“And which will be right?” asked Lottie.
“Both views will be right,” said Fanny. “Although I meant every word of the Ode, I really think now that the idea of writing it before the dedication came to me only when I felt that I had behaved badly in sending the book to the printer without his consent.”
“You wished the Ode to be a sort of peace-offering?” said Susy. “You hoped that when he read it he would forget to be angry? Well, that was cunning of you, Fanny!”
“I tell you that the whole affair has had a bad effect upon us all,” said Fanny gently.
Once again she was conscious of someone telling her that there was no use crying over spilt milk, and this impression was followed by one that took the form of a resolution to be more careful in future. If she had spilt some milk once, that was no reason why she should not, by exercising proper forethought, refrain from doing so again.
But the book was now given to the world, if the world would have it, but as yet a copy had not come into her hand. She wondered if she would have to spend seven and sixpence in buying a copy. Seven shillings and sixpence, sewed. It was a great deal of money. Was it possible that there were five hundred people in the world ready to pay seven and sixpence for a novel with the name of no author on the title page? (She thought it best to leave out of her consideration altogether the possible purchasers of the nine shilling set of bound volumes.)
Who were the people that ever laid out so much money upon books which could be read through between the rising and the setting of the sun? She had never met such liberal enthusiasts. Of course, it was only reasonable that so splendid a work as the “History of Music” should be in the library of every house wherein people of taste resided, but that was not a book to be galloped through; some people might not be able to read it within a month. Besides, it bore the honoured name of Dr. Burney on the title page, and the fame of Dr. Burney was great. But as for that poor little seven-and-sixpenny sewed “Evelina,” how should anyone take an interest in her without reading her story? How would anyone readher story without feeling afterwards that seven-and-sixpence (leaving the nine shilling expenditure out of the question) was a ridiculous price to pay for such an entertainment?
She felt that people would come to look on her as the instigator of a fraud if they paid their money and read the book and then found out that she had written it. The wisdom of concealing her name even from the bookseller was now more apparent to her than it had ever been. She had visions of indignant purchasers railing against Mr. Lowndes, and Mr. Lowndes searching for her, so that he might rail against her; and so her speculations ended in laughter; but even her laughter grated upon her sensitive ears: she felt that it was the malicious jeering of a clever cheat at the thought of having got the better of a worthy man.
Her precious “Evelina” was leading her a pretty dance. If it had not been able to do so it would have been a paltry sort of book and she would have been a paltry sort of author.
Two or three weeks passed without her hearing anything of the book, and it seemed as if it had fallen, as she had at some moments hoped it would fall, like a dull stone into the depths of the sea. She heard nothing of it, and soon she perceived that her sisters felt grievously disappointed at its failure to produce any impression upon the town. Even a dull stone, if dropped into the deep, creates a little fuss on the surface before it sinks out of sight; but Fanny’s book did not, so far as they could see, produce even so superficial an impression. What they expected of it they might have had some trouble explaining; but as it was, they could not conceal their disappointment from Fanny; and they showed it after a short time in a very delicate way: they never alluded to the book in her presence. She perceived that what was in their minds was that it would show very bad taste on their part to refer to it in any way. She was grateful for their consideration; and she resolved to accept their decision on this point as final; she would never allude to the horrid thing in their hearing.
It so happened, however, that she was left alone with Susy in the house one evening. Dr. Burney and his wife had gone to a concert at Esther’s, and Lottie was staying for a day or two in the country. Susy was practising her part of a new duet on the piano, and Fanny was at her sewing. So far as conversation between the two sisters was concerned, the evening had been a very silent one. Indeed, during the whole week a constrained silence had marked the intercourse of the three girls.
Susy hammered away at the music for half an hour; then her playing became more fitful, and at last it ceased altogether.
There was a long silence before Fanny heard a little sound that caused her to raise her head. It was the sound of a sob, and when she looked up she saw that Susy was leaning her forehead upon the bottom of the music rest, weeping bitterly.
Fanny was by her side in a moment.
“Dearest Susy, what is the matter?” she said soothingly. “Tell me, dear; has anything happened? Has anyone been unkind to you? Have I unwittingly done or said anything that seemed to you unkind? Tell me all, Susy.”
But Susy continued crying with her face hidden, though she yielded one of her hands to Fanny.
“Come, my dear, I have helped you before now, and I may be able to help you now. Prithee, what is your trouble?” said Fanny, putting her arm round the girl’s shoulders.
Still Susy remained silent, except for her sobs.
“Tell me,” said Fanny, in a whisper. “Is it that you think that I am chagrined about—about—the book?”
In an instant Susy had whirled round on her seat and flung her arms round her sister’s neck, laying her head on her shoulder.
“Oh, Fanny, Fanny, ’tis too cruel!” she sobbed. “We were sure that so much would come of it—it seemed so splendid to read, even before it was printed—so much better than any other story that ever came into our hands—and you worked so hard at it—every spare moment when you might have been enjoying yourself—in the cold of last winter up in that room—and at Lynn too—and Chessington—and now, when we think thatyour cleverness, your patience, your genius, is to be rewarded, nothing comes of it—all your trouble has gone for nothing—all our secrecy! Oh, it is too cruel!”
“You dear child,” said Fanny. “It is only cruel if it sets you crying in this way. What does it matter to anyone if the book has gone and nothing has come of it? I have been thinking that writing a book and publishing it is like throwing a stone into the sea. It may fall so that it sinks down plumb, or it may fall so that it makes a splash for a while, but it sinks to the bottom all the same. Success or failure is only the difference between a splash and a ripple. We were fools to fancy that our little stone would float.”
“But it was not a stone, it was full of life and it should have—it should have—swum! Oh, the people who buy books are so stupid!”
“They are—that was the hope that I builded on. They are stupid, but not stupid enough to buy my book.”
“Oh, Fanny!”
“That is really the frame of mind that I find myself in to-day. I tell you truly, Susy, that after the first week, I schooled myself to think of the business in this way; and I am certain that in another month I shall even feel delighted that my little pebble made no splash. Look at the matter philosophically, Susy.”
“Oh, philosophically!”
“Well, reasonably. Are we in a different position to-day from that we were in before the book was published? We are not. We are just the same as we were before. It has not injured us in any way. Nay, if you think of it, we are—I, at least, am—all the better for having failed, for I have learned my lesson. I was beginning to feel cleverer than I had any right to think myself, and this has come as a chastening—to make meknow my right place. These rebukes do not come by chance, Susy. I know now that I was inclined to hold my head too high. I don’t think that I will do so again.”
“You never held your head too high—just the opposite. And I think it very cruel that you should be rebuked for nothing. But I do not blame anyone except the wretched people who refused to buy your nice book, but spent their seven and sixpence at Vauxhall or Ranelagh—perhaps watching Mr. Foote and his puppets at the Haymarket. Oh, I have no patience with them! Why, it only needed a thousand people to buy the book and it would have been accounted a success!”
