CHAPTER II.
THE CARBURY FAMILY.
Something of herself and
condition Lady Carbury has told the reader in the letters given in the
former chapter, but more must be added. She has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also shown that she was not a woman whose words about herself could be taken with much
confidence. If the reader does not
understand so much from 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 for the
need of her children, and that with that
noble purpose before her she was struggling to make for herself a
career in
literature. Detestably false as had been her letters to the editors,
absolutely and abominably
foul as was the
entire system by which she was endeavouring to
achieve success, far away from honour and
honesty as she had been carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things among which she had lately
fallen,
nevertheless her statements about herself were
substantially true. She had been ill-treated. She had been slandered. She was true to her children,-especially
devoted to one of them,-and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she could
advance their interests.
She was the
widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years since had done great things as a
soldier in India, and had been thereupon created a baronet. He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out when too late that he had made a
mistake, had
occasionally spoilt his
darling and
occasionally ill used her. In doing each he had done it abundantly. Among Lady Carbury's faults had never been that of even
incipient,-not even of
sentimental infidelity to her
husband. When as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a man of forty-four who had the spending of a large
income, she had made up her
mind to
abandon all hope of that sort of love which poets
describe and which young people generally
desire to
experience. Sir Patrick at the time of his
marriage was red-faced,
stout,
bald, very
choleric,
generous in money,
suspicious in
temper, and
intelligent. He knew how to
govern men. He could read and
understand a book. There was nothing
mean about him. He had his
attractive qualities. He was a man who
might be loved;-but he was hardly a man for love. The young Lady Carbury had understood her position and had
determined to do her
duty. She had resolved before she went to the
altar that she would never
allow herself to
flirt and she had never flirted. For fifteen years things had gone tolerably well with her,-by which it is intended that the reader should
understand that they had so gone that she had been
able to
tolerate them. They had been home in England for three or four years, and then Sir Patrick had returned with some new and higher
appointment. For fifteen years, though he had been
passionate,
imperious, and often
cruel, he had never been
jealous. A boy and a girl had been born to them, to whom both father and mother had been over
indulgent;-but the mother,
according to her lights, had endeavoured to do her
duty by them. But from the
commencement of her life she had been educated in
deceit, and her married life had seemed to make the
practice of
deceit necessary to her. Her mother had run away from her father, and she had been tossed to and fro between this and that protector, sometimes being in danger of wanting any one to care for her,
till she had been made
sharp,
incredulous, and untrustworthy by the difficulties of her position. But she was
clever, and had picked up an
education and good manners amidst the difficulties of her childhood,-and had been beautiful to look at. To marry and have the
command of money, to do her
duty correctly, to live in a big house and be respected, had been her
ambition,-and during the first fifteen years of her married life she was
successful amidst great difficulties. She would smile within five minutes of
violent ill-usage. Her
husband would even
strike her,-and the first
effort of her
mind would be given to
conceal the
fact from all the world. In
latter years he drank too much, and she struggled hard first to
prevent the
evil, and then to
prevent and to
hide the ill effects of the
evil. But in doing all this she schemed, and lied, and lived a life of manœuvres. Then, at last, when she felt that she was no longer quite a young woman, she allowed herself to
attempt to form friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the other sex. If
fidelity in a wife be
compatible with such
friendship, if the married
state does not
exact from a woman the
necessity of debarring herself from all friendly intercourse with any man except her lord, Lady Carbury was not
faithless. But Sir Carbury became
jealous,
spoke words which even she could not
endure, did things which drove even her beyond the calculations of her
prudence,-and she left him. But even this she did in so
guarded a way that, as to every step she took, she could
prove her
innocence. Her life at that
period is of little
moment to our story, except that it is
essential that the reader should know in what she had been slandered. For a month or two all hard words had been said against her by her
husband's friends, and even by Sir Patrick himself. But gradually the truth was known, and after a year's separation they came again together and she remained the mistress of his house
till he died. She brought him home to England, but during the short
period left to him of life in his old country he had been a worn-out, dying
invalid. But the
scandal of her great
misfortune had followed her, and some people were never
tired of reminding others that in the course of her married life Lady Carbury had run away from her
husband, and had been taken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.
