FANNY BURNEY had been forced, for the first time, to make her sister aware of the fact that she knew she was looked on as the dunce of the brilliant Burney family. She could see that her doing so had startled her sister, for neither Esther nor any of the other girls had ever suggested to her that they thought of her as being on a different level from themselves, though it was tacitly allowed that it was a great pity that Fanny did not emulate them in taking pains to shine as it was expected the children of that estimable master of music, Dr. Burney, should shine, so as to make the house in that narrow little street off Leicester Fields attractive to its many distinguished visitors.
Fanny had truly defined her place in the household. She had recognized her place for several years; but there was not the least suggestion of rancour in her tone when talking to her brilliant elder sister, for the simple reason that there was no bitterness in her heart against any member of the family for being cleverer than herself. Fanny took pride in the accomplishments of her sisters, and was quite content with her position in relation to them. She got on well with all of them, because she was fond of them all, and they were all fond of her. She had not rebelled when her father had sent her younger sisters to be educated in Paris, and had allowed her to pick up her own education as best she might in his own library; and it had been a great happiness to her to be allowed the privilege of copying out for the press the first volume of her father's “History of Music.” It was her stepmother who, finding out that Fanny had what Mrs. Burney called “a taste for writing,” had suggested that that was the legitimate channel in which such a taste should flow; and it was her stepmother who had induced her to make a bonfire of all her own writings—the scribblings of her girlhood that represented the foolish errant flow of her “taste for writing “: and now and again she had a consciousness of her own duplicity in failing to resist the impulse that had come upon her to do some more of what her mother termed her “girlish scribbling.”
One of the guilty secrets that Fanny cherished was that when it was believed she was writing her long letters to her old friend Mr. Crisp, she had been composing a novel which was now about to be given to the world; the second was that Signor Rauzzini, the handsome young Roman singer with whom half the fashionable ladies of the town were in love, was in love with her.
These were two secrets worth the cherishing, she knew; and the thought of them more than compensated her for the reflection that she was the dunce of the family, and that the unconscious tone of patronage adopted toward her by her elder sister and the dreadful compliments paid to her plain sewing, as though plain sewing represented the highest hopes that could reasonably be entertained in regard to her, were only to be looked for in the circumstances.
The two secrets were closely bound up together, she knew. She had the deepest affection for Signor Rauzzini. How could she fail to return the feeling which the whisper of his musical voice had told her he had conceived for her? He loved her in spite of the fact that she was the least attractive member of the family—in spite of the fact that half the town was at his feet, and that he might have made his choice from among the best. He had chosen her whom no one else had ever noticed, with the exception of her father's old friend, Mr. Crisp, and—oh, yes (she laughed now, perceiving that she had done an injustice to the other person who had been attracted to her—mainly, she thought, on account of her reputation for plain sewing)—a young man named Thomas Barlowe, the excellent son of the well-known mercer of gold and silver lace, in the Poultry!
Thinking of young Mr. Barlowe by the side of Signor Rauzzini, Fanny laughed again. She had so restricted an opinion of her own attractiveness that the tears actually came into her eyes for having given that derisive laugh as she compared the two young men; and she felt that she had been grossly ungrateful to young Mr. Barlowe; for even young Mr. Barlowe had a right to look above her level for a wife. As the daughter of a simple music master with a large family she could have no endowment so far as worldly goods were concerned; and she knew that the practical parents of young business men, as a rule, looked for their sons to marry, if not great fortunes, at least young women with a few thousands to their names.
She felt that she had treated the condescending young Mr. Barlowe very badly in laughing at the poor figure he cut by the side of the angelic Roman singer—she had failed to resist the temptation to call Signor Rauzzini angelic in one of her letters to Mr. Crisp—and now, in thinking of Mr. Barlowe as a very worthy young man, she was unconsciously relegating him to a hopeless position as a lover. It is not the very worthy young men who are beloved by young women of a romantic temperament: if it were there would be very few romances left. But little Miss Burney desired only to ease the twinges of her conscience for having laughed at the thought of young Tommy Barlowe; and she thought that she had done the right thing in assuring herself that he was a very worthy person.
And then she thought no more about him. She had a feeling that to give another thought to him when she had such a man as Signor Rauzzini to think about, would be a constructive act of treason in regard to Rauzzini. She had received many hints from her stepmother to the effect that all the family considered her to be a very fortunate young woman (all things taken into account) in having a chance of marrying the Thomas who seemed ready to pay his addresses to her; but though quite submissive to her stepmother in household matters, she was ready to face her with the “Never!” of the avowed rebel in the matter of consenting to wed the highly approved Thomas, and so she dismissed him from her thoughts, in favour of the man whom she loved.
But thinking of the man whom she loved was by no means equivalent to passing into a region of unalloyed happiness. She had mystified her sister by the way in which she had spoken about Signor Rauzzini, and the seal had been put upon the mystery by her frank acknowledgment that she did not think a union between so distinguished a man as Rauzzini and so insignificant a person as herself was likely to be satisfactory.
She had certainly allowed Hetty to go away believing that this was in her mind; and that was just what was in her mind when her thoughts turned from Thomas, whom she considered so estimable, to Rauzzini, whom she loved. She loved the Roman singer so truly that she had made a resolution never to consent to his marrying anyone so insignificant as she believed herself to be.