“Then we shall put the blame on the shoulders of that thousand, wheresoever they may be found, and for my part I shall not hold a second thousand altogether blameless—my indignation may even extend to a third. Now, that’s the last word I mean to speak about the book. It has by this time reached the bottom of the sea on which I threw it; and there let it lie!”
“You are an angel—I see that plainly now.”
“Ah, there you see, what I said was true: I am much better for the rebuke I talked about; you never perceived before that I was an angel. Now let that be the last word between us on the subject of my poor little ‘Evelina.’ Her entrance into the world has proved fatal. Oh, Susy, she was stillborn, but her parent is making a rapid recovery.”
“That may be; but cannot you join with me in—”
“I will join with you in maintaining silence on the subject of the little one. I cannot bear to hear her name mentioned. I refuse to say another word about her or her fate. She must have been greatly beloved ofthe gods to die so young. Let that be ‘Evelina’s’ epitaph. I will say nothing more about her.”
It so happened, however, that she was compelled to say a good deal more on the subject, for within half an hour Cousin Edward had called, and he began to talk of “Evelina” at once.
“I went to Hill’s library in the Strand yesterday, to get a book for mother, and there, sure enough, I saw your ‘Evelina,’” said he. “I asked the man in charge what it was about, and he replied that he didn’t know; it was bad enough, he thought, to be compelled to hand out books all day to readers without being forced to read them for himself; but he supposed that ‘Evelina’ was a novel of the usual sort.”
“That was not extravagant praise,” remarked Susy.
“He didn’t mean to praise it,” said Edward. “But when I asked him if anyone who had read it had recommended it, he admitted that every one of the five ladies who had read it was ready to speak well of it—one of them had taken it away a second time; and—would you believe it?—while I was standing at the counter a footman entered the shop with a demand for ‘Evelina,’ as he called it; and he carried off the copy that was already on the desk.”
“For the delectation of the servants’ hall?” suggested Fanny.
“Not at all—it had been recommended to her ladyship, he said, and he had been commanded on no account to return without it; her ladyship was liberal; she would not mind paying sixpence for it, instead of the ordinary fourpence.”
“That was more than liberal, it was generous to a degree,” said Fanny.
“Don’t interrupt him,” cried Susy. “Continue your narrative, Eddy. I am dying to hear the rest.”
“I asked the library man if he knew who wrote the book, and he replied that he had heard the name, but had forgotten it; so far as he remembered the author was a peer of high rank but eccentric habits,” said Edward.
“The book represented his eccentric habits, I suppose,” remarked Fanny.
“I ran out of the place roaring,” said Edward. “‘A peer of high rank but eccentric habits’—describes you to a T, doesn’t it, Cousin Fanny? Pray what is your lordship’s next work to be, and when will it be given to an eager world?”
“Is that all you have to tell?” asked Susy.
“By no means. When I heard that the book was thought well of in the Strand, I thought I would try to get at the opinion of Stanhope Street—you know Masterman’s circulating library there? Well, I boldly entered, and there, sure enough, was a well-thumbed ‘Evelina’ in front of the librarian. I asked for some book that no one had ever heard of, and when the librarian had told me that he had never been asked for that book before, I pointed to ‘Evelina,’ inquiring if it was any good. ‘I’m dead tired on account of its goodness, for I was fool enough to take it to bed with me last night, and I never closed my eyes in sleep,’ he replied. ‘I had it praised to me by a lady of quality, and so too hastily concluded that it would either send me asleep with its dullness, or shock me with its ribaldry; but it did neither, unhappily.’ Just then a chariot stopped at the door and another footman entered with the name ‘Evelina’ written on a sheet of paper, and off he popped with the full three volumes under his arm.I waited no longer; but hurried hither to give you my news. I did not get so far, however, for I was unlucky enough to be overtaken by that vile downpour of rain, and it did not blow over until your dinner hour was at hand.”
“You are my good angel!” cried Fanny, her cheeks glowing. “We have heard nothing of all this respecting the book, and, hearing nothing, we took it for granted that it was dead—dead before it was ever alive. Oh, this is good news you have brought us, Eddy!”
“The best news that has come to us for months!” said Susy. She had turned her head away and was furtively wiping her eyes. The good news affected the sympathetic Susy almost as deeply as her disappointment had done.
“But I have only told you of my adventures of yesterday,” said Edward. “To-day I tried the booksellers, beginning with Mr. Davies and working round to the Dillys in the Poultry—it cost me three shillings, for I had to buy something that I did not particularly want in every shop to excuse my inquiries—and I found ‘Evelina’ on every counter. I cannot say that any customer came in to buy it while I was in any shop, but you may be sure that the book would not be on the counter unless it was highly thought of. Of course I had need to be very discreet among the booksellers; I dared not ask who was the author, but I longed to do so, if only to hear what new story had been made up about it.”
“You heard quite enough to make us glad,” cried Susy. “Oh, how foolish we were to take it for granted that because we had no news of the book, it was dead! It is alive—greatly alive, it would appear! How couldany news of it have come to us here? We should have gone forth in search of it.”
“I knew that we could depend on your discretion,” said Fanny, laying a hand on each of his shoulders. “I do not think that I ever thanked you as I should for the wise way in which you managed the business with Mr. Lowndes, and now I must not neglect to do so for having acted the part of a benevolent agent in bringing us such good news about the book.”
“Psha! there should be no talk of gratitude and the like between us,” said he. “There are family ties—I think of the honour of our family. People already talk of the clever Burneys, but they left you out of the question, Cousin Fanny, since they only thought of music. But now that you have shown what you can do in another direction, you must be reckoned with alongside the others.”
“And what about the other branch of the clever Burneys?” said Fanny. “Don’t you think that people will some of these days begin to ask if Edward Burney, the great painter, is really a brother of the musical Burneys? I hope they will, dear Edward; I hope that the fame of Edward Burney, the painter, will go far beyond that of the musical Burneys, as well as poor Fanny Burney, who once wrote a novel.”
The young man blushed as Fanny herself would certainly have done if confronted with the least little compliment. But there was no false shame about his acceptance of her suggestion.
“I mean to become as good a painter as I can, in order to be worthy of the name of Burney,” said he. “I feel proud of being a Burney—more so to-day than ever before, and I hope that the rest of the Burneys will some day look on me as doing credit to our name.”
“I am sure that they will have every reason to do so,” said Fanny.
