THE scene ended by Mr. Garrick's victim groping through his tears for Mr. Garrick's hand. He grasped it emotionally, and though for some moments he was too greatly overcome to be able to utter a word, yet at last he managed to blurt out with affecting incoherence a few phrases.
“Say no more—say no more, sir,” he muttered. “I have a heart—a heart! I give you my word, whether you believe me or not, that I had no notion—but you have shown me what 'tis to be a woman. Oh, sir, there is no sweeter sex in the world! Deception! how a man's own heart may deceive him—ay, up to a certain point—but then—ah, you have taught me—but are you sure that the lady—what—have we not been going ahead too fast? What—what; are you convinced?”
“You may take my word for it, sir,” replied Garrick. “There are signs that all who run may read. What, do you suppose that all those persons of quality whose names you mentioned just now as having offered you their felicitations—do you suppose that they could all be in error?”
“Of course not—they must have seen—well, more than I saw,” said the man. “Matrimony! Lud! if an angel had come down to tell me that I should be contemplating such a change of life—and at my time of life too!—I should have——”
“What an angel may fail to convince a man of, a woman may succeed in doing, Mr. Kendal,” said Garrick sententiously. “But do not talk of your time of life as if you were an old or even a middle-aged man, sir. To do so were to make Dr. Burney and myself feel patriarchs.”
The mention of Dr. Burney seemed to cause the man to recollect how it was he came to be in Dr. Burney's house. He turned to Burney, saying:
“Dear sir, I pray that you will look on my visit with lenient eyes. I admit that I came hitherto be advised by you—my friend, Mr. Fulke Greville, holds your opinion in the highest esteem, as do I, sir; and it was actually on my mind to ask you if you thought it would be wiser for me to go abroad for a year or two, or simply to seek some place of retirement at home—say, Cornwall or the Hebrides—I gather from the account of Dr. Johnson's tour thither that there are many places difficult of access in the Hebrides—that was on my mind, Doctor, I blush to acknowledge, so greatly overcome was I by what had happened at the Wells.”
“Ah, with what great ease a man may slam the door that shuts out happiness from his life for evermore!” remarked Garrick.
“Even now—even now I feel timid,” said Mr. Kendal thoughtfully, and, when he had found which pocket his handkerchief was in, wiping some dew from his brow. “The truth is, Doctor, that I have allowed some people to assume that I am but forty-seven years old, while as a matter of fact I have been forty-eight for some time.”
“For some years?” asked young Burney, who did not know when he should keep silence.
“For some months, sir—only for some months, I give you my word.”
“Your deception in this matter could only have added to your reputation for accuracy,” said Garrick coolly. “For I vow that were you to confess that you were forty-eight, you would find none to believe you.”
The gentleman's eyes twinkled, he pursed out his lips, and once again manoeuvred to get a full-length view of himself in the long mirror. He put out his right leg and assumed the attitude of a dancing master giving thepasfor theminuet de cour.
“Well, well,” he cried, “if that be your opinion—and I happen to know that 'tis shared by others—it might not be unwise to allow the assumption, erroneous though it be, to continue. We will not undeceive the good folk. And you do not think that a bachelor of forty-eight—What is the name of that play of Mr. Sheridan's that took the town a year ago?—ah,The School for Scandal—you are sure that our friends will not call me—What was the gentleman's name?”
“No one who knows how excellent are your principles will think of you either as Charles or Joseph, Mr. Kendal,” said Garrick.
“No, no; but the one who was in my mind was neither of the brothers. I was thinking of—was it not Sir Peter Teazle?”
Garrick as well as Burney laughed heartily, for the man at that moment suggested by his attitude and expression the Sir Peter Teazle of Kina, the actor.
“Make your mind easy on that score, sir,” said Dr. Burney. “It is not your purpose to wed so skittish a young person as Lady Teazle. That was where Sir Peter showed his folly.”
“No, no; Mrs. Nash is more mature, certainly, than Mrs. Abington looked in the part,” said Mr. Kendal confidently, and Lieutenant Burney was about to agree with him boisterously, but Garrick did not give him a chance.
“There is none that will not commend your choice, Mr. Kendal—ay, sir, and look on you with envy as well,” he cried.
“There can be no doubt about it,” said Mr. Kendal doubtfully. “The widow Nash is a monstrous fine woman.”
“Monstrous, I doubt not,” put in young Burney, now that he had the chance.
“All that I am uneasy about is the interpretation that she may put upon your sudden flight,” said Garrick. “You have, you will readily allow, sir, placed her in a somewhat difficult position at the Wells. While everyone who is anyone has been offering you congratulations upon the match, and a double portion to the lady, strange inquiries may be made as to your disappearance from the Wells; and she may not be able to give a satisfactory explanation at a moment's notice.”
“Egad! I never thought of that, sir,” said Mr. Kendal, after a pause. “I fear that I have placed her in a very awkward position.”