She had no illusions regarding herself. She knew just how good-looking she was; she knew that by the side of any of her sisters she was almost plain; but that she had a pleasing, simple face of a very ordinary type. She knew that she could love with the truest devotion and she could trust herself not to change with time. But she felt that these were not beyond the traits of the ordinary young woman, and that they did not lift her from the level of insignificance to the level of Signor Rauzzini.
She knew that she was at that moment an insignificant person; and she made no attempt to think of herself as otherwise.
Yes; but she had heard of people—even young women—being insignificant one day, and the next springing to a pinnacle of fame to which all eyes looked up. How would it be if she were destined to reach in a moment a position that would place her on a level with the man of her thoughts—the man whose fame as a singer had caused him to be the centre round which every conversation in the most notable circles turned? Everyone was talking in praise of Rauzzini; and she herself thought of him as occupying a place on a height as far above her as King Cophetua's throne was above the marble steps at the foot of which the beggar maid had crouched; but in her mind there was the possibility that her name might one day be spoken by the world in connection with an achievement that would raise her from the insignificance of Fanny Burney to the importance of Signor Rauzzini, and prevent people from asking what on earth had induced so glorious a person as he to make her his wife!
That was the secret dream which filled the imagination of this imaginative young woman—the same dream as comes to so many young women who have written the last chapter of a book and sent it forth for the world to receive with acclaim—the dream of fame—of immortality! She had written a novel and it was about to be given to the world, if the world would have it, and upon its success her happiness depended. If it brought her fame, it would place her by the side of the man whom she loved; but if it failed, then she would remain a person of no significance, and quite unworthy of sharing the honours which were showered upon her lover. She had imagination, and this faculty it was that made her more than doubtful of the success of King Cophetua's rash experiment. She felt sure that King Cophetua had now and again, turning suddenly round, caught one of his courtiers with his tongue in his cheek when his Majesty was entering the throne-room with his shy and insignificant Queen by his side, and that the Queen had occasionally overheard the whispers of her maids of honour, when they did not know she was at hand, asking one another what on earth the King had seen in her that induced him to make her his consort. Little Miss Burney had long ago made up her mind that the union of King Cophetua and his beggar maid was far from being a happy one—that the King looked around him and saw several princesses of great beauty and quite devoid of shyness who were fully acquainted with the convenances of his court and would not, if he had married any one of them, have made the mistakes which she was sure the young person whom he had elevated had fallen into, causing him constant irritation.
Little Miss Burney had resolved that she would never play the part of a crowned beggar maid. The man whom she loved had won fame for himself, and she would not go to him unless she, too, had at least made such a name for herself as should prevent her from feeling herself in the position of the beggar maid whom King Cophetua had raised to his side. Little Miss Burney resolved that although she could scarcely expect to go to her lover wearing purple robes embroidered with gold, she could, at any rate, refrain from wearing beggars' rags. She had her ambitions, and she felt that they were not ignoble, but that they made for the happiness of the man she loved, and who had been gracious enough to love her—the least attractive member of the family.
But after she had sat for some time with her hands lying idle on the sempstress' work at which she had been engaged on the departure of her sister—after her imagination had carried her much farther away than she intended it should, she was sensible of a return to the cold world from which she had soared. Her heart, which had begun to beat quickly when Hetty had told her how the divine Rauzzini had spoken of her, sank within her as she seemed to hear a voice asking who was she that she should hope to reach by the publication of that story which she had been writing by stealth and at odd times during the past three years, even the smallest measure of fame that would compare with that of Signor Rauzzini? What fame attached to the writing of a novel in comparison with that achieved by the enchantment of a singer who had power to move the hearts of men and women as it pleased him? Orpheus—ah, what fame could compare with the fame of Orpheus, the singer? His was a heaven-sent gift. What was her little talent compared with such a gift? If she had the ability even to make music such as one of her sisters could bring forth from the keys of the piano, she would have a better chance of being accounted worthy of a place beside Signor Rauzzini than if her novel found its way to the shelves of many readers. The writing of a novel was a poor achievement—nay, in the opinion of a good many people, including her own stepmother—a most practical woman—it was something to be ashamed of; and Fanny herself, thinking over all the novels written by women which she herself had read—most of them surreptitiously—was disposed to agree with her. That was why she had kept as a secret for more than three years the fact that she was trying to write a novel. Her father knew nothing of it, and her stepmother was equally uninformed. Even her old friend Mr. Crisp, to whom she wrote voluminous letters week after week, and to whom she gave her confidence on many matters, had no suspicion that she had written her novel.
She had thought it prudent to keep this matter hidden from them, for she did not doubt that if she had told any one of them of her project, she would never have a chance of realizing it. They would certainly have pronounced against such a proceeding even before a page of her novel came to be written.
And yet it was the thought that this novel was shortly to be published that had caused her to feel that she was drawing nearer to her lover.
As she reflected upon this, sitting idly over her work when her sister had left the house, her tears began to fall, not in a torrent, but slowly dropping at intervals upon the fabric which she had been sewing. She felt very sad, very hopeless, very lonely.
Nor could it be said that the sudden return of Mrs. Burney meant a return of happiness to the girl.
Mrs. Burney did not consider that Fanny had made satisfactory progress with her work, and did not hesitate to express her opinion to this effect. But she was not imprudently unkind; for young Mr. Barlowe had just written to her, begging permission to pay his respects to Mrs. Burney and her daughter that evening, and she meant that Fanny should be in a good humour to entertain him.