When he had gone, Susy gave way to her delight at the news which he had brought. She was a good deal taller than Fanny, and catching her round the waist after the manner of the Elizabethan dancer with his partner, she danced round the table with her, lilting a somewhat breathless pæan. Fanny herself needed no coaxing to be her partner in this revel. In her jubilant moments she got rid of the primness which most people associated with her. She had a wild jig known as “Nancy Dawson,” and she had more than once found it necessary to get rid of her superfluous spirits through this medium. She joined in her sister’s little whoop at the completion of the third “lap” of the table, and they both threw themselves breathless on the sofa.
“I knew it,” said Susy between her gasps. “I knew that I could not be mistaken in believing ‘Evelina’ to be good—I knew that she would make her way in the affections of her readers, and I was right—you see I was right.”
“You were right, dear Susy—quite right,” said Fanny. “I do not like to be too sanguine, but I do believe, from the reports Eddy brought us, that the book will find plenty of readers. Now that we can think over the matter in a reasonable way, we must see how foolish we were to expect that the very day after the book was published people would crowd to buy it; but now, after six weeks, when Eddy goes in search of news about it, he brings back a report which is—we had best say for the present no more than ‘quite satisfactory’—that was the bookseller’s report about the sales of the first volume of the padre’s ‘History’—‘quite satisfactory’—that should be quite satisfactory for the author of ‘Evelina’and her sisters. There is nothing in the book to stir people as it would if written by Mr. Wilkes, but in its humble way it will, I am now persuaded, be pronounced ‘quite satisfactory.’ At any rate, there goes my sewing for the evening.”
She rolled up the strip of linen into a ball and used her hand, after two false starts, as a battledore, to send it flying across the room within reach of Susy, who, being more adroit, was able at the first attempt to return it with both force and precision. Once more Fanny struck it, and her sister sent it back, but by this time the unequal ball had opened out, so that it was only by her foot that Fanny could deal with it effectively. Then, daintily holding up their petticoats, the author of ‘Evelina’ and Susy Burney played with the thing until once more they were panting and laughing joyously.
Perhaps Fanny had a faint inkling of the symbolism implied by this treatment of the discarded needlework.
But little Miss Burney had recovered all her primness on the evening when, a week later, she accompanied her stepmother to partake of tea at the home of the Barlowes in the Poultry.
Young Mr. Barlowe had, for some time after his visit to St. Martin’s Street, brooded over his indiscretion in allowing his impulse at the moment of saying good night to carry him away so that he pressed Miss Burney’s hand, looking into her eyes with an expression in his own of the deepest sympathy—rather more than sympathy. He felt that he had been unduly and indiscreetly hasty in his action. It had been purely impulsive. He had by no means made up his mind that Miss Burney would make him a satisfactory wife. His father and mother had, for a long time, thought very highly of Mrs. Burney, looking on her as a most thrifty and excellent manager of a household. She had shown herself to be all this and more when her first husband was alive and they had visited her at Lynn; and she had proved her capabilities in the same direction since she had married Dr. Burney. Unfortunately, however, the virtues of a stepmother could not be depended on to descend to the children of her husband’s family, and it was by no means certain that Miss Burney had made full use of her opportunities of modelling herself upon her father’s second wife.
No, he had not quite made up his mind on this subject—the gravest that had ever occupied his attention, and he remained sleepless for hours, fearful that he hadgone too far in that look and that squeeze. He had heard of fathers and even brothers waiting upon young men who had acted toward a daughter or a sister pretty much as he had in regard to Miss Burney. He had rather a dread of being visited by Miss Burney’s brother, that young naval officer who had boasted of having been educated by a murderer. Mr. Barlowe thought that a visit from such a young man would be most undesirable, and for several days he went about his business with great uneasiness.
But when a week had gone by and neither father nor brother had waited upon him, he began to review his position more indulgently than when he had previously given it his consideration. He thought more hopefully of Miss Burney as a wife. Perhaps she might have profited more largely than he had thought by her daily intercourse with so capable a woman as Mrs. Burney. At any rate, she was not musical, and that was something in her favour. Then her stepmother had praised her needlework, and everyone knows that to be a good sempstress is next to being a good housekeeper.
He thought that on the whole she would do. Her brother, Lieutenant Burney, would naturally spend most of his time at sea. That was a good thing. Thomas felt that he should hesitate to make any change in his life that involved a liability of frequent visits from a young man who had been taught by a murderer. Who could tell what might happen in the case of such a young man? As for Miss Burney herself, she was, quite apart from her housewifely qualities, a most estimable young lady—modest and retiring, as a young woman should be, and very beautiful. To be sure, he had often heard that beauty was only skin deep, but even assuming that itdid not go any deeper, it had always been highly esteemed by men—none of them seemed to wish it to be of any greater depth; and it was certain that a man with a handsome wife was greatly envied—more so even than a man who was married to a plain woman but a good housewife. Oh, undoubtedly her beauty commended her to his most indulgent consideration. He had no objection in the world to be widely envied, if only on account of his wife’s good looks. It never occurred to him that it might be that some people would think very ordinary a face that seemed to one who was in love with it extremely lovely. He preserved the precious privilege of a man to raise up his own standard of beauty and expect all the rest of the world to acknowledge its supremacy.
Yes, he thought that Miss Burney, beauty and all, would suit him, but still he hesitated in making another call.
This was when Mr. Kendal had the honour of waiting upon Mrs. Burney, and his visit only preceded by a day or two Mrs. Burney’s call upon her old friend, Mrs. Barlowe, in the Poultry; this interchange of courtesies being speedily followed by an invitation for Mrs. Burney and a stepdaughter to drink tea with the Barlowe family.
“I am taking you with me, Fanny, because you are the eldest and, as should be, the most sensible of the household,” said Mrs. Burney, explaining—so far as she thought wise—the invitation on the morning it was received. “There will be no music at Mrs. Barlowe’s, I think, and so you will have no distracting influence to prevent your forming a just opinion of my old friends.”
“I do not mind in the least the absence of music for one night,” said Fanny.
“I am sure of that,” said Mrs. Burney. “Goodness knows we have music enough here during any day to last us over a whole week. The others could not live without it, even if it were not your father’s profession.”
“Without which none of us could live,” remarked Fanny, who had no wish to be forced into the position of the opponent of music in the household.
“Quite right, my dear,” acquiesced the elder lady. “It is a precarious way of making a living. To my mind there is nothing so satisfactory as a good commercial business—a merchant with a shop at his back can afford to laugh at all the world.”
“But he usually refrains,” said Fanny.
“True; he looks at life with proper seriousness, and without levity. Great fortunes are the result of serious attention to business. Levity leads to poverty.”
“Except in the case of Mr. Garrick and a few others.”
“Mr. Garrick is certainly an exception. But, then, you must remember that he was a merchant before he became an actor, and his business habits never left him. I have heard it said that he got more out of his company for the salaries he paid than any theatre manager in Europe. But I did not come to you to talk about Mr. Garrick. I only meant to say that I know you are an observant girl. You do not merely glance at the surface of things, so I am sure that you will perceive much to respect in all the members of Mrs. Barlowe’s family.”