“Ay, sir; and the consequences may be that she will be snapped up by some adventurous person before you can put your fate to the test,” said the naval man, raising a warning finger. “I have heard of ladies throwing themselves into the arms of the next comer out of sheer chagrin at being disappointed by the man on whom they had set their affections.”
“That is a possibility that should not be neglected,” said Garrick. “But it was only on Monday that you fled. By rapid posting you may yet prevent such a calamity.”
He was beginning to tire of his game now that he had succeeded so well in it and so easily. The fooling of the man who had so completely succumbed to his art had no further interest for him. He only wanted to get rid of him. He was as capricious and as fickle as a child over the toys of its nursery.
“I shall lose no moment, be assured,” said Mr. Kendal. “I may still be in time. My hope in this direction is increased when I remember that the lady has been a widow for some years—to be exact, without being uncomplimentary, nine years. I remember when Mr. Nash died. 'Twas of pleurisy.”
“Do not reckon too confidently on that, sir,” said young Burney. “Nine years have not passed since she faced the company at the Wells, every one of which was surely pointing at her and asking in mute eloquence, 'What has become of Mr. Kendal?' But by posting without delay you may yet retrieve your error. Still, I confess to you that I have known of a lady who, out of sheer impatience at the delay of a lover whom she had hoped to espouse, married his rival after the lapse of twenty-four hours—ay, and when the belated gentleman arrived just after the ceremony, he furnished the wedding party with a succulent feast. She was the Queen of one of the islands that we visited in the company of Captain Cook, and the cockswain of our galley kept the pickled hand of the belated lover for many a day—the very hand which he had designed to offer the lady.”
“This simple and affecting narrative proves more eloquently than any phrases of mine could possibly do how a man may miss the happiness of his life by a hair's breadth,” said Garrick. “And the lesson will not be lost upon you, I am certain, sir.”
“Lud, Mr. Garrick, you do not mean to suggest that——”
“That the lady may make a meal off you on your late return, sir? Nay, Mr. Kendal. The Wells are still the Wells, not the South Seas; but on the whole I am disposed to believe that the scheme of revenge of the woman scorned is fiercer, though perhaps not, at first sight, so primeval, in the region of Chalybeate Waters than in a cannibal island of the South Seas. Therefore—there is no time to be lost. Fly to your charmer, sir, and throw yourself at her feet. She may be thinking over some punishment for your having placed her in a false position for some days; but do not mind that. You can always console yourself with the reflection that a rod in pickle is much more satisfactory than a hand in pickle. Fly, my dear friend, fly; every moment is precious. Take my word for it, joy awaits you at the end of your journey.”
“'Journeys end in lovers meeting,'” remarked Dr. Burney, with a slight suggestion of the setting of the words of the lyric by his old master, Dr. Arne.
At this moment a servant entered the room.
“The Streatham carriage is at the door, sir,” he announced.
Dr. Burney rose from his chair.
“I am forced to leave you, sir,” he said to Mr. Kendal. “But really there is naught further to consult on at present, and I know that you are impatient—it is but natural—to fly to the side of your charmer.”
“I am all impatience, sir; but with what words can I express my obligation to you, Doctor, for the benefit of your counsel?” cried Mr. Kendal.
Dr. Burney smiled.
“Nay, dear sir, I am but the lessee of the theatre where the comedy has been played,” said he; and he had good reason for feeling that he had defined with accuracy the position that he occupied. But Mr. Kendal was thinking too much about himself and the position he occupied to appreciate suchnuances.
“I knew that I was safe in coming to a friend of Mr. Greville,” he said. “I care not if, as you suggest, you have become Mr. Garrick's successor at Drury Lane, though I thought that Mr. Sheridan——”
“Zounds, sir, you are never going to wait to discuss theatre matters,” cried Garrick. “Dr. Burney has been exercising his powers of oratory in vain upon you for this half hour if you tarry even to thank him. Post, sir, post at once to Tunbridge Wells, and send Dr. Burney your thanks when you have put the momentous question to the lady. Go, sir, without the pause of a moment, and good luck attend you.”
“Good luck attend you! Keep up your heart, sir: the lady may refuse you after all,” said young Burney; but the poor gentleman who was being hurried away was too much flurried to be able to grasp the young man's innuendo, though one could see by the look that came to his face that he had an uneasy impression that Lieutenant Burney's good wishes had not been happily expressed. The great thing, however, was that he was at the other side of the door, calling out his obligations to everyone, and striving to shake hands with them all at once and yet preserve the security of his hat, which he had tucked under his arm. So excited was he that he was only restrained at the last moment from mounting the Thrales' carriage which was awaiting Dr. Burney, and even when his mistake was explained to him, he took off his hat to the splendid footman who had guarded the door of the vehicle.