Mrs. Burney had great hopes that the question of Fanny's future—a constant topic of conversation and consultation between her and her husband—might be settled by a series of visits of young Mr. Barlowe.
YOUNG Mr. Barlowe took himself very seriously, and he had every right to do so; for a more serious young man was not to be found in business in London. He had been brought up to look upon everything in the world as having an intimate connection with business, and it had always been impressed upon him that business meant the increase of money, and that there was hardly anything in the world worth giving a thought to apart from the increase of money. It never occurred to any of his preceptors to suggest that the advantage of increasing one's money lay in the splendid possibilities of spending it. The art of making money forms the whole curriculum of a business man's education; he is supposed to require no instruction in the art of spending it. Thus it is that, by attending only to one side of the question, so many business men lead much less interesting lives than they might, if they had it in their power to place themselves under the guidance of a trustworthy professor of the Art of Spending. But no Chair of Spending has yet been provided at any University, nor is there any instructor on this important branch of business education at any of the City schools, hence it is that the sons of so many money-making men turn out spendthrifts. They have been taught only one side of the great money question, and that the less important side into the bargain. In making an honest endeavour to master the other side, usually on the death of a father or a bachelor uncle, both looked on as close-fisted curmudgeons, a good many young men find themselves in difficulties.
Young Mr. Barlowe, on being introduced to the Burney family, through the circumstance of Mrs. Burney's first husband having done business with Mr. Barlowe the elder, found himself in a strange atmosphere. He had never before imagined the existence of a household where music and plays and books were talked about as if these were the profitable topics of life. Previously he had lived in a house where the only profitable topic was thought to be the Profits. At his father's table in the Poultry the conversation never travelled beyond the Profits. The likelihood of a rise in the price of gold or silver sometimes induced the father to increase his stock of bullion without delay, and then if the price rose, he could conscientiously charge his customers for the lace at such a rate per ounce as gave him a clear five per cent, extra profit; and it was upon such possibilities that the conversation in the Poultry parlour invariably turned.
And here were these Burneys talking with extraordinary eagerness and vivacity upon such matters as the treatment by a singer named Gabrielli of one of the phrases in a song of Mr. Handel's, beginning: “Angels ever bright and fair”! For himself, young Mr. Barlowe thought that there was no need for so much repetition in any song. “Angels ever bright and fair, Take, oh take me to your care”—that was the whole thing, as it seemed to him; and when that request had been made once he thought it was quite enough; to repeat it half a dozen times was irritating and really tended to defeat its purpose. Only children in the nursery kept reiterating their requests. But he had heard Dr. Burney and his son-in-law, Esther's husband, discuss the Gabrielli's apparently unauthorized pause before the second violins suggested (as it appeared to the younger musician) a whisper of assent floating from the heaven; and all the members of the family except Fanny had taken sides in the controversy, as though a thing like that had any bearing upon the daily life of the City!
Thomas Barlowe was amazed at the childishness of the discussion, and he was particularly struck by the silence of Fanny on this occasion. She was silent, he was sure, because she agreed with him in thinking it ridiculous to waste words over a point that should be relegated to the nursery for settlement.
“They seem pleasant enough people in their way,” he told his mother after his first visit. “But they know nothing of what is going on in the world—the real world, of which the Poultry is the centre. It might be expected that the young man who is a naval officer and has seen the world would know something of the import of the question when I asked him what direction he thought gold would move in; but he only winked and replied, 'Not across my hawse, I dare swear,' and the others laughed as if he had said something humorous.”
“Mayhap it was humorous,” suggested his mother gravely.
“It would be sheer ribaldry for anyone to jest upon such a subject as the fluctuations in the price of silver,” said Thomas slowly. “Lieutenant Burney must surely know how serious a matter would be a fall of a fraction of a crown when we have bought heavily in prospect of a rise. But Miss Burney looks to be different from the others of the family. I have told you that while her father, and indeed all the rest, were talking excitedly on that ridiculous point in Mr. Handel's music, she sat in silence. She is short-sighted, but I noticed more than once that she had her eyes fixed on me, as if she had found something to study in me. She is, I think, a steady, observant young lady. When Mrs. Burney said she hoped that I would visit them again, I think I perceived a sort of interest on Miss Burney's face as she awaited my answer.”
Thomas had resolved not to frustrate the hopes that Mrs. Burney had expressed as to his paying another visit—as a matter of fact he had come three times, and on every occasion he had devoted himself to Fanny—to be more exact than Mrs. Burney, who had described his attentions in this phrase, he had passed his time subjecting her to a sort of catechism with a view to discover if she would make him the sort of wife that would suit him. It appeared that the result of his inquisition was satisfactory, and that his attentions were gradually becoming intentions; but Mrs. Burney had never gone farther than to comment favourably to Fanny upon the young man's steadiness, and to suggest that the young woman whom he might choose to be his wife would be fortunate, steady young men with good prospects in the City being far from abundant. She had never gone so far as to ask Fanny if she would accept good fortune coming to her in such a form; though Fanny knew very well that she had asked Esther to sound her on this point.
How far Esther's mission was accounted successful by their stepmother, Fanny, of course, could not guess; but at any rate Thomas was to pay a visit after dinner, and Fanny felt that it was necessary for her to be discreet. It had been very interesting for her to study Thomas, with the possibility before her of writing a second novel, in which some of his traits of character might be introduced with advantage; but she perceived how there was a likelihood of her course of study being paid for at too high a rate; so she resolved—to be discreet beyond her ordinary exercise of a virtue which she displayed at all times of her life.