“I am sure they are eminently—respectable, mamma; and I am glad that you have chosen me to be your companion this evening. I like going among such people—it is useful.”
She stopped short in a way that should have arousedthe suspicions of Mrs. Burney, but that lady was unsuspecting, she was only puzzled.
“Useful?” she said interrogatively.
Fanny had no mind to explain that she thought herself rather good at describing people of the Barlowe type, and was ready to submit herself to more experience of them in case she might be encouraged to write another novel. But she knew that she would have some difficulty in explaining this to her stepmother, who herself was an excellent type.
“Useful—perhaps I should rather have said ‘instructive,’” she replied, after a little pause.
“Instructive, yes; I am glad that you look at our visit so sensibly—I knew you would do so. Yes, you should learn much of the excellence of these people even in the short time that we shall be with them. And it is well that you should remember, my dear Fanny, that you are now quite old enough to have a house of your own to look after.”
It was now Fanny’s turn to seem puzzled.
“I do not quite see how—I mean why—why—that is, the connection—is there any connection between—?”
“What I mean to say is that if at some time a suitor for your hand should appear, belonging to a respectable mercantile family, you will know, without the need of any telling, that your chances of happiness with such a man are far greater than they would be were you to wed someone whose means of getting a living were solely the practice of some of the arts, as they are called—music or painting or the rest.”
“I do not doubt that, mamma,” said Fanny demurely. She was beginning to think that her stepmother was a far better type than she had fancied.
And her stepmother was beginning to think that shehad never given Fanny credit for all the good sense she possessed.
The six o’clock tea-party in the Poultry was a function that Fanny Burney’s quick pen only could describe as it deserved to be described. All the time that it was proceeding her fingers were itching to start on it. She could see Mr. Crisp smiling in that appreciative way that he had, as he read her smart sentences, every one of them with its little acid flavour, that remained on the palate of his memory. She was an artist in character drawing, and she was one of the first to perceive how excellent was the material for artistic treatment that might be found in the house of the English tradesman—the superior tradesman who aspired to be called a merchant. She neglected no opportunity of observing such houses; it was only when she was daily consorting with people of the highest rank that she became alarmed lest her descriptions should be accepted as proof that she was in the habit of meeting on terms of intimacy the types of English bourgeois which she had drawn.
The ground-floor of Mr. Barlowe’s house in the Poultry was given over to his business, which, as has already been mentioned, was that of a vendor of gold and silver lace. The walls carried shelves from floor to ceiling, and every shelf had its line of boxes enclosing samples of an abundant and valuable stock. The large room at the back was a sort of counting-house parlour, where Mr. Barlowe sat during the day with his son and an elderly clerk, ready for the customers, whose arrival was announced by the ringing of a spring bell. The scales for the weighing of the bullion and the worked gold and silver wire were suspended above the broad counter in the shop, and from a hook between the shelves there hung a number of ruled forms with spaces for oz.,dwt. and grs. On these were entered the particulars of the material supplied to the workmen who made up the lace as required. The upper part of the house was the home of the family, the spacious dining-room being in the front, its convex windows overhanging the busy thoroughfare. Opening off this apartment was an equally large drawing-room, and the furniture of both was of walnut made in the reign of Queen Anne, with an occasional piece of Dutch marqueterie of the heavier character favoured by the craftsmen of the previous sovereigns. The rooms themselves were panelled with oak and lighted by candles in brass sconces.
It seemed to Fanny, on entering the dining-room, that every seat was occupied. But she soon saw that there were several vacant chairs. It was the imposing row of figures confronting her that made the room seem full, although only six persons were present besides young Mr. Barlowe and his parents, who met Mrs. Burney and her stepdaughter at the door. Fanny greeted Thomas at once, and she could see that his eyes were beaming, but with a rather more subdued light than shone in them on that night when he had pressed her hand. She was conscious, at the same time, of the approach of a big elderly gentleman, wearing a well-ordered wig, evidently newly curled, with a small lady clad in expensive and expansive black silk by his side. He was holding the tips of her fingers and they advanced in step as though they were starting to dance a minuet.
They stood in front of her and her mother, while Thomas, moving to one side, said, making a low bow:
“Miss Burney, I have the honour to present to you my father, Mr. Barlowe, and my mother, Mrs. Barlowe. Mrs. Burney, madam, you are, I know, already acquainted with my parents.”
The little lady curtsied and her husband made a fine shopkeeper’s bow, first to Fanny, then to Mrs. Burney.
The formality of the presentation was overwhelming to poor Fanny. She could feel herself blushing, and she certainly was more overcome than she had been when Count Orloff, the Russian, visited the house in St. Martin’s Street and she gazed with awe upon the thumb that had, it was rumoured, pressed too rigidly the windpipe of the unfortunate Peter. All that she could do was to try to hide her confusion by the deepest of curtsies.
“We are sensible of the honour you have done us, madam,” said Mr. Barlowe when he had recovered himself—he was addressing Fanny, ignoring for the moment the presence of Mrs. Burney.
“Our son has spoken to us of you with great admiration, Miss Burney,” said the little lady. “But I protest that when I look at you I feel as King Solomon did when he saw the Queen of Sheba, the half has not been told.”
“Oh, madam, you flatter me,” said Fanny, trying to put some force into a voice that her shyness had rendered scarcely audible.
Her stepmother, perceiving how she was suffering, hastened to greet in a much less formal way their host and hostess; but she had considerable difficulty in bringing them down to her level. It seemed that they had prepared some high phrases of welcome for their younger visitor only, and they had no mind that they should be wasted.
“My stepdaughter is of a retiring nature,” said Mrs. Burney. “She is quite unused to such ceremony as you honour her with. Well, Martha, how is the rheumatism?”
Mrs. Barlowe did not seem half pleased to be brought down so from the high parallels of etiquette among which she had been soaring. But she had lost her place, and before she could recover herself, Fanny had slipped behind her stepmother.
“Ask me all about her rheumatism, madam, for ’tis me that knows more about it than her,” said Mr. Barlowe, with a jerk of his thumb and a wink in the direction of his wife. The homely enquiry of Mrs. Burney had clearly forced him to throw off all ceremony and treat the visit of Miss Burney as an ordinary domestic incident.
His wife would have none of this, however; she said in tones of stiff reproof:
“Mr. Barlowe, you forget that the young lady has not been presented to Brother Jonathan or the Alderman. Thomas, it is for you to usher the lady into the presence of your uncles and aunts. Pray be not remiss, Thomas. There is no excuse for such an omission.”
“I was only waiting until you had finished, ma’am,” said Thomas.