In the room where the comedy had been played, Garrick and Lieutenant Burney had thrown themselves into chairs with roars of laughter, when Dr. Burney returned from the hall, carrying his hat and cane. He was scarcely smiling.
“You have played a pretty prank upon an inoffensive gentleman, the pair of you!” said he. “I am ashamed that my house has been used by you for so base a purpose! The poor gentleman!”
“Psha! my dear Doctor, make your mind easy; the lady will teach that coxcomb a lesson that will be of advantage to him for the rest of his life,” said Garrick. “He has been the laughingstock of the Wells for the past fortnight, and no one laughed louder than the Widow Nash. She will bundle him out of her presence before he has had time to rise from his marrow-bones—he does not find the process a rapid one, I assure you. Oh, he was herbete noireeven when he was most civil to her.”
“And it was you who concocted that plot of getting all your friends—Mrs. Cholmondeley, Mrs. Thrale and the rest—to make a fool of him, driving him away from the Wells to encounter a more irresistible pair of mocking demons in this room!” said Burney. “You cannot deny it, my friend, I know your tricks but too well.”
“I swear to you that I had no hope of encountering him in this house, my dear Doctor,” said Garrick. “I give you my word that I had laid my plans quite differently. My plot was a far more elaborate one, and Polly Cholmondeley had agreed to take part in it, as well as Dick Sheridan. They will be disappointed to learn that it has miscarried. Who could guess that he should come to you of all men in the world, Doctor? He has never been one of your intimates.”
“Only when I was living with Mr. Greville had we more than a superficial acquaintance,” replied Burney. “But that does not make me the less ashamed of having lent myself to your nefarious project. And you, James, you threw yourself with gusto into the fooling of the unhappy man—and woman too—and woman too, I repeat.”
“Pray do not distress yourself on her account, Doctor. She will send him off with a flea in his ear by to-morrow night, and she will take care to pose as the insulted widow of Mr. Nash, whose memory is dear to her,” said Garrick.
“Will she, indeed?” said Burney. “David Garrick, you are the greatest actor that has ever lived in England—probably in the world—but you are a poor comedian compared with such as are at work upon our daily life: we call them Circumstance, and Accident, and Coincidence. You know the couplet, I doubt not:
' Men are the sport of circumstances when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.'
You have sounded the depths of human impulses, so far as your plummet allows you, and womankind seems to you an open book——”
“An illuminated missal, with the prayers done in gold and the Lessons for the day in the most roseate tint, Doctor.”
“And the Responses all of a kind—the same in one book as another? But I make bold to believe, my friend, that every woman is a separate volume, of which only one copy has been printed; and, moreover, that every separate volume of woman is sealed, so that anyone who fancies he knows all that is bound up between the covers, when he has only glanced at the binding, makes a mistake.”
“Admirably put, sir, and, I vow, with fine philosophy,” said Garrick. “But what imports this nomination of a woman at the present moment, Doctor?”
“Its import is that you are over sanguine in your assurance that Mrs. Nash, widow, will reject Mr. Kendal, bachelor, when he offers her his hand after a dusty journey; and so good day to you, David Garrick, and I pray you to spend the rest of the day in the study of the history of those women who have opened the leaves of their lives a little way before the eyes of mankind.”
He had left the room and was within the waiting carriage and driving away before his son remarked:
“Mr. Garrick, it seems to me that my good father has spoken the wisest words that you or I have heard to-day or for many a day.”
“And i' faith, James, it seems to me that that remark of yours is the second wisest that has been uttered in this room,” said Garrick.
He went away without a further word—without even taking his leave of the two young women and their stepmother, who herself had been a widow before she had married Dr. Burney. He had once believed that nothing a woman—young or old—could do would surprise him; for some reason or other he was not now quite so confident as he had been. But he certainly did not think that one of the greatest surprises of the century should be due to the demure young woman who seemed the commonplace daughter of a very ordinary household, and who at the moment of his departure was darning a small hole in a kitchen table-cloth, under the superintendence of her admirable stepmother.
IN the course of the morning Esther, the married daughter of the Bumey family, called at the house in St. Martin's Street. Esther, or as she was usually alluded to by her sisters, Hetty or Hettina, was handsome and accomplished. She had been married for some years to her cousin, Charles Rousseau Burney, who was a musician, and they lived and enjoyed living in an atmosphere of music. Her father took care that she was never likely to be asphyxiated; their atmosphere would never become attenuated so long as they lived, as they did, close to St. Martin's Street. He was well aware of the fact that his Hetty's duets with her husband—“matrimonial duets” they were called by Fanny in some of her letters—and also with her sister Charlotte, served to attract many distinguished visitors and profitable patrons to his house; he never forgot that profitable patrons and patronesses are always attracted by distinguished visitors. When one finds oneself in the company of distinguished people, one naturally feels a distinguished person also.
