CHAPTER I.

THREE EDITORS.

Let the reader be introduced to Lady Carbury, upon whose character

and doings much will depend of whatever interest these pages may

have, as she sits at her writing-table in her own room in her own

house in Welbeck Street. Lady Carbury spent many hours at her desk,

and wrote many letters,--wrote also very much beside letters. She

spoke of herself in these days as a woman devoted to Literature,

always spelling the word with a big L. Something of the nature of her

devotion may be learned by the perusal of three letters which on this

morning she had written with a quickly running hand. Lady Carbury was

rapid in everything, and in nothing more rapid than in the writing of

letters. Here is Letter No. 1;--

Thursday,

Welbeck Street.

DEAR FRIEND,--

I have taken care that you shall have the early sheets of

my two new volumes to-morrow, or Saturday at latest, so

that you may, if so minded, give a poor struggler like

myself a lift in your next week's paper. Do give a poor

struggler a lift. You and I have so much in common, and

I have ventured to flatter myself that we are really

friends! I do not flatter you when I say, that not only

would aid from you help me more than from any other

quarter, but also that praise from you would gratify my

vanity more than any other praise. I almost think you will

like my "Criminal Queens." The sketch of Semiramis is at

any rate spirited, though I had to twist it about a little

to bring her in guilty. Cleopatra, of course, I have taken

from Shakespeare. What a wench she was! I could not quite

make Julia a queen; but it was impossible to pass over

so piquant a character. You will recognise in the two or

three ladies of the empire how faithfully I have studied

my Gibbon. Poor dear old Belisarius! I have done the best

I could with Joanna, but I could not bring myself to

care for her. In our days she would simply have gone to

Broadmore. I hope you will not think that I have been too

strong in my delineations of Henry VIII. and his sinful

but unfortunate Howard. I don't care a bit about Anne

Boleyne. I am afraid that I have been tempted into too

great length about the Italian Catherine; but in truth she

has been my favourite. What a woman! What a devil! Pity

that a second Dante could not have constructed for her a

special hell. How one traces the effect of her training

in the life of our Scotch Mary. I trust you will go with

me in my view as to the Queen of Scots. Guilty! guilty

always! Adultery, murder, treason, and all the rest of it.

But recommended to mercy because she was royal. A queen

bred, born and married, and with such other queens around

her, how could she have escaped to be guilty? Marie

Antoinette I have not quite acquitted. It would be

uninteresting;--perhaps untrue. I have accused her

lovingly, and have kissed when I scourged. I trust

the British public will not be angry because I do not

whitewash Caroline, especially as I go along with them

altogether in abusing her husband.

But I must not take up your time by sending you another

book, though it gratifies me to think that I am writing

what none but yourself will read. Do it yourself, like a

dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful. Or rather,

as you are a friend, be loving.

Yours gratefully and faithfully,

MATILDA CARBURY.

After all how few women there are who can raise themselves

above the quagmire of what we call love, and make

themselves anything but playthings for men. Of almost all

these royal and luxurious sinners it was the chief sin

that in some phase of their lives they consented to be

playthings without being wives. I have striven so hard to

be proper; but when girls read everything, why should not

an old woman write anything?

This letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, Esq., the editor of the

"Morning Breakfast Table," a daily newspaper of high character; and,

as it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most important

of the three. Mr. Broune was a man powerful in his profession,--and

he was fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herself

an old woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no

one else regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret to

the reader, though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr. Broune,