So Thomas came to the house in St. Martin's Street while tea was being served in the drawingroom, to the accompaniment of a duet on the piano—Dr. Burney had quickly perceived the merits of this new instrument over that of the harpsichord—between Susan and her father. Very close to the instrument, pressing the receiver of his ear-trumpet to the woodwork of the case, sat Sir Joshua Reynolds, while his sister—a lady of middle age who was gradually relinquishing the idea that she, too, could paint portraits—was suffering Mrs. Burney to explain to her the advantages of Lynn over London as a place of residence for people anxious to economize.
Fanny was at the table where the teapot and urn were being drawn on, and close to her sat her brother James, with a volume like an account-book lying face down on the table while he drank his tea.
The progress of the duet was not arrested by the entrance of young Mr. Barlowe, but he looked in the direction of the instrument when he had shaken hands with Mrs. Burney and bowed to Miss Reynolds. It was obvious that he was mystified by seeing Sir Joshua's ear-trumpet pressed against the sound-conducting case of the piano. He was still looking at it with curious eyes while he greeted Fanny with the concentrated politeness of the Poultry.
Lieutenant Burney roused himself from his lolling attitude when he saw the puzzled look on the young man's face, and he obligingly endeavoured to explain away the mystery.
“'Tis no wonder that you are amazed, Mr. Barlowe,” he said in a whisper. “I own that when it was first brought to my notice I thought it extraordinary. A marvellous instrument, is it not, that is played by the ear instead of by the mouth? And yet you must own that some of the notes it produces are very fine—much more delicate than could be produced by any other means.”
“I do not profess to be a judge of music, sir,” said Thomas; “but I know what pleases me.” Fanny wondered how often she had heard that same boast—the attempt of complete ignorance to be accredited with the virtue of frankness. “Yes, I own that I consider the music monstrous pretty; but with the ear—that is what puzzles me: it seems a simple trumpet, such as is blown by the mouth.”
“Pray do not let my father hear you say that, Mr. Barlowe,” whispered James. “That instrument is his fondest. You know that he has written a 'History of Music'?”
“All the world knows that, sir,” replied Thomas gallantly. “I have not yet found time to read it myself, but——”
“Neither have I, sir; but I understand that that instrument which seems new to such simpletons as you and I is really as ancient as the pyramids of Egypt—nay, more so, for my father discovered in his researches that this was the identical form of the first instrument made by Tubal Cain himself.”
“Is't possible? In our Family Bible there is a picture of Tubal Cain, but he is depicted blowing through a conch shell.”
“A shell! Ah! such was the ignorance of the world on these matters before my father wrote his History. But he has managed to clear up many points upon which complete ignorance or very erroneous opinions prevailed. It is not generally known, for instance, that Tubal had his second name given to him by reason of his habitually murdering every musical piece that he attempted to play.”
“But he was the inventor, was he not?”
“Quite true, Mr. Barlowe. But that fact, you must admit, only made his offence the more flagrant. So the inscriptions on the rocks assert; and there are some sensible people nowadays who believe that Tubal's second and very suggestive name should be coupled with the names of many more recent performers on musical instruments.”
“You do not allude to the gentleman who is playing that new instrument—I mean that very ancient instrument—by the side of Dr. Burney?”
“Oh, surely not. That gentleman is one of the most notable performers of our age, Mr. Barlowe. I ask you plainly, sir, have you ever seen, even at a raree show, a musician who could play an instrument with his ear and produce such a good effect? You can easily believe that a vast amount of ingenuity is needed to produce even the simplest sound in that way.”
“If I had not it demonstrated before my eyes I should not believe it possible. I protest, sir, that the effect is very pretty. Is't not so, Miss Burney?”
The young man turned to Fanny, who was doing her best to refrain from an outburst of laughter; she could not trust herself to put her cup of tea to her lips while her brother was continuing his fooling. She thought that it was scarcely good manners of him to play such a jest upon a visitor, though she knew the ward-room code of manners which her naval brother had acquired was very liberal on such points. She was about to give Mr. Barlowe a hint of the truth of Sir Joshua's ear-trumpet, but James, perceiving her intention, defeated it by saying in a tone above a whisper:
“Cain—we mentioned Cain, did we not, Mr. Barlowe? Oh, yes; and it must have occurred to you how strangely customs have altered during the past ten years—how strongly opposed people are to-day to principles that were accepted without demur so recently as in our own boyhood. You take my meaning, sir?”
Mr. Barlowe did not look as if he quite grasped Lieutenant Burney's drift, and Fanny felt it incumbent on her to prevent further fooling (as he thought she would) by remarking:
“My brother means, Mr. Barlowe, that 'tis remarkable how many changes are being made in many ways—but what he had in his mind was, of course, in respect to the forte-piano—on which my father and sister are playing a duet: only a few years ago no one thought to improve upon the harpsichord; and yet my father asserts that in a short time the harpsichord will be no more than a curiosity—that the forte-piano—or as we simply call it now, the piano, will take its place in every household. That is what you meant, was it not, James?”