Moreover, Dr. Burney knew perfectly well that when ambitious patrons and patronesses were made aware of the success which he had achieved in respect of his daughters, they were all ready to implore of him to spare some of his valuable time to give lessons to themselves, seeing no reason why, with his assistance, they should not reach the level of his two musical daughters. He conducted his teaching on the principle which brings fortunes to the Parisian modiste, who takes good care that her mannequins are good-looking and of a fine figure, knowing that the visitors to the showrooms have no doubt, no matter how little Nature has done for their own features or figures, that in the robes of the mannequins they will appear equally fascinating.
The adoption of this system in the Burney household operated extremely well, and Dr. Burney had for several years enjoyed the proceeds of his cultivation of the musical tastes of the most influential clientèle in London. In addition, the greatest singers in Europe, knowing that there was always an influentialassistanceto be found at Dr. Burney's little concerts in St. Martin's Street, were greatly pleased to contribute to the entertainment, for love, what they were in the habit of receiving large sums for from an impresario. Those Italian operatic artists most notorious for the extravagance of their demands when appearing in public, were pushing each other aside, so to speak, to be allowed to sing at Dr. Burney's, and really upon more than one occasion the contest between the generosity of a pair of the most distinguished of these singers must have been somewhat embarrassing to Dr. Burney. They were clearly singing against each other; and one of them, who invariably received fifty guineas for every contribution she made to a programme in public, insisted on singing no fewer than five songs, “all for love” (and to prove her superiority to her rival), upon a certain occasion at the Burneys'; so that really the little company ran a chance of being suffocated beneath the burden of flowers, as it were—the never-endingfioritureof these generous artists—and Dr. Burney found himself in the position of the lion-tamer who runs a chance of being overwhelmed by the caresses of the carnivora who rush to lick his hands.
The result of all this was extremely gratifying, and eminently profitable. Had Dr. Burney not been a great musician and shown by the publication of the first volume of the greatest History of Music the world had yet received, that he was worthy of being placed in the foremost ranks of scientific musicians, he would have run a chance of being placed only a little higher than the musical Cornelys of Soho Square, who gave their concerts, and entertained their friends, and made quite a reputation for some years before bankruptcy overtook them and the precincts of the Fleet became their headquarters.
And now the beautiful Esther Burney was toying with the contents of her sister Fanny's work-basket, talking about her husband and his prospects, and inquiring what Mr. Garrick and James had to talk about in the room downstairs.
“Pray speak in French to Fanny,” said Mrs. Burney. “I cannot get Lottie and Susan to do so as frequently as I could wish. You must remember that poor Fanny has had none of your advantages, and I do not want her to be talked of as the dunce of the family. She really is not a dunce, you know; in spite of her bad sight she really has done some very pretty sewing.”
“I have seen it,” said Esther. “She works very neatly—more neatly than any of us.”
Fanny blushed and smiled her thanks to her sister for the compliment.
“What else is there left for me to do but to give all my attention to my needle?” she said. “I constantly feel that I am the dunce of the family—you are all so clever.”
“It is well for many families that they include one useful member,” said her stepmother in a way that suggested her complete agreement with the girl's confession that she was the dunce of the family. A mother's acknowledgment that a girl is either useful or good-natured is practically an announcement that she is neither pretty nor accomplished.
“And Fanny has many friends,” continued Mrs. Burney indulgently.
“Which shows how kind people are, even to a dunce,” said Fanny, not bitterly, but quite good-humouredly.
“But I am not sure that she should spend so much of her time writing to Mr. Crisp,” said the elder Mrs. Burney to the younger.
“Oh, poor Daddy Crisp!” cried Fanny. “Pray, mother, do not cut him off from his weekly budget of news. If I fail to send him a letter he is really disconsolate. 'Tis my letters that keep him still in touch with the life of the town.”
“Well, well, my dear Fanny, I shall not deprive you of your Daddy Crisp,” said her stepmother. “Poor Mr. Crisp must not be left to the tender mercies of Susan or Lottie. He is most hospitable, and his house at Chessington makes a pleasant change for us now and again, and he took a great fancy to you from the first.”
“Daddy Crisp was always Fanny's special friend,” said Esther. “And I am sure that it is good practice for Fanny to write to him.”
“Oh, she has long ago given up that childish nonsense,” cried the mother. “Poor Fanny made a pretty bonfire of her scribblings, and she has shown no weakness in that way since she took my advice in regard to them.”
Fanny was blushing furiously and giving all her attention to her work.
“She has still a sense of the guilt that attaches to the writing of stories, though I am sure that no one in this house remembers it against her,” said Esther with a laugh, as Fanny's blushes increased. “But indeed I had not in my mind Mr. Crisp's advantage to her in this way, but only in regard to her correspondence. She has become quite an expert letter-writer since he induced her to send him her budget, and indeed I think that good letter-writing is as much of an accomplishment in these careless days as good singing—that is ordinary good singing—the good singing that we hear from some of father's pupils—Queenie Thrale,par exemple!”