“I have finished,” she replied, with a stiff nod. “To be sure, ’twas my intention to express, in what I trust would be appropriate terms, our happiness in welcoming Miss Burney to our humble home; a few phrases of this sort were not thought out of place when I was young; but it appears that your father knows better what iscomme il fautandhaut tonthan me. Bring the young lady forward, Thomas.”
The younger Thomas looked dubiously from his mother to his father. He was uncommonly like an actor who had forgotten his part, Fanny thought—he had no initiative. Fanny herself was more at home than any of the household. While the young man hesitated, she walked up the room as if she meant to present herself to the six figures that sat in a row at the farther end.
Thomas was beside her in a moment.
“I ask your pardon, Miss Burney,” he said. “But I knew that mamma had at least two more welcomes for your ear, and I feared that she had forgot them. Do not you think that mamma speaks well? Perhaps it would be unjust to judge her by what she said—she only made a beginning. You will be delighted when you are going away.”
Fanny felt that this prediction was certain to be realized.
“Yes, mamma’s good-byes are as well worded as her greetings,” he continued; “a clergyman could scarcely better them; and I hope—”
But now they were face to face with the six figures sitting in a row, and as his conversation was only designed as an accompaniment to the march of Fanny to this position, there was no reason to continue it.
The figures were of two men and four ladies. The former were middle-aged and bore an expression of gravity that a judge might have envied. Their dress was sombre, but of the finest material possible to buy, and each of them was painfully conscious of being in unusual garments. Of course, Fanny saw in a moment that they were merchants wearing the garments in which they attended church.
Of the four ladies, three were elderly and the fourth much younger. They wore their hair built up in a waythat suggested that they desired to follow the fashion but had not the courage to complete the scheme with which they had started. The long and thin and highly-coloured feathers which crowned the stunted structures on their heads gave them the appearance of a picture of unfamiliar birds. Their dresses were extremely glossy and of an expensive material, but there was an eccentric note about all that made them seem not impressive as they should have been, but almost ludicrous. The youngest lady in the row showed unmistakable signs of being given to simpering. She had gone much further than the others of the party in the architecture of her hair, but that was possibly because the material at her command was more abundant. The dressing of her hair, however, was by no means in sympathy with the style of her garments, the latter being simple and indeed rather too girlish for the wearer, who looked between twenty-five and thirty.
It was an extraordinary ordeal that confronted Miss Burney, for young Mr. Barlowe began presenting her to the group, starting from his left and working slowly to the last of the row on the right. There was she with the young man standing close to her, but sideways, doing the formalities of presenting her, while his father and mother stood behind to see that he omitted nothing. Mrs. Burney, a little way apart, was alternately smiling and frowning at the ceremonial. She could see, from observing the effect that the whole business was producing upon Fanny, that the Barlowes were defeating their own ends, assuming that they desired Fanny to become a member of their family. These absurd formalities were, Mrs. Burney knew, quite out of place in a private house. But what could she do to cut them short? She had made an attempt before, and it was received inanything but a friendly spirit by their hostess, so that she did not feel inclined to interfere again: the thing must run its course, she felt, reflecting upon it as though it were a malady. There was no means of curtailing it.
And its course was a slow one for the unhappy victim.
“Miss Burney, I have the honour to present my aunt on my mother’s, side—Mrs. Alderman Kensit,” droned Thomas, and the lady on the extreme left rose at the mention of her name and made a carefully prepared curtsey, while the sky-blue feather in her hair jerked awkwardly forward until the end almost touched her nose.
“Proud to meet Miss Burney, I vow,” said she as she rose; and anyone could see from the expression on her face that she was satisfied that she had gone far in proving her claim to be looked on as a lady of fashion. She had never said “I vow” before, and she knew that it had startled her relations. She felt that she could not help that. Miss Burney would understand that she was face to face with someone who had mingled with the best.
“And this is Aunt Maria, father’s sister, Mrs. Hutchings,” came the voice of Thomas, and the second lady bobbed up with quivering feathers and made a well-practised curtsey. She did not trust herself to speak. Having heard her neighbour’s “I vow,” she knew that she could not go farther. She would not compete with such an exponent of the mysteries ofhaut ton.
“And this is Alderman Kensit of the Common Council; he is my uncle on my mother’s side—mother is a Kensit, you know,” resumed Thomas. “And this is Aunt Jelicoe. My mother’s sister married Mr. Jelicoe, of Tooley Street. And this is my cousin, Miss Jelicoe.I am sure that you will like Miss Jelicoe, Miss Burney, she is so young.”
The youngest lady of the group simpered with great shyness, concealing half her face with her fan and holding her head to one side, and then pretending to be terribly fluttered. Her curtsey was made in a flurry, and with a little exclamation of “Oh, la!”
Another uncle only remained to be presented; he turned out to be Mr. Jonathan Barlowe, and he was, Thomas whispered half audibly to Fanny, in trade in the Indies.
It was all over, curtsies and bows and exclamations—echoes of the world of fashion and elsewhere—she had been presented to every member of the row and they had resumed their seats, while she hastened to the side of her stepmother, hot and breathless. She had never before been subjected to such an ordeal. She had gladly agreed to accompany her stepmother to this house, for she hoped thereby to increase her observation of a class of people who repaid her study of them; but she had no notion that she should have to vacate her place as an Observer and take up that of a Participator. She was to pay dearly for her experience.
She was burning, her stepmother could see; and she believed that this was due to her mortification on noticing that the dress of the ladies was infinitely more expensive than hers. That would be enough to make any young woman with ordinary susceptibilities indignant, she felt; and she herself, having had an opportunity of giving some attention to the expensive silks—she could appraise their value to a penny—was conscious of some chagrin on this account. She was almost out of patience with her old friend, Martha Barlowe, for making all this parade. The foolish woman had done so, she knew, inorder to impress Miss Burney and to give her to understand that she was becoming associated with no ordinary family. But Mrs. Burney had seen enough since she had left Lynn for London to know that Fanny would not be the least impressed except in the direction of boredom by such an excess of ceremony in the house of a tradesman. She had heard Fanny’s comment upon the gorgeous chariot which Sir Joshua Reynolds had set up, and she could not doubt what Fanny’s opinion would be regarding this simple tea to which she had consented to go at the Barlowes’ house.
Fanny had hurried to her side as soon as she had passed the row of uncles and aunts. She thought that the girl seemed overcome by the tedium of the formalities; but in a few minutes she saw that Fanny was on the verge of laughter.
Mrs. Burney could not say whether she would rather that her charge became moody or hilarious.
“Eight separate curtsies,” murmured Fanny. “If there are to be the same number going away we should begin at once.”
Mrs. Burney thought it better not to reprove her for her flippancy just at that moment. She condoned it with a smile.
