CHAPTER XCIX.

LADY CARBURY AND MR. BROUNE.

When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden that

he intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreign

travel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestant

divine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortune

some years since,--he was not altogether lying. There was indeed

a sounder basis of truth than was usually to be found attached to

his statements. That he should have intended to produce a false

impression was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that he

should have made his attempt by asserting things which he must have

known that no one would believe. He was going to Germany, and he was

going in company with a clergyman, and it had been decided that he

should remain there for the next twelve months. A representation had

lately been made to the Bishop of London that the English Protestants

settled in a certain commercial town in the north-eastern district of

Prussia were without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himself

in the matter. A clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself,

but the income suggested was very small. The Protestant English

population of the commercial town in question, though pious, was not

liberal. It had come to pass that the "Morning Breakfast Table" had

interested itself in the matter, having appealed for subscriptions

after a manner not unusual with that paper. The bishop and all those

concerned in the matter had fully understood that if the "Morning

Breakfast Table" could be got to take the matter up heartily, the

thing would be done. The heartiness had been so complete that it had

at last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, as

with all the aid that could be found, the income was still small, the

Rev. Septimus Blake,--a brand snatched from the burning of Rome,--had

been induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of Sir

Felix Carbury for a consideration. Mr. Broune imparted to Mr. Blake

all that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counsel

as to the management of the young man, and specially enjoining

on the clergyman that he should on no account give Sir Felix the

means of returning home. It was evidently Mr. Broune's anxious wish

that Sir Felix should see as much as possible of German life, at a

comparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances that

should be externally respectable if not absolutely those which a

young gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;--but

especially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedy

return to England of the young gentleman himself.

Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. Terribly difficult

as was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could not

endure the idea of driving him into exile. But Mr. Broune was very

obstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard of

heart. "What is to be the end of it then?" he said to her, almost in

anger. For in those days the great editor, when in presence of Lady

Carbury, differed very much from that Mr. Broune who used to squeeze

her hand and look into her eyes. His manner with her had become so

different that she regarded him as quite another person. She hardly

dared to contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tell

him what she really felt and thought. "Do you mean to let him eat

up everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to the

workhouse with him?"

"Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horrid

things."

"It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myself

compelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there be

in his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What can

he do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from the

life he is leading?"

"If he could only be married!"

"Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throw

herself away upon him?"

"He is so handsome."

"What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let me

tell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep him

here you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. He

has agreed to go;--let him go."

She was forced to yield. Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented,

it was almost impossible that she should not do so. Perhaps Mr.

Broune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness with

which he persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels. "Your

mother," said Mr. Broune, "has made up her mind that she will

not absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that your

indulgence may be prolonged for a few months. She cannot make you

go to Germany of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and,

unless you go, she will do so."

"I don't think she ever said that, Mr. Broune."

"No;--she has not said so. But I have said it for her in her

presence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so.

You may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you take

her advice £175 a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if you

remain in England not a shilling further will be paid." He had no

money. His last sovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman would

give him credit for a coat or a pair of boots. The key of the

door had been taken away from him. The very page treated him with

contumely. His clothes were becoming rusty. There was no prospect

of amusement for him during the coming autumn or winter. He did not

anticipate much excitement in Eastern Prussia, but he thought that

any change must be a change for the better. He assented, therefore,

to the proposition made by Mr. Broune, was duly introduced to the

Rev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last sovereign on a last

dinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions for the immediate

future to those friends at his club who would no doubt mourn his

departure.

Mr. Blake and Mr. Broune between them did not allow the grass to

grow under their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, with

Mr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hull

for Hamburgh,--having extracted at the very hour of parting a last

five-pound note from his foolish mother. "It will be just enough to

bring him home," said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was told

of this. But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well, assured him that

Felix would be restrained in his expenditure by no such prudence as

such a purpose would indicate. "It will be gone," she said, "long

before they reach their destination."

"Then why the deuce should you give it him?" said Mr. Broune.

Mr. Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half a

year's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket.

Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that that

unfortunate woman would often tell herself that she was becoming

subject to the great editor, almost like a slave. He came to her,

three or four times a week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, and

gave her instructions as to all that she should do. "I wouldn't write

another novel if I were you," he said. This was hard, as the writing

of novels was her great ambition, and she had flattered herself that

the one novel which she had written was good. Mr. Broune's own critic

had declared it to be very good in glowing language. The "Evening

Pulpit" had of course abused it,--because it is the nature of the

"Evening Pulpit" to abuse. So she had argued with herself, telling

herself that the praise was all true, whereas the censure had come

from malice. After that article in the "Breakfast Table," it did seem

hard that Mr. Broune should tell her to write no more novels. She

looked up at him piteously but said nothing. "I don't think you'd

find it answer. Of course you can do it as well as a great many

others. But then that is saying so little!"