“Your father is a good teacher, but the best teacher in the world cannot endow with a good singing-voice anyone who has not been so gifted by Nature,” said the elder lady. “'Tis somewhat different, to be sure, in regard to correspondence, and I do not doubt that Fanny's practice in writing to good Mr. Crisp will one day cause her to be regarded as one of the best letter-writers in the family, and that is something. It is a ladylike accomplishment, and one that is worth excelling in; it gives innocent pleasure to so many of her friends who live at a distance; and your father can always obtain plenty of franks, Mr. Charmier and Mr. Thrale are very obliging.”
Fanny was a little fidgety while her eldest sister and her stepmother were discussing her in a tone of indulgence which was more humiliating than open reprobation would have been. But she knew that the truth was, that from her earliest years she was looked on as the dunce of the family, and she was so morbidly self-conscious that she was quite ready to accept their estimate of her. The silent member of a musical family soon finds out how she is looked on by the others; not with unkindness—quite the contrary—but only as if she were to be slightly pitied for her deficiency. But she had a secret or two, the treasuring of which in her heart prevented her from having any feeling of humiliation in the presence of her splendid sister, whom all the world sought to attract to their houses, especially when there were guests anxious to be entertained by the sweet singing of a handsome young woman with a very presentable young husband. Fanny had her secrets and cherished them with a fearful joy, for she knew that any day might remove either or both of them, and then there would be nothing left for her in the household but to put her heart into her needlework. But one cannot do needlework without needles, and if she were to put her heart into her work, and if every needle had a point, the result would, she knew, be a good many prickings.
She trusted that she might never be condemned to put her heart into her needlework.
THEN Lieutenant Burney sauntered into the room and greeted Esther; but when Fanny inquired with some eagerness what had been the result of Mr. Garrick's fooling of poor Mr. Kendal, James was by no means so glib or amusing as Fanny expected him to be.
“Psha!” he cried; “that Mr. Kendal is not worth powder and shot—at least not the weight of metal that Mr. Garrick can discharge—not in a broadside—Mr. Garrick is not given to broadsides—they are too clumsy for him—he is like Luke Boscawen, our chief gunner; he had a contempt for what he was used to term a blustering broadside, having a liking only for the working of his little brass swivel. He could do anything that he pleased with his little swivel. 'Ping!' it would go, when he had squinted along the sights, and the object he aimed at half a mile away—sometimes so small that we could scarce see it from our foretop—down it went. Boscawen could do what he pleased with it—the blunt nose of a whale rising to spout a mile away—the stem of a cocoa-nut palm on one of the islands when we were not sure of the natives and there was no time to climb the tree—that is the marksmanship of Mr. Garrick, and your Mr. Kendal was not worthy of an exercise of so much skill.”
“Nobody seems too insignificant to be made a fool of by Mr. Garrick,” said Mrs. Burney. “He is as happy when he has made a gruesome face and frightened a maid with a mop at the doorstep, as when he has stricken us with awe when the ghost enters inHamlet, or when Macbeth declaims of the horror of the curse of sleeplessness that has been cast on him. That is why I said before he arrived that I was not sure that his influence upon you all is for good. He makes one lose one's sense of the right proportions and realities of life. Now is not that so, Hetty? I make no appeal to Fanny, for I know that she has ever been devoted to Mr. Garrick. Is it not true that she was used to frighten poor Lottie before she was ten by showing how Mr. Garrick frowned as the Duke of Gloster?”
“I know that Fanny murdered us all in turn in our beds, assuring us that we were the Princes in the Tower, or some less real characters invented by herself,” said Esther. “But indeed if James tells us that Mr. Garrick's gun practice smashed the cocoa-nut that serves Mr. Kendal as a head, I should not grieve. Tell us what happened, James.”
“Oh, 'twas naught worth words to describe,” said James. “The man came to take counsel of Daddy in regard to a jest that Mr. Garrick had, unknown to his victim, played off upon him, and Mr. Garrick so worked upon him that Daddy had no chance to speak. But Mr. Garrick made fools of us as well, for I give you my word, though we were in with him in his jest, he had us blubbering like boobies when he laid his hand on the fellow's shoulder and spoke nonsense in a voice quivering and quavering as though he were at the point of breaking down.”
Mrs. Burney the elder shook her head.
“That is what I do not like—that trifling with sacred things,” she said. “'Tis not decent in a private house—I would not tolerate it even in a playhouse, and I see that you are of my opinion, James, though you may have been dragged into the abetting of Mr. Garrick in whatever mad scheme he had set himself upon perfecting.”
“Oh, for that matter we are all sorry when we have been merry at the expense of another, even though he be an elderly coxcomb such as that Mr. Kendal,” said James. “But enough—more than enough—of coxcomb Kendal! Tell us of the Duchess's concert, Hetty. Were the matrimonial duets as successful as usual?”