Only a minute were the Burneys left to themselves. Mr. Barlowe, the elder, walked solemnly up to them.
“Going on nicely, eh?” he said in a confidential way to Mrs. Burney. “Everything being done decently and in order, madam. There has been no cause of offence up to the present, though there are three persons in that row who are as ready to see an offence where none is meant as a bunch of flax to break into flame when a spark falls on it. The young lady is discreet; if she had spoken to any one of them and not to the others, therewould have been a flare-up. The touchy ones belong to my wife’s family. She was a Kensit, you know.”
He made this explanation behind his hand and in a whisper; he saw that his wife and son had been in earnest consultation together over some vexed question, and now they were hovering about, waiting to catch his eye.
“I spoke too soon,” he said. “Something has gone astray, and the blame will fall on me.”
They hovered still nearer, and when he caught his eye, Thomas, the younger, stepped up to his father, saying something in his ear. Mrs. Barlowe went on hovering a yard or two away.
“That would never do,” said her husband, evidently in reply to some remonstrance offered by young Thomas. “Never. The whole of the Kensits would take offence.” Then he turned again to Mrs. Burney, saying:
“Mrs. Burney, madam, my son has just reminded me that I have been remiss in doing my duty. It was left to me to present you to our relations at the head of the room, but I failed to do so, my mind being too full of the pretty curtsies of Miss. But I am ready to make amends now.”
But Mrs. Burney had observed a little twinkle in Fanny’s eye; she had no notion of going through the ordeal to which Fanny had been subjected, though the spectacle would doubtless have diverted Fanny hugely.
“Nay, sir,” she said quickly to the waiting gentleman, “Nay sir; you have forgotten that the presentation of a lady’s daughter is equivalent to the presentation of the lady herself.”
“What, is that so?” said he.
“Rest assured that it is,” said she, “and an excellent rule it is. It saves a repetition of a formality that is now frequently omitted in the private houses of simplefolk like ourselves. Lend me your arm, sir. I shall soon make myself at home with Martha’s relations.”
She did not give him a chance of discussing the point with her; she saw that he was about to state his objections to the rule she had invented for her own saving, and she was already in advance of him in approaching the row of figures on the chairs against the wall. Fanny heard her greeting them in turn without any formality, and once again Thomas, the younger, was by her side.
His mother was still hovering, glancing suspiciously, first at the young couple, and then at the hasty proceedings of her friend, Mrs. Burney.
“It was unlike father to make so grave an omission, Miss Burney,” he said, apologetically.
“I hope that no harm will come of it,” said Fanny. “I am afraid that you found us very homely folk at our little house when you did us the honour of visiting us,” she added.
He waved his hand indulgently, smiling over her head.
“I am always ready to take my place in such a circle,” said he, “though all the time I have a pretty full knowledge of the exchange of courtesies which should mark the introduction of a stranger. Oh, yes, I do not mind meeting some people as an equal, if they do not presume upon me afterwards. Your brother has gone back to sea, I hear?” he added.
“Yes, we shall not see him again for two years,” she replied. “Did he presume upon you, sir? If so, I will take it upon me to offer you a humble apology.”
“I was considering if it might be possible that he was himself mistaken in regard to the ear-trumpet,” said Thomas.
“Sir Joshua’s ear-trumpet? What of that?”
“Lieutenant Burney told me that it was a newly invented musical instrument, blown by the ear instead of the mouth. It was not until I had spoken of it to my father that I learned that the instrument was an ear-trumpet used by the deaf. I had never seen one before. I wonder if your brother intentionally deceived me.”
“My brother is an officer in His Majesty’s Fleet, sir.”
“What does that mean, miss?”
“It means that he would resent an accusation of falsehood, sir.”
“Pray do not misunderstand me; I would shrink from accusing him of any conduct unworthy of an officer and a gentleman. But I was certainly deceived in fancying that the ear-trumpet was a musical instrument.”
Fanny made no reply. Her attention was directed to the entrance of two servants, one bearing a large urn, the other a dish on which lay an immense ham.
“I hope you have an appetite, Miss Burney,” said young Thomas. “If so, you will be able to stay it at that table, I’ll warrant. Tea and cake may be well enough for such as dine at four, but for us, who are three hours earlier, something more substantial is needed. You will find that there is no stint in this house.”
Fanny had an idea that the young man meant to suggest that she would find the tea-table at the Poultry to make a striking contrast to that of St. Martin’s Street; and she was not mistaken.
Neither was he. A greater contrast could scarcely be imagined. When Fanny was formally conducted to a seat at the table by the side of young Mr. Barlowe, she found herself confronting such a variety of eatables as was absolutely bewildering. The first glance that she had at the dishes had a stunning effect upon her. Her impression was one of repletion; she felt that that glancewas by itself equivalent to a hearty meal—a heavy meal. She felt inclined to turn her head away.
But a moment afterwards she became alert. Here was food—ample food for an amusing letter to Mr. Crisp, and, later for a chapter in a possible novel. She would let nothing escape her notice.
She settled down to observe everything; and her stepmother, sitting opposite to her, knew from the twinkle in her eyes, that Thomas’s suit was hopeless. She had heard that music is the food of love. She was not sure of this; but she was convinced that butcher’s meat was not. That was where she saw that Thomas had made his mistake. He had placed too much dependence upon that great ham. He carved that ham with all the solemnity that should accompany such a rite, not knowing that he was slicing away all his chances of commending himself to Fanny.
It was an interesting experience for Miss Burney, the writer of novels and the writer of letters. She had never sat down with such a company. They all had their table peculiarities. One uncle took ale for his tea, and drained a tankard before eating anything. The other claimed a particular cup on account of its capacity, and he held it to his mouth with one hand, while he passed a second down the table to Miss Burney, only spilling a spoonful or two in effecting the transit. One of the aunts refused to eat anything except cake, explaining, in order to relieve the anxiety of the company, the details of an acute attack of spleen from which she had recently suffered. The spleen and its humours formed the subject of a fitful conversation at her end of the table.
But it was plain that everyone understood that the company had not come to the table for conversation, but for food. They did not converse, but that was not the same as saying the room was silent. There was a constant clanging of cups, a constant clatter of platters, a loud and insistent demand on the part of Thomas, the elder, and Thomas, the younger, for their guests to say what they would like to eat. This was followed by the handing of plates up and down the table, the sound of steel knives being sharpened, and the jingle of spoons in saucers. The Alderman, who was, of course, an authority on the etiquette of banquets, was formulating an elaborate explanationof the mistake that had been made in the service of the cold sirloin in advance of the venison pasty; and all the time his neighbour was striking the haft of his knife upon the table with a request for someone to pass him the pickles.
