," if she could be verysimple, would do, or "Blanche De Veau," if she were able to maintainthroughout a somewhat high-stilted style of feminine rapture. Butas she considered that she could best deal with rapid action andstrange coincidences, she thought that something more startling anddescriptive would better suit her purpose. After an hour's thought aname did occur to her, and she wrote it down, and with considerableenergy of purpose framed her work in accordance with her chosentitle, "The Wheel of Fortune!" She had no particular fortune in hermind when she chose it, and no particular wheel;--but the very ideaconveyed by the words gave her the plot which she wanted. A younglady was blessed with great wealth, and lost it all by an uncle,and got it all back by an honest lawyer, and gave it all up to adistressed lover, and found it all again in the third volume. And thelady's name was Cordinga, selected by Lady Carbury as never havingbeen heard before either in the world of fact or in that of fiction.

  And now with all her troubles thick about her,--while her son wasstill hanging about the house in a condition that would break anymother's heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that sheregarded all those around her as her enemies, Lady Carbury finishedher work, and having just written the last words in which the finalglow of enduring happiness was given to the young married heroinewhose wheel had now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at herright hand. She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks forthe task, and had completed it exactly in the time fixed. As she satwith her hand near the pile, she did give herself credit for herdiligence. Whether the work might have been better done she neverasked herself. I do not think that she prided herself much on theliterary merit of the tale. But if she could bring the papers topraise it, if she could induce Mudie to circulate it, if she couldmanage that the air for a month should be so loaded with "The Wheelof Fortune," as to make it necessary for the reading world to haveread or to have said that it had read the book,--then she would prideherself very much upon her work.

  As she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon, in her own room, Mr. Alfwas announced. According to her habit, she expressed warm delight atseeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such atime,--when there was so very much to occupy such a one as Mr. Alf!Mr. Alf, in his usual mildly satirical way, declared that he was notpeculiarly occupied just at present. "The Emperor has left Europeat last," he said. "Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, andthe inquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything ofinterest to-day." Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her book,rather even than on the exciting death of a man whom she had herselfknown. Oh, if she could only get Mr. Alf! She had tried it before,and had failed lamentably. She was well aware of that; and she hada deep-seated conviction that it would be almost impossible to getMr. Alf. But then she had another deep-seated conviction, that thatwhich is almost impossible may possibly be done. How great would bethe glory, how infinite the service! And did it not seem as thoughProvidence had blessed her with this special opportunity, sending Mr.Alf to her just at the one moment at which she might introduce thesubject of her novel without seeming premeditation?

  "I am so tired," she said, affecting to throw herself back as thoughstretching her arms out for ease.

  "I hope I am not adding to your fatigue," said Mr. Alf.

  "Oh dear no. It is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last sixmonths. Just as you knocked at the door, I had finished the novel atwhich I have been working, oh, with such diligence!"

  "Oh,--a novel! When is it to appear, Lady Carbury?"

  "You must ask Leadham and Loiter that question. I have done my partof the work.
I suppose you never wrote a novel, Mr. Alf?"

  "I? Oh dear no; I never write anything."

  "I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the most.One becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's characters! One lovesthe loveable so intensely, and hates with such fixed aversion thosewho are intended to be hated. When the mind is attuned to it, oneis tempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's ownpathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration atone's own sagacity and knowledge."

  "How very nice!"

  "But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of thecoin. On a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural.The heroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is foundto-day to be a lump of motionless clay. The dialogue that was socheery on the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a secondreading. Yesterday I was sure that there was my monument," and sheput her hand upon the manuscript; "to-day I feel it to be only tooheavy for a gravestone!"

  "One's judgment about one's-self always does vacillate," said Mr. Alfin a tone as phlegmatic as were the words.

  "And yet it is so important that one should be able to judgecorrectly of one's own work! I can at any rate trust myself to behonest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics."

  "Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, LadyCarbury,--at least not as far as I have observed the business. It isincapacity. In what little I have done in the matter, that is thesin which I have striven to conquer. When we want shoes we go to aprofessed shoemaker; but for criticism we have certainly not gone toprofessed critics. I think that when I gave up the 'Evening Pulpit,'I left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded asknowing their business."

  "You given up the 'Pulpit'? asked Lady Carbury with astonishment,readjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether anyand if so what advantage might be taken of Mr. Alf's new position. Hewas no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibilitywould no longer exist;--but he must still have influence. Might henot be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she notsucceed if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the groundbefore him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poorstruggling woman?

