IT was on one of the last mornings in January that Mrs. Burney was reading out of the newly-arrivedLondon Chroniclesuch paragraphs as she thought would appeal to the varied interests of the breakfast-table. There were a few announcements of marriages about to take place between people whose names they knew, the amount of the bride's dowry being stated in each in plain figures, though Mrs. Burney took it upon her to affirm in one or two cases that the sum was exaggerated, or to suggest that if the father of the bride were just enough to pay his debts first, the portion of his daughter would be considerably reduced. In the case of one of the gentlemen, who was marrying thirty thousand pounds, she ventured to express the hope that he would now pay at least some of his creditors.
These were, of course, the most interesting items of news, though their attractiveness was not greatly superior to that of the gossip respecting Mr. F———, who had been noticed in high dudgeon because of Lady P———'s dancing three times with Sir Julian Y———; or that which suggested that a reconcilement must have taken place between the beautiful Mrs. G——— and her husband, for they had been seen taking the air together in the Park.
It was also pleasant to learn that His Majesty had given great encouragement to Mrs. Delany in the production of her ingenious mosaic flowers, in which she was so skilled as to excite the wonder of several criticks in the Royal circle; and also that His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had been graciously pleased to say in publick that he had always admired the Perdita of the beautiful Mrs. Robinson, though he considered Mrs. Abington, on the whole, the most tasteful dresser in the Drury Lane company.
It was only when Mrs. Burney had folded the newspaper and was about to put it away, that a few lines of an advertisement caught her eye—she commented before she read, as though she had been a fully qualified critic:
“More novels! More stuff for the circulating libraries! Enough to make poor Mr. Richardson feel uncomfortable in his grave! Could he but have known that he was turning all England into novel readers he would never have put pen to paper. Here is another imitator in the field. 'Evelina; or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World,' published to-day by Mr. Lowndes—three volumes, seven and sixpence sewed, nine shillings in covers. 'Evelina,' a distant cousin to 'Clarissa' and 'Pamela' I doubt not. I hope your father will not bring anyone here to dinner to-day. Hashed mutton is a wholesome dish, to be sure, but some visitors are fastidious. He may bring as many as he pleases to-morrow, for Mr. Greville's gift of pheasants will be on the table. Why are you staring so at your sister, Lottie?”
Lottie was becoming a hardened dissembler: she scarcely started when asked to interpret certain furtive glances she cast at Fanny.
“I was wondering if Fanny would make a face: she never was fond of hashed mutton,” said Lottie glibly. “If she had gone to school in France she would soon have got a liking for it, cooked as it is there.”
“I am not partial to French kickshaws,” said Mrs. Burney. “There's nothing like good English fare. To my thinking, the principle of making food tasty when in ordinary circumstances it should not be so, is a bad one. Hash of mutton is wholesome food, and it should be eaten as such without further question. If Providence had meant it to be tasty as well, He would have made His intentions as plain as in the case of roast pheasant.”
“Lottie will tell you that I made no face at the mention of hash of mutton,” said Fanny. “What does it signify whether one sits down to a simple platter of mutton hash or a great dinner such as father gets at Mr. Thrale's? A pair of geese, a leg of mutton, a tongue, a rib of roast beef and a brace of pheasants, with two or three dishes of fish, and for Dr. Johnson a veal pie or a piece of pork—those were on the table at one time. What is the benefit of such abundance, when all that one can eat is a single slice of beef?”
She spoke rapidly, for she, too, had been a great dissembler. She meant to take away her stepmother's attention from those questionable glances which she had exchanged with Lottie; and she succeeded very well.
“It would make no difference to us whether we had one dish or ten; but it makes all the difference in the world to Mr. Thrale. They say he has a prodigious appetite, and eats of at least six heavy dishes of meat at dinner.”
“Mr. Baretti affirms that some day he will not awake from the stupor into which he falls after one of his heavy meals,” said Susy.
“And all the time Mrs. Thrale is entreating him to be more moderate,” cried Lottie.