All the ceremonial veneer had plainly left the company the moment they seated themselves, and they addressed themselves to the business of feeding. They had healthy appetites—even the lady who had had a recent attack of the spleen. She would eat nothing but cake, but she did eat cake with confidence. There was no sort of cake that she did not try, and her cup was kept in constant circulation from the tea-maker to herself—four times she had it refilled, Fanny could not help noticing, and she wondered what effect such a diet would have upon her capricious spleen. Fanny had an inward hint or two that she had observed quite enough of the party to serve her purpose, and she began to count the moments until she might be able to steal away without offending the susceptibilities of her over-hospitable host and hostess. She hoped that her stepmother would listen to her plea of weariness and take her back to St. Martin’s Street—to the music of St. Martin’s Street—to the quiet of St. Martin’s Street.
The most solid hour of her life had, however, to elapse before her fellow-guests pushed their plates (empty) away from them, and Mrs. Barlowe said:
“I am afraid you have made a poor tea, Miss Burney; but if you cannot be persuaded to have a slice of ham—my son’s ham, I call it, for ’tis he who picks it out of the curer’s stock whenever we have a party—if you still refuse it, we might go to the drawing-room.”
Fanny was on her feet in an instant. But not sooner than Alderman Kensit. That gentleman, rapping withthe haft of his knife on the table, stood with a sheaf of notes in his hand and clearing his throat with great deliberation, started upon a speech in eulogy of Mr. Barlowe’s merits as a host and as a merchant, and droned away for a good half-hour in praise of the virtue of hospitality, his text being on the possibility of entertaining angels unawares. Of course, it was only natural that, having got upon this track and with the word “angels” in his mind, he should go on to say that it was quite possible for a hospitably-inclined person to entertain an angel and be fully cognizant of the fact, and so forth: in a speech of well-worn platitudes such a suggestion seemed inevitable; and all eyes were directed to poor Fanny when it seemed impending. It was a great disappointment to everybody—except Fanny and her stepmother—when the orator skipped the expected phrases, and went on to describe a business visit which he had once made to Spain, apropos of nothing in particular. His account of this feat was familiar to all his relations, but they listened to him without a murmur, only wondering when he would come to the angel and Miss Burney.
He never came to the angel and Miss Burney, for it so happened that he had turned over two pages of his notes when he should have only turned over one. The omitted platitude was on the first, and he failed to notice the absence of a platitudinal sequence in the heads of his discourse which he had jotted down during the day.
When he had seated himself, Mr. Barlowe, the elder, got upon his feet, but he had no notes, and not being a member of the Common Council, he was not a past-master of commonplaces. He was only dull for about five minutes instead of half an hour. He had risen witha view to repair his relative’s omission of that obvious point about entertaining an angel by appointment in the shape of Miss Burney, but he lost himself before he managed to deliver it; it swam out of his ken with several other points the moment he got upon his legs.
Fully recognizing how narrow was the escape she had had, Fanny was resolved not to run any further chances. She was looking imploringly toward Mrs. Burney, trying to catch that lady’s eye, but without success, and she was about to walk round the table to her side and to beg her to come away, when Mrs. Barlowe moved up to her.
“Miss Burney,” she said, “I am afraid you did not get anything you liked at the table: I saw that you scarce ate more than a morsel of cake.”
“I assure you, madam, I had enough,” said Fanny. “Your cake was so tasty I had no mind to go away from it in search of other delicacies.”
“I am glad you liked it. I made it with my own hands,” said the hostess. “That cake was ever a favourite with Mr. Barlowe and my son. It pleases me to know that you and my son have tastes in common. He is a good son, is Thomas, though I say it that shouldn’t; and he is making his way to the front by treading in his father’s footsteps. Mr. Barlowe is not a Common Councilman, but his father, Thomas’s grandfather, was for a year Deputy-Master of the Wyre Drawers’ Company—his certificate still hangs on the wall of the drawing-room. You must see it. Thomas, you will show Miss Burney your grandfather’s certificate as Deputy-Master.”
“I should like very much to see it,” said Fanny quickly, “but I fear that mamma will wish me to accompany her home at once. My sisters are alone to-night and they will feel lonely: we promised to return early.”
“I will get Mrs. Burney’s permission for you—so good an opportunity should not be thrown away,” said Mrs. Barlowe, giving the latter part of her sentence an unmistakable inflection as she looked toward her son and smiled.
She had gone round the table before Fanny could think of another excuse for evading the visit to the drawing-room in the company of Mr. Barlowe, the younger.
And Mr. Barlowe, the younger, was still by her side.
“Doesn’t Uncle Kensit make a fine speech?” he inquired. “He is always ready. I have heard it said that he speaks longer than any Alderman in the Council.”
“I can quite believe it,” replied Fanny.
“’Tis a wonderful gift,” said he—“to be always ready to say what one is expected to say. Though I did think that when he referred to the angels he meant to—to—go farther—I mean nearer—nearer home.”
Thomas might himself have gone farther had his mother not returned at that moment from her diplomatic errand.
“I have prevailed upon Mrs. Burney to let you stay to see the certificate,” said she. “Thomas, you will conduct Miss Burney to the drawing-room.”
“I am sure that mamma would wish to see the certificate also,” said Fanny. “I will ask her.”
“There is no need, Miss Burney: we shall all join you later,” said Mrs. Barlowe.
Poor Fanny saw that there was no use trying to evade the attentions of Thomas, and as she walked toward the folding doors by his side she was conscious of a silence in the room and of all eyes being turned upon her—smiles—such knowing smiles—and a smirk from the young lady. Fanny was aware of all, and what she wastoo short-sighted to see she was able to imagine. She was burning at the thought of all those people gazing at her in silence. It was the most trying moment of her life.
She passed through the door which Thomas opened for her and closed behind her.
“I am glad to have this opportunity, Miss Burney,” said he, when they were alone in the big half-lighted room.
“You must hold your grandfather’s certificate in high esteem, sir,” said she. “I suppose so high a place as he reached is but rarely attained by mortals. You will have to guide me to the document; I have very poor eyesight, as you must have noticed.”
“It is a great drawback,” said he. “But we will not talk about grandfather’s certificate just yet, if you please: I have something to say to you that will, I hope, interest you even more than that.”
“You surprise me, sir,” said Fanny icily.
“Nay, I hope that you know me well enough not to be surprised by all that I have to reveal to you now that the opportunity has been given to me. Have you no inkling of what I am about to say, Miss Burney?”
“Not the least, sir. I expected only to see that relic of your grandfather’s honourable career.”
“What, after meeting Uncle Kensit and Aunt Jelicoe, you do not feel interested in their families?” said he, in a tone of genuine surprise.
Fanny looked at him before she spoke, and there certainly was more than a note of casual interest in her voice as she said:
“Their families? Oh, I should like above all things to hear about their families.”