"I thought I could make some money."

"I don't think Mr. Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--I

don't, indeed. I think I would turn to something else."

"It is so very hard to get paid for what one does."

To this Mr. Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting for

a while, almost in silence, he took his leave. On that very morning

Lady Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part from

her daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardly

keep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her means

permitted it. What should she do with herself? Whither should she

take herself? Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come from

those words of Mr. Broune forbidding her to write more novels. After

all, then, she was not a clever woman,--not more clever than other

women around her! That very morning she had prided herself on her

coming success as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review in

the "Breakfast Table." Now, with that reaction of spirits which is so

common to all of us, she was more than equally despondent. He would

not thus have crushed her without a reason. Though he was hard to her

now,--he who used to be so soft,--he was very good. It did not occur

to her to rebel against him. After what he had said, of course there

would be no more praise in the "Breakfast Table,"--and, equally of

course, no novel of hers could succeed without that. The more she

thought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be. The more she

thought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to have

fallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literary

career not much more than twelve months ago.

On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle,

wretched, and alone. She could not interest herself in Hetta's coming

marriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of her

broken schemes. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr.

Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the first

chapter of a second novel. It was impossible now that she should even

look at what she had written. All this made her very sad. She spent

the evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, with

her cousin's friend, Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thought

of her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with a

broken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, after

a fashion, repent. It was all "leather or prunello," as she said to

herself;--it was all vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! What real

enjoyment had she found in anything? She had only taught herself to

believe that some day something would come which she would like;--but

she had never as yet in truth found anything to like. It had all been

in anticipation,--but now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr.

Broune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any more

novels,--and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him!

The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still very

wretched. "I shall give up this house," she said. "I can't afford to

keep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least know

where to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place will

be the same to me now."

"I don't see why you should say that."

"What does it matter?"

"You wouldn't think of going out of London."

"Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest."

"I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not see

you," said Mr. Broune plaintively.

"So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody.

But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in some

miserable lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that I

am wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes,

so that I may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hetta

doesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to."

"I want you," said Mr. Broune, very quietly.

"Ah,--that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so good

as goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as the

acceptance from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, because

I have so sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almost

daily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?"

"When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Two

or three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly,

if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That has

been altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convinced

myself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still,

I have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will best

contribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that it

would mar yours."

This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, that

the words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly at

first brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed his

offer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made her

feel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was not

that she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poor

insipid compliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew that

it could not be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion of

herself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities and

littlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that such

a man as this should in truth want to make her his wife. At this

moment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than either

perhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in the

face, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, with

his eyes intent on her countenance. "Well," he said; "what do you

think of it? I never loved you better than I did for refusing me

before, because I thought that you did so because it was not right

that I should be embarrassed by your son."

"That was the reason," she said, almost in a whisper.

"But I shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you will

accept me."

The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. The

ambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to a

handsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had driven

her to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when she

returned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though she

had never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London,

her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of her

son's career;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, in

any of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had been

heaviest. Could it be that now at last real peace should be within

her reach, and that tranquillity which comes from an anchor holding

to a firm bottom? Then she remembered that first kiss,--or attempted

kiss,--when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she had

told herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. She certainly

had not thought then that his susceptibility was of this nature.

Nor could she quite understand now whether she had been right then,

and that the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had since

changed,--or whether he had really loved her from first to last. As

he remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him. "You

can hardly have thought of it enough," she said.

"I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it for

six months at least."

"There is so much against me."

"What is there against you?"

"They say bad things of me in India."

"I know all about that," replied Mr. Broune.

"And Felix!"

"I think I may say that I know all about that also."

"And then I have become so poor!"

"I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. Luckily

for me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that I

should do so."

"And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don't

know what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offer

to give to me."

"Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her. And there

he sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself compelled

to put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very absolute

words. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him without

looking at him. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she was

kneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Considering

their ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. They

would certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined that

any one could have seen them. But how many absurdities of the kind

are not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long as they

remain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! It is not that Age

is ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that the

display of it is, without the graces of which Youth is proud, and

which Age regrets.

On that occasion there was very little more said between them. He had

certainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. As he went

down to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, not

only for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had won

him more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.

She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to a

thorough reaction of spirit. That morning the world had been a

perfect blank to her. There was no single object of interest before

her. Now everything was rose-coloured. This man who had thus bound

her to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affection

and truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world; a man than

whom few,--so she now told herself,--were greater or more powerful.

Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such a

man, to receive his friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?

Whether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never are

realised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell;

but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, Lady

Carbury became the wife of Mr. Broune, and, in furtherance of her own

resolve, took her husband's name. The house in Welbeck Street was

kept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded by

the literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.