The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

was sure that there was my monument,” and she put her hand upon the manuscript; “today I feel it to be only too heavy for a gravestone!”

“One’s judgment about one’s self always does vacillate,” said Mr. Alf in a tone as phlegmatic as were the words.

“And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge correctly of one’s own work! I can at any rate trust myself to be honest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics.”

“Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady Carbury⁠—at least not as far as I have observed the business. It is incapacity. In what little I have done in the matter, that is the sin which I have striven to conquer. When we want shoes we go to a professed shoemaker; but for criticism we have certainly not gone to professed critics. I think that when I gave up the Evening Pulpit, I left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded as knowing their business.”

“You given up the Pulpit?” asked Lady Carbury with astonishment, readjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether any and if so what advantage might be taken of Mr. Alf’s new position. He was no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibility would no longer exist;⁠—but he must still have influence. Might he not be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she not succeed if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground before him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poor struggling woman?

“Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of course that I should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand again.”

“And you are no longer an editor?”

“I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruples of those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crime against the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament while I was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course I know where it came from.”

“Where did it come from?”

“Where should it come from but the Breakfast Table? Broune and I have been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I know he is the most jealous.”

“That is so little,” said Lady Carbury. She was really very fond of Mr. Broune, but at the present moment she was obliged to humour Mr. Alf.

“It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in Parliament than an editor of a newspaper⁠—that is if he is capable as an editor.”

“No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you.”

“The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double work. I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the paper. I almost regret it.”

“I dare say you do,” said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely anxious to talk about her own affairs instead of his. “I suppose you still retain an interest in the paper?”

“Some pecuniary interest;⁠—nothing more.”

“Oh, Mr. Alf⁠—you could do me such a favour!”

“Can I? If I can, you may be sure I will.” False-hearted, false-tongued man! Of course he knew at the moment what was the favour Lady Carbury intended to ask, and of course he had made up his mind that he would not do as he was asked.

“Will you?” And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as she poured forth the words of her prayer. “I never asked you to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think it right, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I am sure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace. I never complained. Did I?”

“Certainly not.”

“But now that you have left it yourself⁠—if you would have the Wheel of Fortune done for me⁠—really well done!”

“The Wheel of Fortune!”

“That is the name of my novel,” said Lady Carbury, putting her hand softly upon the manuscript. “Just at this moment it would be the making of a fortune for me! And, oh, Mr. Alf, if you could but know how I want such assistance!”

“I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady Carbury.”

“Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it certain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. I have taken so much pains with it.”

“Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits.”

“Don’t say that, Mr. Alf. The Evening Pulpit is like⁠—oh, it is like⁠—like⁠—like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before it? Don’t talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. It couldn’t do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once⁠—that is if it were done really con amore.” Mr. Alf looked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. “The paper stands so high, it can’t hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is asking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives.”

“I do not think that it has ever been done by the Evening Pulpit.”

“I have seen books praised.”

“Of course you have.”

“I think I saw a novel spoken highly of.”

Mr. Alf laughed. “Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object of the Pulpit to cry down novels?”

“I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here. I would be so thankful;⁠—so grateful.”

“My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing to do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue.”

“Oh, no,” she