“I knew that you would,” said he, apparently much relieved. (She wondered if the relief that she felt wasas apparent as his.) “Yes, I felt certain that you would welcome this opportunity of learning something about the Kensits and the Jelicoes. They are remarkable people, as you cannot have failed to perceive.”
He made a pause—a pause that somehow had an interrogative tendency. She felt that he meant it to be filled up by her.
“They are remarkable people—very remarkable,” said she.
“We are very fortunate in all our relations, Miss Burney,” said he with great solemnity. “But, of course, Uncle Kensit stands high above them all in force of character. A great man indeed is Alderman Kensit—a member of the Haberdashers’ and Grocers’ Companies as well as the City Council, and yet quite ready to meet ordinary persons as fellow-men. He had heard the name of your friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds, though not the name of Dr. Burney, and he was kind enough to say that he would have no objection in the world to meet either of these gentlemen. That shows you what sort of man he is—his fine, simple nature. ‘If Dr. Burney or Sir Joshua Reynolds were duly presented to me, I should feel it my duty to be civil to him’—those were his exact words.”
Once more there was an interrogative pause.
“Perhaps they may be fortunate enough to meet him some day,” was all Fanny could trust herself to say.
“I would not say so much to them—he is very busy just now,” said Thomas hastily. “It would have to be arranged with care and thought—I would not like them to be disappointed. But if it would please you, I daresay a meeting could be brought about; meantime, I would not raise up any false hopes on the matter, if I were you.”
“You may depend on my preserving the strictest secrecy, Mr. Barlowe,” said Fanny. “I should think that I might even discipline myself to forget that such a person as Alderman Kensit existed.”
“That would perhaps be the safest course to pursue,” said he thoughtfully, and with an air of prudence that made him for the moment the subject of a description after Fanny’s own heart. She felt that she could fool this young man as easily as her brother had fooled him. Surely he was made to be fooled, with his solemn airs and his incapacity to distinguish what is worthy from what is pompous.
“Yes,” she continued, “Dr. Burney has had it intimated to him since the publication of his ‘History’ that the King was desirous of talking to him at Windsor, and I know that Sir Joshua is being visited daily by the Duchess of Devonshire and the Duchess of Ancaster, and it would be a great pity if my father were forced to write excusing himself to His Majesty on account of having to meet Alderman—Alderman—I protest that I have already forgotten the gentleman’s name—nay, do not tell it to me; I might be tempted to boast of having met him, and if I did so in Sir Joshua’s presence, his beautiful Duchesses would be forlorn when they found that he had hurried away on the chance of meeting the Alderman. And now, sir, I think that I shall return to Mrs. Burney.”
“But I have not told you half of what I can tell about our family,” he cried. “I have said nothing about my aunts—I have four aunts and eleven cousins. You would surely like to hear of my cousins. They do not all live in London. I have three as far away as Lewes; their name is Johnson. My mother’s youngest sister married a Johnson, as you may have heard. I believethat some objection was raised to the match at first, but it turned out quite satisfactory.”
“It is pleasant to know that; and so, sir, as we have come to this point, don’t you think that we had better adjourn our conference?” said Fanny. “It would be doing the Johnson family a grave injustice were you to attempt to describe their virtues within the time that is left to us, and that would be the greatest catastrophe of all. Besides, I came hither all unprepared for these revelations. If you had hinted at what was in store for me I would, of course, have disciplined myself—forewarned is forearmed, you know.”
Miss Burney had received many a lesson from Mr. Garrick, from the days when he had come to entertain her in the nursery, in the art of fooling, and she was now quite capable of holding her own when she found herself in the presence of so foolable a person as this egregious young man. But the game was apt to become wearisome at the close of an evening when she had suffered much, and when the subject of her raillery had shown himself to be incapable even of suspecting her of practising on him.
“But there is Aunt Jelicoe; I should like to tell you something of Aunt Jelicoe,” pleaded Thomas. “Without any of the advantages of her parents, Aunt Jelicoe—and—oh, I have something more to say to you—not about them—about ourselves—you and me—I was nearly forgetting—you will stay—”
“One cannot remember everything, Mr. Barlowe,” said Fanny, with her hand on the knob of the door. “You have done very well, I think, in remembering so much as you have told me. As for ourselves—you have quite convinced me of my own insignificance—and yours also, sir. You would be doing us a grave injusticewere you to speak of us so soon after your estimable relations.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said he, after a few moments of frowning thought. “Yes. I see now that it might have been wiser if I had begun with ourselves and then—”
Fanny had turned the handle. She re-entered the dining-room, and the moment that she appeared silence fell upon the company, and once again she was conscious of many eyes gazing at her and of horrid smiles and a smirk. That was another ordeal for the shy little Miss Burney—it was an evening of ordeals.
She walked straight across the room to her stepmother.
“I am ready to go away now,” she said. “We have never stayed at any house so long when we only came for tea. I am tired to death.”
She took care, of course, that Mrs. Burney only should hear her; and Mrs. Burney, being well aware that Fanny was not one to complain unless with ample cause, charitably interposed between her and Mrs. Barlowe, whom she saw bearing down upon her from the other side of the room.
“Fanny and I will say our good-night to you now, my dear Martha,” she said. “You have treated us far too kindly. That must be our excuse for staying so long. When people drop in to tea they do not, as a rule, stop longer than an hour, as you know. But you overwhelmed us.”
“I was hoping—” began Mrs. Barlowe, trying to get on to Fanny, but by the adroitness of Mrs. Burney, not succeeding. “I was hoping—you know what I was hoping—we were all hoping—expecting—they were in the drawing-room long enough.”
Mrs. Burney gave her a confidential look, which she seemed to interpret easily enough. She replied by a confidential nod—the nod of one who understands a signal.
“Mum it shall be, then,” she whispered. “Not a word will come from me, simply good-night; but we could all have wished—never mind, Thomas will tell us all.”
Mrs. Burney allowed her to pass on to Fanny, having obtained her promise not to bother the girl—that was how Mrs. Burney framed the promise in her own mind—and Mrs. Barlowe kept faith with her, and even persuaded Alderman Kensit, who was approaching them slowly with a sheaf of notes in his hand, to defer their delivery in the form of a speech until the young woman had gone.
And thus the visitors from St. Martin’s Street were able to escape going through the formality of taking leave of all the party. They shook hands only with their host and hostess and their son, curtseying very politely to the company of relations.
“They are warm-hearted people, but their weakness for ceremony and the like is foolish enough,” said Mrs. Burney to Fanny, when they were safe within the hackney carriage.
Fanny laughed.
“Oh, indeed, there is no harm in any of them,” she said. “They may be a little foolish in thinking that the Poultry is St. James’s Palace or Buckingham House. The only one among them who is an arrant fool is the son. You saw how his mother made it up that he should lead me into the other room?”