The Way We Live Now | Page 2

I must not take up your time by sending you another book, though
it gratifies me to think that I am writing what none but yourself will
read. Do it yourself, like a dear man, and, as you are great, be merciful.
Or rather, as you are a friend, be loving.
Yours gratefully and faithfully,
MATILDA CARBURY.
After all how few women there are who can raise themselves above the
quagmire of what we call love, and make themselves anything but
playthings for men. Of almost all these royal and luxurious sinners it
was the chief sin that in some phase of their lives they consented to be
playthings without being wives. I have striven so hard to be proper; but

when girls read everything, why should not an old woman write
anything?'

This letter was addressed to Nicholas Broune, Esq., the editor of the
'Morning Breakfast Table,' a daily newspaper of high character; and, as
it was the longest, so was it considered to be the most important of the
three. Mr Broune was a man powerful in his profession and he was
fond of ladies. Lady Carbury in her letter had called herself an old
woman, but she was satisfied to do so by a conviction that no one else
regarded her in that light. Her age shall be no secret to the reader,
though to her most intimate friends, even to Mr Broune, it had never
been divulged. She was forty-three, but carried her years so well, and
had received such gifts from nature, that it was impossible to deny that
she was still a beautiful woman. And she used her beauty not only to
increase her influence as is natural to women who are well-favoured
but also with a well-considered calculation that she could obtain
material assistance in the procuring of bread and cheese, which was
very necessary to Her, by a prudent adaptation to her purposes of the
good things with which providence had endowed her. She did not fall
in love, she did not wilfully flirt, she did not commit herself; but she
smiled and whispered, and made confidences, and looked out of her
own eyes into men's eyes as though there might be some mysterious
bond between her and them if only mysterious circumstances would
permit it. But the end of all was to induce some one to do something
which would cause a publisher to give her good payment for indifferent
writing, or an editor to be lenient when, upon the merits of the case, he
should have been severe. Among all her literary friends, Mr Broune
was the one in whom she most trusted; and Mr Broune was fond of
handsome women. It may be as well to give a short record of a scene
which had taken place between Lady Carbury and her friend about a
month before the writing of this letter which has been produced. She
had wanted him to take a series of papers for the 'Morning Breakfast
Table,' and to have them paid for at rate No. 1, whereas she suspected
that he was rather doubtful as to their merit, and knew that, without
special favour, she could not hope for remuneration above rate No. 2,
or possibly even No. 3. So she had looked into his eyes, and had left
her soft, plump hand for a moment in his. A man in such circumstances

is so often awkward, not knowing with any accuracy when to do one
thing and when another! Mr Broune, in a moment of enthusiasm, had
put his arm round Lady Carbury's waist and had kissed her. To say that
Lady Carbury was angry, as most women would be angry if so treated,
would be to give an unjust idea of her character. It was a little accident
which really carried with it no injury, unless it should be the injury of
leading to a rupture between herself and a valuable ally. No feeling of
delicacy was shocked. What did it matter? No unpardonable insult had
been offered; no harm had been done, if only the dear susceptible old
donkey could be made at once to understand that that wasn't the way to
go on!
Without a flutter, and without a blush, she escaped from his arm, and
then made him an excellent little speech. 'Mr Broune, how foolish, how
wrong, how mistaken! Is it not so? Surely you do not wish to put an
end to the friendship between us!'
'Put an end to our friendship, Lady Carbury! Oh, certainly not that.'
'Then why risk it by such an act? Think of my son and of my daughter
both grown up. Think of the past troubles of my life so much suffered
and so little deserved. No one knows them so well