it had never been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried her

years so well, and had received such gifts from nature, that it was

impossible to deny that she was still a beautiful woman. And she

used her beauty not only to increase her influence,--as is natural

to women who are well-favoured,--but also with a well-considered

calculation that she could obtain material assistance in the

procuring of bread and cheese, which was very necessary to her, by

a prudent adaptation to her purposes of the good things with which

providence had endowed her. She did not fall in love, she did not

wilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but she smiled and

whispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her own eyes into

men's eyes as though there might be some mysterious bond between her

and them--if only mysterious circumstances would permit it. But the

end of all was to induce some one to do something which would cause

a publisher to give her good payment for indifferent writing, or an

editor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case, he should

have been severe. Among all her literary friends, Mr. Broune was the

one in whom she most trusted; and Mr. Broune was fond of handsome

women. It may be as well to give a short record of a scene which had

taken place between Lady Carbury and her friend about a month before

the writing of this letter which has been produced. She had wanted

him to take a series of papers for the "Morning Breakfast Table," and

to have them paid for at rate No. 1, whereas she suspected that he

was rather doubtful as to their merit, and knew that, without special

favour, she could not hope for remuneration above rate No. 2, or

possibly even No. 3. So she had looked into his eyes, and had left

her soft, plump hand for a moment in his. A man in such circumstances

is so often awkward, not knowing with any accuracy when to do one

thing and when another! Mr. Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had

put his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and had kissed her. To say

that Lady Carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if so

treated, would be to give an unjust idea of her character. It was a

little accident which really carried with it no injury, unless it

should be the injury of leading to a rupture between herself and

a valuable ally. No feeling of delicacy was shocked. What did it

matter? No unpardonable insult had been offered; no harm had been

done, if only the dear susceptible old donkey could be made at once

to understand that that wasn't the way to go on!

Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, and

then made him an excellent little speech. "Mr. Broune, how foolish,

how wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put

an end to the friendship between us!"

"Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that."

"Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of my

daughter,--both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life;--so

much suffered and so little deserved. No one knows them so well as

you do. Think of my name, that has been so often slandered but never

disgraced! Say that you are sorry, and it shall be forgotten."

When a man has kissed a woman it goes against the grain with him to

say the very next moment that he is sorry for what he has done. It is

as much as to declare that the kiss had not answered his expectation.

Mr. Broune could not do this, and perhaps Lady Carbury did not quite

expect it. "You know that for worlds I would not offend you," he

said. This sufficed. Lady Carbury again looked into his eyes, and

a promise was given that the articles should be printed--and with

generous remuneration.

When the interview was over Lady Carbury regarded it as having been

quite successful. Of course when struggles have to be made and hard

work done, there will be little accidents. The lady who uses a street

cab must encounter mud and dust which her richer neighbour, who has a

private carriage, will escape. She would have preferred not to have

been kissed;--but what did it matter? With Mr. Broune the affair was

more serious. "Confound them all," he said to himself as he left the

house; "no amount of experience enables a man to know them." As he

went away he almost thought that Lady Carbury had intended him to

kiss her again, and he was almost angry with himself in that he had

not done so. He had seen her three or four times since, but had not

repeated the offence.

We will now go on to the other letters, both of which were addressed

to the editors of other newspapers. The second was written to Mr.

Booker, of the "Literary Chronicle." Mr. Booker was a hard-working

professor of literature, by no means without talent, by no means

without influence, and by no means without a conscience. But,

from the nature of the struggles in which he had been engaged,

by compromises which had gradually been driven upon him by the

encroachment of brother authors on the one side and by the demands

on the other of employers who looked only to their profits, he had

fallen into a routine of work in which it was very difficult to be

scrupulous, and almost impossible to maintain the delicacies of a

literary conscience. He was now a bald-headed old man of sixty, with

a large family of daughters, one of whom was a widow dependent on

him with two little children. He had five hundred a year for editing

the "Literary Chronicle," which, through his energy, had become

a valuable property. He wrote for magazines, and brought out some

book of his own almost annually. He kept his head above water, and

was regarded by those who knew about him, but did not know him, as

a successful man. He always kept up his spirits, and was able in

literary circles to show that he could hold his own. But he was

driven by the stress of circumstances to take such good things as

came in his way, and could hardly afford to be independent. It must

be confessed that literary scruple had long departed from his mind.

Letter No. 2 was as follows;--

Welbeck Street,

25th February, 187--.

DEAR MR. BOOKER,--

I have told Mr. Leadham--[Mr. Leadham was senior partner

in the enterprising firm of publishers known as Messrs.

Leadham and Loiter]--to send you an early copy of my

"Criminal Queens." I have already settled with my friend

Mr. Broune that I am to do your "New Tale of a Tub" in

the "Breakfast Table." Indeed, I am about it now, and

am taking great pains with it. If there is anything

you wish to have specially said as to your view of the

Protestantism of the time, let me know. I should like you

to say a word as to the accuracy of my historical details,

which I know you can safely do. Don't put it off, as the

sale does so much depend on early notices. I am only

getting a royalty, which does not commence till the first

four hundred are sold.