“I was thinking of Cain and his profession—Cain, the good old murderer, rather than of Tubal Cain, who was perhaps equally criminal in inventing the liveliest source of human torture,” replied James gravely. “Yes, I was thinking—suggested by the mention of Cain—how strange people nowadays would regard my father's intentions regarding my future when he assumed that I should have the best chance for cultivating my bent, which he had early recognized in me, by sending me, before it became too late, to be educated for the profession to an accomplished murderer.”
YOUNG Mr. Barlowe started so violently that he spilt his tea over his knees; for just before James had uttered his last sentence the music stopped, but as it had been somewhat loud in the final bars, and James had raised his voice in the same proportion, the inertia of his tone defied any attempt to modulate it, so that it was almost with a shout that he had declared that he had been sent to be educated in his profession to a murderer.
Fanny was too much overcome by the ludicrous aspect of the contretemps to be able to laugh. Her brother, who had had no intention of startling anyone in the room except young Mr. Barlowe, hung his head and was blushing under the South Sea tan of his skin; Sir Joshua Reynolds had heard nothing after the crashing chords that concluded the duet; but poor Miss Reynolds almost sprang from her chair in horror.
Mrs. Burney was very angry.
“You have been making a fool of yourself as usual, James,” she cried. “Pray give Mr. Barlowe another cup of tea, Fanny. I vow that 'tis a shame for you, James Burney, to treat such a company as though you were on the deck of theAdventurefacing your South Sea savages.”
But Dr. Burney, with his customary tact, raised a hand half reprovingly toward his wife.
“Give Mr. Barlowe his cup, and then pass one to me, Fanny,” he said, rising from the piano. “You know that James has spoken no more than the truth, my dear,” he added, smiling at his wife. “I can see that the rascal has been fooling while our backs were turned to him; but we know that he spoke no more than the truth—at least in that one sentence which he bawled out for us. He was, indeed, sent to a school where he was placed under an accomplished usher who was some time after hanged as a murderer. You see, madam——” he had turned, still smiling, to Miss Reynolds, thereby doing much to restore her confidence in the sanity of the family—“You see that James was from the first so desperate a young rascal that, just as a boy who is an adept at figures is educated for the counting-house, and one who spends all the day before he is six picking out tunes on the harpsichord should be apprenticed, as I was, to a musician, so we thought our James should be sent whither he could be properly grounded in the only profession at which he was likely to excel. But, alas! the poor usher was carried off by the police, tried at the next assizes and duly hanged before James had made much progress in his studies; but I believe that a few years in the navy does as much for a youth who has made up his mind to succeed, as a protracted course under a fully qualified criminal.”
Miss Reynolds looked as if she were not quite certain that, in spite of his smiles, Dr. Burney was jesting; but when Mrs. Burney, seeing how her husband's mock seriousness was likely to produce a wrong impression upon plain people, said:
“You must recall hearing about Mr. Eugene Aram some years back, Mrs. Reynolds,” that lady showed that her mind was greatly relieved.
“I recall the matter without difficulty,” she said. “The man was usher at the grammar school at Lynn.”
“And no school had a more learned teacher than that unfortunate man,” said Sir Joshua. Young Mr. Barlowe had been divided in his amazement at what Dr. Burney had said, and at the sight of Sir Joshua holding the trumpet to his ear, though the instrument remained mute. He had never found himself within the circle of so startling a society. He wished himself safe at home in the Poultry, where people talked sense and made no attempt to blow a trumpet with their ears.
“James had acquired quite a liking for poor Aram,” said Dr. Burney, “and, indeed, I own to having had a high opinion of the man's ability myself. It was to enable him to purchase books necessary for his studies in philology that he killed his victim—a contemptible curmudgeon named Johnstone. I fear that all our sympathy was on the side of the usher.”
“I was greatly interested in Mr. Aram, and read a full account of his trial,” said Sir Joshua.
“I wonder that a man of so sensitive a mind as his did not so brood over his crime as to cause suspicion to fall on him earlier than it did.”
“Only upon one occasion it seemed that he was affected by an incident which might possibly have awakened some suspicion in the mind of a person given to suspicion,” said Dr. Burney.
“James had been presented with a copy of the translation of Gessner's 'Death of Abel'—everyone was going mad about the book that year—more copies were sold of it than of any translation since Pope's 'Homer,' but I fancy James found it dull enough reading. He had it on his knee trying to get through a page or two in case the kind donor might question him upon it, when the usher came up. He took the volume in his hand and glanced at the title. Down the book fell from his grasp and he hurried away without a word—'as if he had been stung,' James said, in telling us about it, to excuse the broken cover. Of course, I never gave a thought to the matter at the time; but when I heard of the arrest of Eugene Aram the following year, I recalled the incident.”
“I should like to make a picture of the scene, and name it 'Remorse,'” said Reynolds.
(He never did make such a picture; many years had passed, and Lieutenant Burney had become an Admiral before his narration of the incident touched the imagination of a poet who dealt with it in verse that has thrilled a good many readers.)
Thomas Barlowe was not greatly thrilled by the story as told by Dr. Burney. He seemed rather shocked to find himself at the table with someone who had been taught by a murderer. He glanced furtively at James Burney, who had remained silent since the contretemps that had prevented him from perfecting his fooling of Thomas; and the result of Thomas's scrutiny at that moment was to cause Thomas a tremor; for who could say what fearful knowledge Lieutenant Burney might have acquired during his intercourse with the murderer—knowledge which might jeopardize the safety of a simple visitor like himself? Thomas felt that no ordinary person could be accounted absolutely safe in a company that included a tall, able-bodied young naval man who had begun his education under a murderer and had gone to complete it among the cannibals of the South Seas; and, in addition, an elderly gentleman who fancied that he could bring any sound out of a trumpet by pressing it to his ear instead of his lips, and had shown himself ready to extol the scholarship of any man who had been hanged.