Sir Patrick had left behind him a
moderate fortune, though by no means great
wealth. To his son, who was now Sir Felix Carbury, he had left £1,000 a year; and to his
widow as much, with a
provision that after her death the
latter sum should be divided between his son and daughter. It therefore came to pass that the young man, who had already entered the army when his father died, and upon whom devolved no
necessity of keeping a house, and who in
fact not unfrequently lived in his mother's house, had an
income equal to that with which his mother and his sister were obliged to
maintain a roof over their head. Now Lady Carbury, when she was released from her thraldom at the age of forty, had no idea at all of passing her
future life amidst the
ordinary penances of widowhood. She had
hitherto endeavoured to do her
duty, knowing that in accepting her position she was
bound to take the good and the bad together. She had
certainly encountered
hitherto much that was bad. To be scolded, watched, beaten, and sworn at by a
choleric old man
till she was at last driven out of her house by the
violence of his ill-usage; to be taken back as a favour with the
assurance that her name would for the
remainder of her life be unjustly tarnished; to have her flight constantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become for a year or two the nurse of a dying debauchee, was a high price to pay for such good things as she had
hitherto enjoyed. Now at
length had come to her a
period of relaxation-her
reward, her
freedom, her chance of
happiness. She
thought much about herself, and resolved on one or two things. The time for love had gone by, and she would have nothing to do with it. Nor would she marry again for
convenience. But she would have friends,-real friends; friends who could help her,-and whom possibly she
might help. She would, too, make some
career for herself, so that life
might not be without an
interest to her. She would live in London, and would become somebody at any rate in some circle. Accident at first rather than
choice had thrown her among
literary people, but that
accident had, during the last two years, been supported and corroborated by the
desire which had
fallen upon her of earning money. She had known from the first that
economy would be
necessary to her,-not
chiefly or perhaps not at all from a feeling that she and her daughter could not live comfortably together on a thousand a year,-but on
behalf of her son. She wanted no
luxury but a house so placed that people
might conceive of her that she lived in a
proper part of the town. Of her daughter's
prudence she was as well
convinced as of her own. She could
trust Henrietta in everything. But her son, Sir Felix, was not very
trustworthy. And yet Sir Felix was the
darling of her
heart.
At the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our story is
supposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money. Sir Felix was then twenty-five, had been in a
fashionable regiment for four years, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once, had altogether wasted the
property which his father had left him. So much the mother knew,-and knew, therefore, that with her limited
income she must
maintain not only herself and daughter, but also the baronet. She did not know, however, the amount of the baronet's obligations;-nor, indeed, did he, or any one else. A baronet, holding a
commission in the Guards, and known to have had a
fortune left him by his father, may go very far in getting into
debt; and Sir Felix had made full use of all his privileges. His life had been in every way bad. He had become a
burden on his mother so heavy,-and on his sister also,-that their life had become one of
unavoidable embarrassments. But not for a
moment had either of them ever quarrelled with him. Henrietta had been taught by the
conduct of both father and mother that every
vice might be forgiven in a man and in a son, though every
virtue was
expected from a woman, and especially from a daughter. The
lesson had come to her so early in life that she had
learned it without the feeling of any
grievance. She
lamented her brother's
evil conduct as it
affected him, but she pardoned it altogether as it
affected herself. That all her interests in life should be made
subservient to him was
natural to her; and when she found that her little comforts were discontinued, and her
moderate expenses curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now eating up also all that was his mother's, she never complained. Henrietta had been taught to think that men in that
rank of life in which she had been born always did eat up everything.
The mother's feeling was less
noble,-or perhaps, it
might better be said, more open to
censure. The boy, who had been beautiful as a star, had ever been the
cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on which her
heart had rivetted itself. Even during the
career of his
folly she had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the
purport of stopping him on his road to
ruin. In everything she had spoilt him as a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a man. She was almost
proud of his vices, and had taken
delight in hearing of doings which if not
vicious of themselves had been
ruinous from their . She had so indulged him that even in her own
presence he was never
ashamed of his own selfishness or
apparently conscious of the
injustice which he did to others.
From all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in
literature which had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure in the work, partly as a
passport into
society, had been converted into hard work by which money if
possible might be earned. So that Lady Carbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her struggles was speaking the truth. Tidings had reached her of this and the other man's
success, and,-coming near to her still,-of this and that other woman's earnings in
literature. And it had seemed to her that, within
moderate limits, she
might give a wide field to her hopes. Why should she not add a thousand a year to her
income, so that Felix
might again live like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in Lady Carbury's look-out into the
future, was
destined to make all things
straight! Who was so
handsome as her son? Who could make himself more
agreeable? Who had more of that
audacity which is the chief thing
necessary to the winning of heiresses? And then he could make his wife Lady Carbury. If only enough money
might be earned to
tide over the present
evil day, all
might be well.
The one most
essential obstacle to the chance of
success in all this was
probably Lady Carbury's
conviction that her end was to be obtained not by producing good books, but by inducing
certain people to say that her books were good. She did work hard at what she 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
knack of spreading all she knew very
thin, so that it
might cover a
vast surface. She had no
ambition to write a good book, but was painfully
anxious 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 in the "Breakfast Table," it may be doubted whether the
critic's own
opinion would have even wounded her
vanity. The woman was false from head to foot, but there was much of good in her, false though she was.
Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was
solely by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say? It is hardly
possible that he should not have been better had he been taken away as an infant and subjected to
moral training by
moral teachers. And yet again it is hardly
possible that any training or want of training should have produced a
heart so
utterly incapable of feeling for others as was his. He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched the outward comforts of the
moment. It seemed that he lacked
sufficient imagination to realise
future misery though the futurity to be
considered was divided from the present but by a single month, a single week,-but by a single night. He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and they who so treated him were his chosen friends. He had in this the instincts of a horse, not approaching the higher sympathies of a dog. But it cannot be said of him that he had ever loved any one to the
extent of denying himself a
moment's
gratification on that loved one's
behalf. His
heart was a stone. But he was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and
intelligent. He was very dark, with that soft olive
complexion which so generally gives to young men an
appearance of
aristocratic breeding. His hair, which was never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was soft and
silky without that
taint of grease which is so
common with silken-headed darlings. His eyes were long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the
perfect arch of the
perfect eyebrow. But perhaps the
glory of the face was due more to the finished moulding and 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 his eyebrows, but he wore no other beard. The form of his chin too was
perfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of
expression,
indicative of softness of
heart, which a dimple conveys. He was about five 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 man had ever been more
handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed
consciousness of his beauty. He had given himself 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 army standing
till he
lost it; and especially on the
score of
superiority in
fashionable intellect. But he had been
clever enough to dress himself always with
simplicity and to
avoid the
appearance of
thought about his outward man. As yet the little world of his associates had hardly found out how
callous were his affections,-or rather how
devoid he was of
affection. His airs and his
appearance, joined with some
cleverness, had carried him
through even the viciousness of his life. In one
matter he had marred his name, and by a
moment's weakness had
injured his
character among his friends more than he had done by the
folly of three years. There had been a
quarrel between him and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and, when the
moment came in which a man's
heart should have produced manly
conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white
feather. That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the
evil;-but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been cowed, and had cowered.
It was now his business to marry an heiress. He was well
aware that it was so, and was quite prepared to face his
destiny. But he lacked something in the art of making love. He was beautiful, had the manners of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of
audacity, and had no feeling of
repugnance at declaring a
passion which he did not feel. But he knew so little of the
passion, that he could hardly make even a young girl believe that he felt it. When he talked of love, he not only
thought that he was talking
nonsense, but showed that he
thought so. From this
fault he had already failed with one young lady reputed to have £40,000, who had refused him because, as she naively said, she knew "he did not really care." "How can I show that 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," she said. And so that young lady escaped the pit-fall. Now there was another 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 £40,000 of her
predecessor, but was known to be very much greater than that. It was, indeed, generally
supposed to be fathomless, bottomless, endless. It was said that in regard to money for
ordinary expenditure, money for houses, servants, horses, jewels, and the like, one
sum was the same as another to the father of this young lady. He had great concerns;-concerns so great that the
payment of ten or twenty thousand pounds upon any
trifle was the same thing to him,-as to men who are
comfortable in their circumstances it matters little whether they pay sixpence or ninepence for their
mutton chops. Such a man may be
ruined at any time; but there was no
doubt that to any one marrying his daughter during the present season of his
outrageous prosperity he could give a very large
fortune indeed. Lady Carbury, who had known the rock on which her son had been once wrecked, was very
anxious that Sir Felix should at once make a
proper use of the
intimacy which he had effected in the house of this topping Crœsus of the day.
And now there must be a few words said about Henrietta Carbury. Of course she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, who was a baronet, the head of that
branch of the Carburys, and her mother's
darling; and, therefore, a few words should
suffice. She also was very lovely, being like her brother; but somewhat less dark and with features less
absolutely regular. But she had in her
countenance a full
measure of that sweetness of
expression which seems to
imply that
consideration of self is subordinated to
consideration for others. This sweetness was altogether lacking to her brother. And her face was a true
index of her
character. Again, who shall say why the brother and sister had become so
opposite to each other; whether they would have been
thus different had both been taken away as infants from their father's and mother's training, or whether the girl's virtues were owing altogether to the lower place which she had held in her parent's
heart? She, at any rate, had not been spoilt by a
title, by the
command of money, and by the temptations of too early
acquaintance with the world. At the present time she was
barely twenty-one years old, and had not seen much of London
society. Her mother did not
frequent balls, and during the last two years there had grown upon them a
necessity for
economy which was
inimical to many gloves and costly dresses. Sir Felix went out of course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home with her mother in Welbeck Street. Occasionally the world saw her, and when the world did see her the world declared that she was a
charming girl. The world was so far
right.
But for Henrietta Carbury the
romance of life had already commenced in real
earnest. There was another
branch of the Carburys, the head
branch, which was now represented by one Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall. Roger Carbury was a gentleman of whom much will have to be said, but here, at this
moment, it
need only be told that he was passionately in love with his cousin Henrietta. He was, however, nearly forty years old, and there was one Paul Montague whom Henrietta had seen.