  "Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of coursethat I should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the newmember has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably standagain."

  "And you are no longer an editor?"

  "I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruplesof those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crimeagainst the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament whileI was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of courseI know where it came from."

  "Where did it come from?"

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

  "That is so little," said Lady Carbury. She was really very fond ofMr. 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 inParliament than an editor of a newspaper,--that is if he is capableas an editor."

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

  "The only question is whether he be strong enough for the doublework. I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up thepaper. I almost regret it."

  "I dare say you do," said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely anxiousto talk about her own affairs instead of his. "I suppose you stillretain 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 thefavour Lady Carbury intended to ask, and of course he had made up hismind that he would not do as he was asked.

  "Will you?" And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as she pouredforth the words of her prayer. "I never asked you to do anything forme as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think itright, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I amsure 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 handsoftly upon the manuscript. "Just at this moment it would be themaking of a fortune for me! And, oh, Mr. Alf, if you could but knowhow I want such assistance!"

  "I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, LadyCarbury."

  "Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make itcertain. 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 islike,--like,--like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified beforeit? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have itdone. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundredcopies at once,--that is if it were done really con amore." Mr. Alflooked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. "The paper standsso high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman isasking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. Thething 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 objectof 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 nothingto do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literaryvirtue."

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

  "The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate thejustice of my successor."

  "I shall never know your successor."

  "But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddlingwith the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it formy sister." Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. "Send the book out,and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have itpraised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has beeneulogised as a mark of friendship."

  "No, I shan't," said Lady Carbury. "I don't believe that anythinglike 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 hishead. "Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you havebeen a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the'New Cleopatra' is a very handsome woman." Lady Carbury must havebeen worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so farto lose her temper as to bring against Mr. Alf the double charge ofbeing too fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificedthe justice of his columns to that improper affection.

  "Of course you have been a dragon of virtue."]

  "At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom youallude," said Mr. Alf, getting up to take his leave; "and I am quitesure that the gentleman who reviewed the book,--if there be anysuch lady and any such book,--had never seen her!" And so Mr. Alfdeparted.

  Lady Carbury was very angry with herself, and very angry also withMr. Alf. She had not only meant to be piteous, but had made theattempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger.She had degraded herself to humility, and had then wasted anypossible good result by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in whichshe had to live was almost too hard for her. When left alone s
he satweeping over her sorrows; but when from time to time she thought ofMr. Alf and his conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. Whatlies 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 thanhis 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 prevailedwith the "Pulpit." There was the second purpose of enticing readersby crushing authors,--as crowds used to be enticed to see men hangedwhen executions were done in public. But neither the one object northe other was compatible with that Aristidean justice which Mr. Alfarrogated to himself and to his paper. She hoped with all her heartthat Mr. Alf would spend a great deal of money at Westminster, andthen 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 respectwhich seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the workof six months; her very blood and brains,--the concentrated essenceof her mind,--as she would say herself when talking with energy ofher own performances; and Mr. Leadham pitched it across to a clerk,apparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked theparcel unceremoniously under a counter. An author feels that his workshould be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands,and held thoughtfully, out of harm's way, till it be deposited withinthe very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if itshould be lost!--or burned!--or stolen! Those scraps of paper, soeasily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter beacknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than theirweight in gold! If "Robinson Crusoe" had been lost! If "Tom Jones"had been consumed by flames! And who knows but that this may beanother "Robinson Crusoe,"--a better than "Tom Jones"? "Will it besafe 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 andamount 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'repacked."

  "Packed!"

  "There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He'sdown 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 theexpense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at thistime of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before thewinter." Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey bylong sea to Glasgow!

  That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Broune came toher. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existedbetween Lady Carbury and the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table,"which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any furtherliterary favour. She fully recognised,--no woman perhaps morefully,--the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherancewhich might come within reach. With such a son, with such need forstruggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch evenat every straw? But this man had now become so true to her, thatshe hardly knew how to beg him to do that which she, with all hermistaken feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. He hadasked her to marry him, for which,--though she had refused him,--shefelt infinitely grateful. And though she had refused him, he hadlent her money, and had supported her in her misery by his continuedcounsel. If he would offer to do this thing for her she would accepthis kindness on her knees,--but even she could not bring herself toask to have this added to his other favours. Her first word to himwas 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. Nobodylikes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. Asfor Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretchMelmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking aboutthe forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such acandidate 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 newbook,--my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothingfurther 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 wecan'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 hernew 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 willgo 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 asthough the old susceptibility were returning to him.

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