The Way We Live Now, Anthony Trollope [good story books to read .txt] 📗

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 Hamburg⁠—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