Esther, who had been disappointed that her stepmother had not yet said a word about the concert of the previous night given by the Dowager Duchess of Portland, at which she and her husband had performed, brightened up at her brother's question.
“The concert was well enough,” she replied with an affectation of carelessness. “'Twas no better than many that have taken place under this roof. Her Grace and her grandees were very kind to us—we had enough plaudits to turn the head of Gabrielli herself.”
“Oh, the Gabrielli's head has been turned so frequently that one can never tell when it sits straight on her shoulders,” said James.
“She wasverycivil to us last evening,” said Esther. “Indeed, she was civil to everyone until the enchanter Rauzzini sang the solo fromPiramo e Tisbeand swept the company off their feet. The poor Gabrielli had no chance against Rauzzini.”
“Especially in a company that numbered many ladies,” said James, with a laugh. “You remember what Sir Joshua told us that Dr. Goldsmith had once said of Johnson?—that in his argument he was like the highwayman: when his pistol missed fire he knocked one down with the butt.”
“I heard that upon one occasion Dr. Johnson knocked a man down with a heavy book, but I cannot imagine his ever firing a pistol,” remarked Mrs. Burney, who had been used, when the wife of a straightforward merchant of Lynn, to take every statement literally, and had not yet become accustomed to the involved mode of speaking of the brilliant young Burneys.
“You mean that Rauzzini—I don't quite perceive what you do mean by your reference to Dr. Goldsmith's apt humour,” said Esther.
“I only mean that among such a company as assembled at the Duchess's, if he missed fire with his singing, he glanced around with those dark eyes of his and the ladies went down before him by the score,” replied James. “Do not I speak the truth, Fanny?” he added, turning quickly to where Fanny was searching with her short-sighted eyes close to her work-basket for some material that seemed to be missing.
But she had clearly heard her brother's question, for she did not need to raise her head or to ask him to repeat it.
“Oh, we are all the slaves of the nobil' signor,” she said, and continued her search in the basket.
“From the way he talked to us last night it might be fancied that it was he who was the captive,” said Esther.
“And I do not doubt that he is living in a state of constant captivity,” laughed James. “Ay, or I should rather term it inconstant captivity, for I dare swear that those black eyes of his do a deal of roving in the course of a year—nay, in the course of a day. These singer fellows feel that 'tis due to their art, this moving the hearts of their hearers, by moving their own affections from heart to heart. The Rauzzini is, I fancy, like one of the splendid butterflies we came upon in the Straits, fluttering from flower to flower.”
“I have heard no stories of his inconstancy, even from the Gabrielli when she was most envious of his plaudits,” said Esther, and she glanced at her sister, who was earnestly threading a needle.
“You goose!” cried James to Esther. “Do you suppose that Gabrielli would tell you anything so greatly complimentary to him? In these days you cannot pay a man a greater compliment than to compare him to the fickle butterfly. You see that suggests a welcome from every flower.”
“I protest that it is to sailors I have heard most compliments of that sort paid,” laughed Esther, and then, putting herself in a singing attitude before him, she lilted most delightfully:
“Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more!
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot on sea-
“ha, ha, brother James!
and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
“Now be advised by me, dear James, and do not attribute even in a cynical way, the vice of inconstancy to a singer, until you have left the Navy.”
“I did not allude to it as a vice—rather as a virtue,” said James. “Just think of the hard fate of any girl to have such a person as a singer ever by her side!”
He easily evaded the rush down upon him made by Hetty, and used his nautical skill to sail to the windward of her, as it were, until he had reached the door, whence he sent a parting shot at her.
“You surely don't think that I hinted that your spouse was a singer,” he cried. “A singer! Oh, lud! I should be swaying away on all top ropes if I were to call the matrimonial duets singing.”
He gave a shout of laughter as he caught the ball of wool which Esther threw at him, having picked it up from her stepmother's work-table. He returned it with a better aim, and before his sister could get a hand on it, he had shut the door, only opening it a little space a few seconds later to put in his head with a mocking word, withdrawing it at once, and then his foot was heard upon the stair, while he gave a sailor's version of Mr. Garrick's patriotic naval song:
Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer.
“He has gone before I had a chance of asking him to take a message to the cheesemonger,” said Mrs. Burney, calling out to him while she hurried after him out of the room.
THE moment the two sisters were alone, the elder said quickly in a low voice, leaning across the table:
“We had a long talk with Signor Rauzzini, my dearest Fanny. I could not, of course, tell you before mother.”
“You mentioned his name; but were you discreet?” said Fanny. “I think mother felt that you were going too far when you referred to his eyes. Mother most surely believes that the dark eyes of an Italian form a topic that should not be discussed except by our elders, and then only with bated breath and a fearful glance around lest a word should be overheard.”
“His eyes—you know his eyes, Fanny?”
“Oh!” said Fanny, with an inflection that was between a sigh and a moan.