But then Thomas looked at Fanny, and she pleased him more than ever. She was so demure, so modest, so shy. She had a very pretty blush, and she did not play on the piano. It was a thousand pities, he felt, that such a girl should be compelled to remain in such uncongenial companionship. All the time that Dr. Burney and his other daughter were playing a second duet, and the silly gentleman holding the bell of his trumpet to the case of the piano, still fondly believing that he was also a performer with the mouth-piece in his ear, Thomas Barlowe was feeling wave after wave of pity passing over him for the unhappy position of the shy girl in the midst of so doubtful a household. Before long his compassion for her so stimulated his imagination that he began to think of the possibility of his rescuing her—he began to think of himself in the character of a hero—he did not remember the name of any particular hero who had carried off a young woman who was placed in a similar situation to that occupied by Miss Burney; but he had no doubt that more than one romance was founded upon the doings of such a man as he felt himself fully qualified to be, if he made up his mind to assume such a rôle.
As the music continued—it was an arrangement of Bach'sOrfèo—Thomas Barlowe became more and more resolute. He would be the heroic person who should appear at the right moment and achieve the emancipation of that sweet and shy girl, who by no fault of hers was forced to live in that house and remain, if she could, on friendly terms with her father and sisters, who kept strumming on the piano, and with her brother, who was ready to boast of having received the rudiments of his education from a murderer. All that he needed was the opportunity to show his heroism, and he did not doubt that when he set his mind to work on the matter, he would have such an opportunity.
If anyone had whispered in his ear that his inward consciousness of being equal to the doing of great deeds was solely due to the music which was being played, and to which he was unwillingly listening, he would have been indignant. He would have thought it preposterous had it been suggested to him that the effect of that strumming was to make him feel more like a god than a man—to be ready to face hell for the love of a woman, as Jean Sebastian Bach imagined Orpheus doing for Eurydice. But Jean Sebastian Bach knew what he was about when he had composed hisOrfèo, and Dr. Burney was quite equal to the business of interpreting his aims, and of urging his daughter Susan to join with him in impressing them upon even so unimpressionable a nature as that of Thomas Barlowe; so that while Thomas Barlowe believed that this music was one of the most petty of all human interests, it was making him think such thoughts as had never before entered his mind—it was giving him aspirations from which in ordinary circumstances he would have shrunk.
The master musician and his interpreters were making sport of him, leading him if not quite into the region of the heroic, at least to the boundary of that region, and supplying him with a perspective glass, as the Interpreter did to the Pilgrims, by the aid of which he might see the wonderful things that had been beyond his natural scope.
And that was how it came about that he gazed into Miss Burney's eyes and pressed her hand at parting with a tenderness he had never previously associated with his leave-taking. He felt sure that Miss Burney would understand what he meant, though he knew that he would have difficulty in expressing it all to her in words; for the effect of the music was to make him feel that he could put so much feeling into a look, into a squeeze of the hand, as would touch the heart of any young woman and cause her to be certain that she might trust him though all other help might fail her.
That was the effect which the heroic music had upon him, though he did not know it; it made him feel willing to face hell for her sake at that moment, and even until he had walked through more than a mile of the network of streets that lay between Leicester Fields and the Poultry.
But the effect of such an intoxicant as music upon such a nature as his is not lasting. Before he had reached Cheapside his own individuality was beginning to assert itself; and he wondered if he had not gone too far for discretion—discretion being, according to his reckoning, the power to withdraw from a position that might compromise him. And before he reached his home he had got the length of wondering how he had so far forgotten himself as to yield to that compromising impulse represented by the gaze and the squeeze. He could not for the life of him understand what had come over him at that moment; for he had by no means satisfied himself that Miss Burney was the young woman who would make him comfortable as his wife. He still thought highly of her on account of her modesty and her dainty shyness, but marriage was a serious matter, and he was not sure that he should take her for his wife.
On the whole, he felt that he had had a very trying evening—between the Lieutenant who had so nearly qualified to practise as a murderer, and the father and daughter who seemed ready to strum their duets until midnight, to say nothing of the foolish gentleman who tried to play the trumpet with his ear; and Thomas made up his mind that he would not trust himself into the midst of so unusual a circle until he was certain that he wanted to marry the young woman whose hand he had, for some reason or other, pressed at parting.
But Mrs. Burney had noticed much more clearly than Fanny had done the expression that the face of Thomas Barlowe had worn when he had looked into the girl's eyes; she had measured to the fraction of a second the duration of his holding of her hand beyond the time essential for the discharge of the ordinary courtesy of a hand-shake; and she was satisfied that Thomas was progressing in his wooing of the least attractive and certainly the least accomplished member of the family. The good woman thought, however, that it was rather a pity that her husband and Susan had persisted in the practice of their duets; for by doing so they had not given a chance to Thomas and Fanny of being alone together.