“A humiliating duty for such as Mrs. Thrale,” said her mother. “That shows how true is all that Fanny has remarked: a simple dish should be enough for any reasonable person. I have often wondered how the converse at the Streatham table could be so wise and witty if the master of the house eats like a hog, and Dr. Johnson, suffering from ill-health, expends so much energy over his pork that the veins stand out on his forehead and his face is bathed in perspiration.”
“I am sure that Mrs. Thrale has wit and liveliness enough to serve for the whole company,” said Fanny.
“She is chatty enough, I doubt not,” replied Mrs. Burney. “There are those who think she talks over-much for a woman.”
“Not for a woman of fashion,” suggested Lottie with some pertness, when their stepmother had left the room. “It is long since Mrs. Thrale has invited mother to one of the Streatham dinners,” she added under her breath.
And then the three fell upon theChroniclefor the announcement of the book.
They read it in whispers, each following the other, as though it were thepianopart of a catch or a glee, and glancing fearfully toward the door now and again, lest it should open and Mrs. Burney reappear.
“How amazing it is!” said Susy. “This is the announcement of the birth of a baby—and such a baby!”
“The birth and the christening and all,” said Lottie. “Oh, Fanny, I had no idea that it would be in the papers—I forgot that it would be advertised; and when mamma read this out I thought I should sink through the floor. So did you, I know.”
“I only wish that it had been possible,” said Fanny. “I could feel myself getting hot all over my body. And then you gave me that look, Lottie!”
“Could I help it?” asked Lottie. “You cannot blame me. I really thought that it was you who gave me a look, as much as to say: 'If you let the cat out of the bag I will never forgive you—no, never! '”
“Never mind! Among us we managed to get out of the difficulty very well, I think. Were we not clever, guiding the conversation away from Mr. Lowndes's shop on to the high road to Streatham?” cried Susy.
“'Twas the hash that saved us,” said Lottie. “Have you not heard dear Jim applying the sailors' expression, to make a hash of something? But we didn't make a hash of our matter, did we, Fanny?” said Susan.
“We have become adroit dissemblers, and I am growing more ashamed of it every day,” cried Fanny. “I have reached the condition of a man of whom I read in a volume of history: he had committed a crime, and the effort that it cost him to keep it hidden so preyed upon his mind that he could stand the strain no longer, so he confessed it and was relieved.”
“But he could not have been really happy until they hanged him,” said Susy. “And do you intend to confess and be hanged, Fanny? Please do not. I think it is the most exciting thing in the world to share a secret like this. I would not have missed the enjoyment for anything. Think, Fan, if you were to confess, you would draw us into it too—you would make us out to be as guilty as yourself.”
“I will not confess,” said Fanny. “No; it would not be honourable of me. But I do feel that the secret is having a bad effect upon us all. It has made us all such—such—dissemblers.”
“Psha!” said Lottie with a sniff. “That's only another way of saying that we are ladies of quality at an early age.”
Fanny shook her head. She thought that if any proof were needed of the ill effects of their treasuring their secret from their parents, this cynical pertness of Lottie supplied it. She shook her head.
“I should like 'Evelina' to come into mamma's hands,” continued Lottie. “She will go through the three volumes at a hand gallop, even though she did take it upon her to condemn it as being on a level with the odious stuff that comes to us nowadays.”
“And if she condemns it so heartily before she has read it, what will she say about it when she has finished the last chapter?” asked Fanny.
“She will say that it is the prettiest story that has been written since her dear Mr. Richardson died,” said Susy.
“I doubt it, my dear,” said Fanny.
“Well, let the worst come, she will never guess that you wrote it,” laughed Lottie.
“It is the padre whom I fear,” said Fanny. “Surely he will not need to go beyond the Ode on the first leaf to know that it is he himself whom I address.”
“And if he should—smoke it?” asked Susy, lapsing into slang which she had acquired from her sailor brother, who was in no sense a purist.
“If he should—well, either of two things will happen,” replied the authoress. “He will either think me the most double-dealing wretch in the world or the most dutiful of daughters.”
“And which will be right?” asked Lottie.
“Both views will be right,” said Fanny. “Although I meant every word of the Ode, I really think now that the idea of writing it before the dedication came to me only when I felt that I had behaved badly in sending the book to the printer without his consent.”