“You should have seen them while he spoke of you,” said Esther. “Talk of flashes of lightning!—Dear child, it seemed so singular to us that a mite like you should inspire a grand passion in such a man. You are not angry with us, I know, but it was so indeed.”
“Why should I feel angry with you for feeling just what I do myself, only more intensely,” said Fanny. “Tis one of the greatest mysteries of life—the only mystery of life that I have yet faced—why a man who is as handsome as an archangel, and who possesses a voice that an archangel might envy, should so much as glance at an insignificant young woman like myself! Oh! 'tis no wonder that the notion amused you, dear Hetty.”
“It only diverted us for a time, I assure you, my Fanny; it did not take us very long to perceive how it was no laughing matter, but, on the contrary, a very serious matter. Signor Rauzzini is, as I said, an enchanter, but do you not think that 'tis somewhat dangerous to—to——”
“To play with fire? That is what is on your mind, dear—to allow the fire of his Roman eyes to play about me? Dangerous? I admit that wherever there is fire there is danger, especially when it flashes from such eyes.”
“I am glad that you need no warning, child. As your elder sister I am pleased that—that—but no one in the house seems to think for a moment that the favour he has so distinctly shown to you can mean anything. Indeed, until last night, neither Charles nor I could believe——”
Fanny laughed, half closing her short-sighted eyes with a curious expression as she looked at her sister.
“It is only natural, my dear Hettina,” she said.
“Have I ever ventured to suggest that I am other than the dunce of the family?”
“You have always been absurdly humble, Fanny, and I have never hesitated to say so,” cried Esther. “I am sure that none of us could have made up such clever little pieces to act as you did when we were children. And as for writing, could any of us have so neatly copied out the padre's History as you did last year? Mr. Crisp, too—he never takes pleasure in any letters of the family except what you write for him.”
“All perfectly true, my Hettina,” replied Fanny. “But where am I when the house is filled with visitors? You know that I am nobody—that all I pray for with all my heart is that no one will take any notice of me, and I think I can say that my prayer is nearly always granted.”
“That is because you are so dreadfully—so absurdly shy,” said Esther. “You are the little mouse that is evermore on the look out for a hole into which you can creep and be safe from the observation of all eyes. You are ever trying to escape, unless when Mr. Garrick is here.”
“Dear Hettina, I know my place—that is all. I have weak eyes, but quick ears, and I have heard strangers ask, when they have heard you sing and Susan play, who the little short-sighted girl in the corner is and what she means to do for the entertainment of the company. When they are assured that I am one of the clever Burney family they whisper an incredulous 'No?' They cannot believe that so insignificant a person as myself can be one of you.”
“Tis your morbid self-consciousness, Fanny, that suggests so much to you.”
“Oh, no; I was the dunce from the first. You know that while you could read any book with ease when you were six, I did not even know my letters when I was eight. Don't you remember how James made a jest of my thirst for knowledge by pretending to teach me the alphabet with the page turned upside down? And when you had gone to school at Paris and it was my turn as the next eldest, the wise padre perceived in a moment that the money would be much better spent upon Susan and Lottie, and they went to be educated while I remained at home in ignorance? The dear padre was right: he knew that I should have been miserable among bright girls away from home.”
There was a pause before the elder sister said quite pathetically:
“My poor Fanny! I wonder if you have not been treated shabbily among us.”
“Not. I, my Hettina. I have always been treated fairly. I have had as many treats as any of you; when you were learning so much in Paris I have been learning quite a number of things at home. And one of the most important things I learned was that so brilliant a person as Signor Rauzzini could never be happy if married to so insignificant a person as Fanny Burney.”
Esther gave a little sigh of relief.
“Indeed I think that your conclusion is a right one, dear,” she said. “We both came to the conclusion—Charles and I—that it would be a huge misfortune if you should allow yourself to be attracted by the glamour that attaches to the appearance of such a man as the Rauzzini, though, mind you, I believe that he honestly fancies himself in love with you—oh, he made no disguise of it in talking with us last night. But I hoped that you would be sensible.”
“Oh, in the matter of sense I am the equal of anyone in the family,” said Fanny, laughing. “That I mean to make my one accomplishment—good sense. That is the precious endowment of the dunce of the clever family—good sense; the one who stands next to the dunce in the lack of accomplishments should be endowed with good nature. Good sense and good nature go hand in hand in plain grey taffeta, not down the primrose paths of life, but along the King's highway of every day, where they run no chance of jostling the simple foot-passengers or exciting the envy of any by the flaunting of feathers in their face. Good sense and good nature are best satisfied when they attract no attention, but pass on to obscurity, smiling at the struggle of others to be accounted persons of importance.”
“Then you have indeed made up your mind to marry Mr. Barlowe?” cried Esther.
Fanny laughed enigmatically.
“Does it not mean rather that I have made up my mind not to marry Mr. Barlowe?” she cried.
