‘It won’t do us the least harm, Lady Carbury.’
‘It’ll stop the sale?’
‘Not much. A book of that sort couldn’t hope to go on very long, you know. The “Breakfast Table” gave it an excellent lift, and came just at the right time. I rather like the notice in the “Pulpit,” myself.’
‘Like it!’ said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre of her self-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut’s car-wheels.
‘Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry away nothing as to the purport of the review. It’s a very good advertisement.’
‘But to be told that I have got to learn the A B C of history after working as I have worked!’
‘That’s a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury.’
‘You think the book has done pretty well?’
‘Pretty well; — just about what we hoped, you know.’
‘There’ll be something coming to me, Mr Leadham?’
Mr Leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran up a few figures, and then scratched his head. There would be something, but Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. It did not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book. Nevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the publisher’s shop, did carry a cheque with her. She was smartly dressed and looked very well, and had smiled on Mr Leadham. Mr Leadham, too, was no more than man, and had written — a small cheque.
Mr Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr Broune, of the ‘Breakfast Table’ and Mr Booker of the ‘Literary Chronicle’ had been true to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, ‘done’ Mr Booker’s ‘New Tale of a Tub’ in the ‘Breakfast Table.’ That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr Broune’s eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr Broune’s sleeve, and suggesting to Mr Broune that no one understood her so well as he did, to bedaub Mr Booker’s very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion — and to be paid for her work. What had been said about his work in the ‘Breakfast Table’ had been very distasteful to poor Mr Booker. It grieved his inner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to which he had unfortunately become accustomed. So Mr Booker himself wrote the article on the ‘Criminal Queens’ in the ‘Literary Chronicle,’ knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. ‘Remarkable vivacity.’ ‘Power of delineating character.’ ‘Excellent choice of subject.’ ‘Considerable intimacy with the historical details of various periods.’ ‘The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again.’ The composition of the review, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of Mr Booker’s time. He made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and there read those that were open. He had done this kind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. He could have reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. When the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt it to be hard upon him that he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, to descend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflect that in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty to break stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. ‘If I didn’t, somebody else would,’ he said to himself.
But the review in the ‘Morning Breakfast Table’ was the making of Lady Carbury’s book, as far as it ever was made. Mr Broune saw the lady after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter of this Tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had been fully performed. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work, and the world had been assured that no more delightful mixture of amusement and instruction had ever been concocted than Lady Carbury’s ‘Criminal Queens.’ It was the very book that had been wanted for years. It was a work of infinite research and brilliant imagination combined. There had been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint. At that last meeting Lady Carbury had been very soft, very handsome, and very winning; Mr Broune had given the order with good will, and it had been obeyed in the same feeling.
Therefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had also been some elation; and as a net result, Lady Carbury was disposed to think that her literary career might yet be a success. Mr Leadham’s cheque had been for a small amount, but it might probably lead the way to something better. People at any rate were talking about her, and her Tuesday evenings at home were generally full. But her literary life, and her literary successes, her flirtations with Mr Broune, her business with Mr Booker, and her crushing by Mr Alf’s Mr Jones, were after all but adjuncts to that real inner life of hers of which the absorbing interest was her son. And with regard to him too she was partly depressed, and partly elated, allowing her hopes however to dominate her fears. There was very much to frighten her. Even the moderate reform in the young man’s expenses which had been effected under dire necessity had been of late abandoned. Though he never told her anything, she became aware that during the last month of the hunting season he had hunted nearly every day. She knew, too, that he had a horse up in town. She never saw him but once in the day, when she visited him in his bed about noon, and was aware that he was always at his club throughout the night. She knew that he was gambling, and she hated gambling as being of all pastimes the most dangerous. But she knew that he had ready money for his immediate purposes, and that two or three tradesmen who were gifted with a peculiar power of annoying their debtors, had ceased to trouble her in Welbeck Street. For the present, therefore, she consoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was successful. But her elation sprang from a higher source than this. From all that she could hear, she thought it likely that Felix would carry off the great prize; and then — should he do that — what a blessed son would he have been to her! How constantly in her triumph would she be able to forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, his late hours, and his cruel treatment of herself! As she thought of it the bliss seemed to be too great for the possibility of realisation. She was taught to understand that £10,000 a year, to begin with, would be the least of it; and that the ultimate wealth might probably be such as to make Sir Felix Carbury the richest commoner in England. In her very heart of hearts she worshipped wealth, but desired it for him rather than for herself. Then her mind ran away to baronies and earldoms, and she was lost in the coming glories of the boy whose faults had already nearly engulfed her in his own ruin.
And she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much, though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. She had discovered that her son had become a Director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company. She must have known — she certainly did know — that Felix, such as he was, could not lend assistance by his work to any company or commercial enterprise in the world. She was aware that there was some reason for such a choice hidden from the world, and which comprised and conveyed a falsehood. A ruined baronet of five-and-twenty, every hour of whose life since he had been left to go alone had been loaded with vice and folly — whose egregious misconduct warranted his friends in regarding him as one incapable of knowing what principle is — of what service could he be, that he should be made a Director? But Lady Carbury, though she knew that he could be of no service, was not at all shocked. She was now able to speak up a little for her boy, and did not forget to send the news by post to Roger Carbury. And her son sat at the same Board with Mr Melmotte! What an indication was this of coming triumphs!
Fisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on the morning of Saturday 19th April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club at about seven in the morning. All that day his mother was unable to see him. She found him asleep in his room at noon and again at two; and when she sought him again he had flown. But on the Sunday she caught him. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘you’ll stay at home on Tuesday evening.’ Hitherto she had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her evening parties by his presence.
‘All your people are