But, looking back upon the incidents of the evening, she came to the conclusion that, on the whole, she had no reason to complain of the progress that was being made in the young man's wooing. She was no believer in undue haste in this respect; and had not Thomas looked into Fanny's eyes at the close of the evening? Yes, at the close; and that proved to her satisfaction that he had not suffered discouragement by the maladroit conversation about Mr. Eugene Aram. The unhappy episode upon which her husband had dwelt with far too great attention to its details, was one to which she herself had never alluded; for at Lynn, where she had lived all her life previous to being married to Dr. Burney, the Eugene Aram episode was regarded as a scandal to be ignored by those of the inhabitants whose children had attended the school where he had been usher. It was a distinctly favourable sign of the impression made upon young Mr. Barlowe by Fanny, that he had gazed into her eyes in spite of his having been made aware of the connection of the family with the tragedy of that wretched schoolmaster. Mrs. Burney took no account of the effect of Bach's marvellous music upon a young man who was a lover in the rough. In this respect, as has been indicated, she did not differ from the young man himself.
IT was at the Pantheon in the Oxford Road a fortnight later, that Mrs. Thrale, the brewer's lively wife, had an opportunity of shining, by a display of thatespritwhich caused Mr. Garrick to affirm solemnly that if she had gone upon the stage she would have been a dangerous rival to Mistress Clive; and Fanny Burney, with her father and Mr. Linley, the father of the beautiful Mrs. Sheridan, was a witness of the ease with which the lady sparkled as she described for the benefit of the circle how Mr. Garrick's jest at the expense of poor Mr. Kendal and the Widow Nash had set all the Wells laughing. She imitated Mr. Garrick to his face, in offering his congratulations to Mr. Kendal and so setting the ball a-rolling until within an hour the poor, silly gentleman had been offered the felicitations of half the Wells upon his engagement to Widow Nash. Mrs. Thrale re-enacted with great gravity the part she had played in Mr. Garrick's plot, and then she hastened to imitate Mrs. Cholmondeley's part, and even Mr. Sheridan's, upon that lively morning at Tunbridge Wells.
But there was much more to tell, and Mrs. Thrale took very good care to abate nothing of her narrative; it gave her so good a chance of acting, and it gave Mr. Garrick so good a chance of complimenting her before all the company.
“Oh, I vow that we played our parts to perfection,” she cried, “and without any rehearsal either. But then what happened? You will scarce believe it, Mr. Garrick has always borne such a character for scrupulous honour in his dealings with his companies, but indeed 'tis a fact that our manager decamped as soon as he found that the poor man had been teased to the verge of madness by the fooling he had started—off he went, we knew not whither; leaving no message for any of us. He was not to be found by noon; and what happened by dinner-time? Why, the poor gentleman whom we had been fooling had also fled!”
“That was indeed too bad of Mr. Kendal,” said Dr. Burney.
“'Twas too inconsiderate of him truly,” cried Mrs. Thrale. “'Tis no great matter if the manager of the playhouse runs away when his play is produced—you remember that Mr. Colman hurried off to Bath to escape lampooners when the success of Dr. Goldsmith's comedyShe Stoops to Conquerhad proved to all the town that he was no judge of a play; but for the one who has been made the object of such a jest as ours to escape without giving us a chance of bringing our teasing to a fitting climax is surely little short of infamous.”
“And when did you design the fitting climax to arrive, madam?” asked one of the circle.
“Why, when the gentleman and lady should come face to face in the Assembly Rooms, to be sure,” replied Mrs. Thrale. “We were all there to await the scene of their meeting; and you can judge of our chagrin when only the lady appeared.”
“We can do so, indeed,” said Mrs. Darner, who was also in the circle. “I can well believe that you were furious. When one has arranged a burletta for two characters 'tis infamous when only one of the actors appears on the stage.”
Mrs. Thrale smiled the smile of the lady who knows that she is harbouring a surprise for her friends and only awaits the right moment to spring it upon them—a cat to be let out of the bag at the pulling of a string.
“I knew that we should have your sympathy, Mrs. Darner,” she said demurely. “You have, I doubt not, more than once experienced all the chagrin that follows the miscarrying of a well-planned scheme. But as it so happened, we were more than compensated for our ill-usage at that time by the unlooked-for appearance of the missing actor two nights later.”
“Oh, lud!” cried Mrs. Darner, holding up both her hands in a very dainty way.
Mr. Garrick also lifted up his hands in amazement, but he did not need to exclaim anything to emphasize the effect of his gesture.
Dr. Burney smiled, trying to catch the eye of Mr. Garrick, but Mr. Garrick took very good care that he should not succeed in doing so.
“You may well cry, 'oh, lud!'” said Mrs. Thrale. “But if you had been in the Rooms when the man entered you would not have been able to say a word for surprise, I promise you. The poor gentleman had posted all the way from town to Tunbridge, apparently for our diversion only, and what a sight he was! It seems that he had got over his fright at the coupling of his name with the lady's, while flying to London, but from this point a reaction set in, and he spent all the time that he was posting back to the Wells adding fuel to the fire of his resolution to throw himself at the feet of the lady at the earliest possible moment. Was there ever such a comedy played, Mr. Garrick?”
“'Twould be too extravagant for the theatre, madam, but not for Nature's playhouse,” replied Garrick. “I have more than once been told the story of soldiers having fled in a panic from the field of battle, but on finding themselves in a place of safety they returned to the fight and fought like demons. Was there aught that could be termed demoniacal in the gentleman's conduct on finding himself face to face with the enemy—I mean the lady?”