Esther looked puzzled: she was puzzled, and that was just what Fanny meant her to be.
But then she looked piqued, as elder sisters do when puzzled by the words or the acts of the younger. What business have younger sisters puzzling their elders? Their doing so suggests pertness when the elders are unmarried, but sheer insubordination when they are married; and Esther was by no means willing at any time to abrogate the privileges of her position as a married woman.
“I protest that I do not understand your meaning, Fanny,” she said, raising her chin in a way that gave her head a dignified poise. There was also a chill dignity in the tone of her voice.
“Dear Hettina, I ask your pardon,” cried Fanny quickly. “I fear that I replied to you with a shameful unreasonableness. But indeed I am not sure that you had reason on your side when you assumed that because I was ready to acknowledge that it would not mean happiness to our dear Signor Rauzzini to marry an insignificant person like myself, I was therefore prepared to throw myself into the arms of Mr. Barlowe.”
“I fancied that—that—but you may have another suitor in your mind whose name you have not mentioned to anyone.”
“Why should it be necessary for me to have a suitor of any kind? Is it not possible to conceive of the existence of a young woman without a row of suitors in the background? I admit that the 'Odyssey' of Homer—you remember how I used to listen to your reading of Mr. Broome's translation to mother—would be shorn of much of its interest but for that background of suitors in one of the last books, but—well, my dear sister, I hold that the alternative song of life to the matrimonial duet is the spinster's solo, and it does not seem to me to be quite devoid of interest.”
“Oh, I took it for granted——” began Esther, when Fanny broke in upon her.
“Yes, I know what all the happily wedded ones take for granted,” she cried. “You assume that the wedded life is the only one worth living; but as we are told in the Bible that there is one glory of the sun and another of the moon, so I hold that I am justified in believing that if matrimony be celestial, spinsterhood is terrestrial, but a glory all the same, and not unattractive to me. I may be wise enough to content myself with the subdued charm of moonlight if it so be that I am shut off from the midday splendour of matrimony.”
Esther did not laugh in the least as did her sister when she had spoken with an air of finality. She only made a little motion with her shoulders suggesting a shrug, while she said:
“I hope you will succeed in convincing mother that your views are the best for the household; but I think you will have some difficulty in doing so, considering what a family of girls we are.”
“I do not doubt that mother will be on the side of immediate matrimony and poor Mr. Barlowe,” said Fanny.
“Why poor Mr. Barlowe?” cried Esther. “He is a young man of excellent principles, and he has never given his parents a day's trouble. It is understood that if he marries sensibly he will be admitted to a partnership in the business, so that——”
“Principles and a partnership make for matrimonial happiness, I doubt not,” said Fanny. “And I doubt not that Dr. Fell had both excellent principles and an excellent practice; still someone has recorded in deathless verse that she—I assume the sex—did not like that excellent man.”
“And you do not like Mr. Barlowe on the same mysterious grounds?” said Hetty.
“Nay, I am not so unreasonable, I hope,” replied Fanny. “But—but—dear sister, I remember how I thought that the song of the linnet which was in our little garden at Lynn was the loveliest strain of the grove, and such was my belief until I awoke one night at Chessington and heard the nightingale.”
“You are puzzling—singularly puzzling today,” said Esther frowning. “You have started two or three mystifying parables already. You told me some time ago as a great secret that you had been renewing your story-writing, in spite of your having burnt all that you had written for our edification—all that story—what was its name? The heroine was one Caroline Evelyn. You were ever an obedient child, or you would not have sacrificed your offspring at the bidding of our new mother, though the advice that she gave you was good, if you have not quite adhered to it. Novel writing is not for young ladies any more than novel reading, and certainly talking in parables is worse still. Well, I have no more time to spend over your puzzles.”
“You would not find their solution to repay you, my dear,” said Fanny.
“Still, I am pleased to learn that you take a sensible view of Signor Rauzzini and his heroics—but, indeed, I cannot see that Mr. Barlowe should not be considered, with his prospects—his father is a mercer in gold and silver lace, as you know——”
“I have heard so—it is a profitable trade, I believe.”
“None more so. It is impossible to believe that a time will ever come when gold and silver lace will cease to be worn by gentlemen.”
“That would be an evil day for England as well as for Messieurs Barlowe,père et fils. But thank heaven it is not yet in sight. Good morning, dear sister; and be assured you have my thanks for your advice. But mind you keep my little secret about the writing. Good-bye. You can face mother boldly, knowing that you have carried out her commission to the letter, and very neatly and discreetly into the bargain.”
“I would not have done so if her views had not been mine also; as for your writing—you may depend on my keeping your secret. But you will have to get the padre's permission to have it printed—that's something still in the far future, I suppose;”—and the elder sister stooped to kiss the younger—Fanny was not up to the shoulder of the beautiful and stately Esther.
And so they parted.