Yours sincerely,

MATILDA CARBURY.

ALFRED BOOKER, Esq.,

"Literary Chronicle," Office, Strand.

There was nothing in this which shocked Mr. Booker. He laughed

inwardly, with a pleasantly reticent chuckle, as he thought of Lady

Carbury dealing with his views of Protestantism,--as he thought also

of the numerous historical errors into which that clever lady must

inevitably fall in writing about matters of which he believed her to

know nothing. But he was quite alive to the fact that a favourable

notice in the "Breakfast Table" of his very thoughtful work, called

the "New Tale of a Tub," would serve him, even though written by the

hand of a female literary charlatan, and he would have no compunction

as to repaying the service by fulsome praise in the "Literary

Chronicle." He would not probably say that the book was accurate,

but he would be able to declare that it was delightful reading, that

the feminine characteristics of the queens had been touched with a

masterly hand, and that the work was one which would certainly make

its way into all drawing-rooms. He was an adept at this sort of work,

and knew well how to review such a book as Lady Carbury's "Criminal

Queens," without bestowing much trouble on the reading. He could

almost do it without cutting the book, so that its value for purposes

of after sale might not be injured. And yet Mr. Booker was an

honest man, and had set his face persistently against many literary

malpractices. Stretched-out type, insufficient lines, and the French

habit of meandering with a few words over an entire page, had been

rebuked by him with conscientious strength. He was supposed to be

rather an Aristides among reviewers. But circumstanced as he was he

could not oppose himself altogether to the usages of the time. "Bad;

of course it is bad," he said to a young friend who was working with

him on his periodical. "Who doubts that? How many very bad things are

there that we do! But if we were to attempt to reform all our bad

ways at once, we should never do any good thing. I am not strong

enough to put the world straight, and I doubt if you are." Such was

Mr. Booker.

Then there was letter No. 3, to Mr. Ferdinand Alf. Mr. Alf managed,

and, as it was supposed, chiefly owned, the "Evening Pulpit," which

during the last two years had become "quite a property," as men

connected with the press were in the habit of saying. The "Evening

Pulpit" was supposed to give daily to its readers all that had been

said and done up to two o'clock in the day by all the leading people

in the metropolis, and to prophesy with wonderful accuracy what would

be the sayings and doings of the twelve following hours. This was

effected with an air of wonderful omniscience, and not unfrequently

with an ignorance hardly surpassed by its arrogance. But the

writing was clever. The facts, if not true, were well invented; the

arguments, if not logical, were seductive. The presiding spirit of

the paper had the gift, at any rate, of knowing what the people for

whom he catered would like to read, and how to get his subjects

handled, so that the reading should be pleasant. Mr. Booker's

"Literary Chronicle" did not presume to entertain any special

political opinions. The "Breakfast Table" was decidedly Liberal. The

"Evening Pulpit" was much given to politics, but held strictly to the

motto which it had assumed;--

"Nullius addictus jurare in verba magistri;"--

and consequently had at all times the invaluable privilege of abusing

what was being done, whether by one side or by the other. A newspaper

that wishes to make its fortune should never waste its columns and

weary its readers by praising anything. Eulogy is invariably dull,--a

fact that Mr. Alf had discovered and had utilized.

Mr. Alf had, moreover, discovered another fact. Abuse from those who

occasionally praise is considered to be personally offensive, and

they who give personal offence will sometimes make the world too

hot to hold them. But censure from those who are always finding

fault is regarded so much as a matter of course that it ceases to be

objectionable. The caricaturist, who draws only caricatures, is held

to be justifiable, let him take what liberties he may with a man's

face and person. It is his trade, and his business calls upon him to

vilify all that he touches. But were an artist to publish a series of

portraits, in which two out of a dozen were made to be hideous, he

would certainly make two enemies, if not more. Mr. Alf never made

enemies, for he praised no one, and, as far as the expression of his

newspaper went, was satisfied with nothing.