“Aught demoniacal, do you ask me?” cried Mrs. Thrale. “Oh, sir, have you not heard the parable of the demon that was cast out of a man, but finding its homeless condition unsupportable, sought out seven of its friends and returned with them to its former habitation, so that the last state of the man was more demoniacal than the first?”
“I fancy I have heard the parable, madam, but its application——” began Garrick, when Mrs.
Darner broke in upon him, crying:
“Do not ever attempt to point out the aptness of the application of a parable, Mrs. Thrale. Do not, if you are wise. Would you lead us to believe that the unhappy wretch found it necessary to post up to town to obtain his relay of demons for his own discomfiture when so much rank and fashion was at the Wells, though at the fag end of the season?”
“Leaving parables aside, demons and all, I can bear witness to the condition of the man when he entered the Rooms and strode with determination on his face up to where the Widow Nash was fanning herself—not without need,” said Mrs. Thrale. “It so happened that she was seated under the gallery at the furthest end of the Rooms, but our gentleman did not pause on entering to look round for her—I tell you that it seemed as if he went by instinct straight up to her, and bowing before her, said: 'Madam, may I beg the honour of a word or two with you in private?'—I was close by and so were several other equally credible witnesses, and we heard every word. The widow looked at him coolly——”
“Yes, you said she had been fanning herself,” remarked Mrs. Darner, but without interrupting the flow of the narrative.
“There was no need of a fan for her voice, I can assure you, when she had completed her survey of the dusty gentleman and thought fit to reply to him,” continued Mrs. Thrale. “'I vow, sir,' said she, 'that I consider this room sufficiently private for anything you have to say to me.' She had plainly got wind of Mr. Garrick's plot and so was fully prepared for the worst—though some people might call it the best—that could happen. 'Madam,' said Mr. Kendal, 'what I have to say is meant for your ear alone,' and I am bound to admit that he spoke with suavity and dignity. 'Pray let my friends here be the judges of that,' said the widow. That was a pretty rebuff for any gentleman with a sense of his own dignity, you will say; but he did not seem to accept it in such a spirit. He hesitated, but only for a few moments, then he looked around him to see who were within hearing, and with hardly a pause, he said in the clearest of tones, 'I perceive that we are surrounded just now with some ladies who, two days ago, offered me congratulations upon my good fortune in winning your promise, madam; and I venture now to come before you to implore of you to give me permission to assume that their congratulations were well founded'—those were his words; we did not think that he had it in him to express himself so well.”
“And what was the lady's reply?” asked Dr. Burney, recalling the prophecy in which he had indulged when parting from Garrick at his own door.
“The lady's reply was disappointing, though dignified,” replied Mrs. Thrale. “'Sir,' she said, 'I have oft heard that the credulity of a man has no limits, but I have never before had so conspicuous an instance of the truth of this. Surely the merest schoolboy would have been able to inform you that you were being made the victim of one of Mr. Garrick's silly jests—that these ladies here lent themselves to the transaction, hoping to make a fool of me as well as of you; but I trust that they are now aware of the fact that I, at least, perceived the truth from the first, so that whoever has been fooled I am not that person; and so I have the honour to wish you and them a very good evening.' Then she treated us to a very elaborate curtsey and stalked away to the door, leaving us all amazed at her display of dignity—real dignity, not the stage imitation, Mr. Garrick.”
“You should have been there, if only to receive a lesson, Mr. Garrick,” said Mrs. Damer.
“I hope those who had the good fortune to be present were taught a lesson,” said another lady in the circle.
“If you mean me, madam,” said Mrs. Thrale, with tactful good humour, “I frankly allow that I profited greatly by observing the scene. 'Tis a dangerous game to play—that of trying to show others in a ridiculous light, and in future I vow that all my attention shall be given to the duty of avoiding making a fool of myself. Your jest miscarried, Mr. Garrick; though how that gentleman who fled from the Wells in that headlong fashion was induced to return, is beyond my knowledge.”
“Psha! madam, the fellow is a coxcomb and not worth discussing,” cried Garrick. “He got no more than his deserts when the lady left him to be the laughing-stock of the Assembly. I knew that that would be his fate if he ever succeeded in summing up sufficient courage to face her.”
“But strange to say, we did not laugh at him then,” said Mrs. Thrale. “He seemed to be quite a different man from the one whom we had tried to fool two days earlier. There was a certain dignity about him that disarmed us. You must allow, Mr. Garrick, that only the bravest of men would have had the courage to march up the Assembly Rooms and make his proposal to the lady in public.”
“That is the courage of the coxcomb who believes himself to be irresistible to the other sex, madam,” said Garrick; “and I affirm that 'twas most reprehensible to refrain from laughing at him.” Then, putting his arm through that of Burney as if to stroll on with him, and so give the others to understand that he had had enough of Mr. Kendal as a topic, he whispered:
“Ha, my friend, did not I prophesy aright what would be the fellow's fate? I know men, and women, too—ay, in some measure, though they are sealed books, eh, friend Burney? And you tried to persuade me that she would not snub him? I knew better—I knew that she—eh, what—what are they staring at?”
“They are staring at the appearance of Mr. Kendal with the Widow Nash on his arm—there they are, David, and you are staring at them too,” said Burney with a smile.
“Angels and Ministers of Grace! 'Tis a man and his wife we are staring at! The woman has married him after all!” cried David, his hand dropping limply from Burney's shoulder. “A man and his wife: I know the look in their faces!”