Personally, Mr. Alf was a remarkable man. No one knew whence he came

or what he had been. He was supposed to have been born a German Jew;

and certain ladies said that they could distinguish in his tongue the

slightest possible foreign accent. Nevertheless it was conceded to

him that he knew England as only an Englishman can know it. During

the last year or two he had "come up" as the phrase goes, and had

come up very thoroughly. He had been black-balled at three or four

clubs, but had effected an entrance at two or three others, and

had learned a manner of speaking of those which had rejected him

calculated to leave on the minds of hearers a conviction that the

societies in question were antiquated, imbecile, and moribund. He

was never weary of implying that not to know Mr. Alf, not to be on

good terms with Mr. Alf, not to understand that let Mr. Alf have been

born where he might and how he might he was always to be recognised

as a desirable acquaintance, was to be altogether out in the dark.

And that which he so constantly asserted, or implied, men and

women around him began at last to believe,--and Mr. Alf became an

acknowledged something in the different worlds of politics, letters,

and fashion.

He was a good-looking man, about forty years old, but carrying

himself as though he was much younger, spare, below the middle

height, with dark brown hair which would have shown a tinge of

grey but for the dyer's art, with well-cut features, with a smile

constantly on his mouth the pleasantness of which was always belied

by the sharp severity of his eyes. He dressed with the utmost

simplicity, but also with the utmost care. He was unmarried, had

a small house of his own close to Berkeley Square at which he

gave remarkable dinner parties, kept four or five hunters in

Northamptonshire, and was reputed to earn £6,000 a year out of the

"Evening Pulpit" and to spend about half of that income. He also was

intimate after his fashion with Lady Carbury, whose diligence in

making and fostering useful friendships had been unwearied. Her

letter to Mr. Alf was as follows;--

DEAR MR. ALF,--

Do tell me who wrote the review on Fitzgerald Barker's

last poem. Only I know you won't. I remember nothing done

so well. I should think the poor wretch will hardly hold

his head up again before the autumn. But it was fully

deserved. I have no patience with the pretensions of

would-be poets who contrive by toadying and underground

influences to get their volumes placed on every

drawing-room table. I know no one to whom the world has

been so good-natured in this way as to Fitzgerald Barker,

but I have heard of no one who has extended the good

nature to the length of reading his poetry.

Is it not singular how some men continue to obtain the

reputation of popular authorship without adding a word

to the literature of their country worthy of note? It is

accomplished by unflagging assiduity in the system of

puffing. To puff and to get one's self puffed have become

different branches of a new profession. Alas, me! I wish

I might find a class open in which lessons could be taken

by such a poor tyro as myself. Much as I hate the thing

from my very soul, and much as I admire the consistency

with which the "Pulpit" has opposed it, I myself am so

much in want of support for my own little efforts, and

am struggling so hard honestly to make for myself a

remunerative career, that I think, were the opportunity

offered to me, I should pocket my honour, lay aside the

high feeling which tells me that praise should be bought

neither by money nor friendship, and descend among the low

things, in order that I might one day have the pride of

feeling that I had succeeded by my own work in providing

for the needs of my children.

But I have not as yet commenced the descent downwards;

and therefore I am still bold enough to tell you that I

shall look, not with concern but with a deep interest,

to anything which may appear in the "Pulpit" respecting

my "Criminal Queens." I venture to think that the

book,--though I wrote it myself,--has an importance of

its own which will secure for it some notice. That my

inaccuracy will be laid bare and presumption scourged I do

not in the least doubt, but I think your reviewer will be

able to certify that the sketches are life-like and the

portraits well considered. You will not hear me told,

at any rate, that I had better sit at home and darn

my stockings, as you said the other day of that poor

unfortunate Mrs. Effington Stubbs.

I have not seen you for the last three weeks. I have a few

friends every Tuesday evening;--pray come next week or

the week following. And pray believe that no amount of

editorial or critical severity shall make me receive you

otherwise than with a smile.

Most sincerely yours,

MATILDA CARBURY.

Lady Carbury, having finished her third letter, threw herself back

in her chair, and for a moment or two closed her eyes, as though

about to rest. But she soon remembered that the activity of her life

did not admit of such rest. She therefore seized her pen and began

scribbling further notes.