“You wished the Ode to be a sort of peace-offering?” said Susy. “You hoped that when he read it he would forget to be angry? Well, that was cunning of you, Fanny!”
“I tell you that the whole affair has had a bad effect upon us all,” said Fanny gently.
Once again she was conscious of someone telling her that there was no use crying over spilt milk, and this impression was followed by one that took the form of a resolution to be more careful in future. If she had spilt some milk once, that was no reason why she should not, by exercising proper forethought, refrain from doing so again.
But the book was now given to the world, if the world would have it, but as yet a copy had not come into her hand. She wondered if she would have to spend seven and sixpence in buying a copy. Seven shillings and sixpence, sewed. It was a great deal of money. Was it possible that there were five hundred people in the world ready to pay seven and sixpence for a novel with the name of no author on the title page? (She thought it best to leave out of her consideration altogether the possible purchasers of the nine shilling set of bound volumes.)
Who were the people that ever laid out so much money upon books which could be read through between the rising and the setting of the sun? She had never met such liberal enthusiasts. Of course, it was only reasonable that so splendid a work as the “History of Music” should be in the library of every house wherein people of taste resided, but that was not a book to be galloped through; some people might not be able to read it within a month. Besides, it bore the honoured name of Dr. Burney on the title page, and the fame of Dr. Burney was great. But as for that poor little seven-and-sixpenny sewed “Evelina,” how should anyone take an interest in her without reading her story? How would anyone read her story without feeling afterwards that seven-and-sixpence (leaving the nine shilling expenditure out of the question) was a ridiculous price to pay for such an entertainment?
She felt that people would come to look on her as the instigator of a fraud if they paid their money and read the book and then found out that she had written it. The wisdom of concealing her name even from the bookseller was now more apparent to her than it had ever been. She had visions of indignant purchasers railing against Mr. Lowndes, and Mr. Lowndes searching for her, so that he might rail against her; and so her speculations ended in laughter; but even her laughter grated upon her sensitive ears: she felt that it was the malicious jeering of a clever cheat at the thought of having got the better of a worthy man.
Her precious “Evelina” was leading her a pretty dance. If it had not been able to do so it would have been a paltry sort of book and she would have been a paltry sort of author.
TWO or three weeks passed without her hearing anything of the book, and it seemed as if it had fallen, as she had at some moments hoped it would fall, like a dull stone into the depths of the sea. She heard nothing of it, and soon she perceived that her sisters felt grievously disappointed at its failure to produce any impression upon the town. Even a dull stone, if dropped into the deep, creates a little fuss on the surface before it sinks out of sight; but Fanny's book did not, so far as they could see, produce even so superficial an impression. What they expected of it they might have had some trouble explaining; but as it was, they could not conceal their disappointment from Fanny; and they showed it after a short time in a very delicate way: they never alluded to the book in her presence. She perceived that what was in their minds was that it would show very bad taste on their part to refer to it in any way. She was grateful for their consideration; and she resolved to accept their decision on this point as final; she would never allude to the horrid thing in their hearing.
It so happened, however, that she was left alone with Susy in the house one evening. Dr. Burney and his wife had gone to a concert at Esther's, and Lottie was staying for a day or two in the country. Susy was practising her part of a new duet on the piano, and Fanny was at her sewing. So far as conversation between the two sisters was concerned, the evening had been a very silent one. Indeed, during the whole week a constrained silence had marked the intercourse of the three girls.
Susy hammered away at the music for half an hour; then her playing became more fitful, and at last it ceased altogether.
There was a long silence before Fanny heard a little sound that caused her to raise her head. It was the sound of a sob, and when she looked up she saw that Susy was leaning her forehead upon the bottom of the music rest, weeping bitterly.
Fanny was by her side in a moment.
“Dearest Susy, what is the matter?” she said soothingly. “Tell me, dear; has anything happened? Has anyone been unkind to you? Have I unwittingly done or said anything that seemed to you unkind? Tell me all, Susy.”
But Susy continued crying with her face hidden, though she yielded one of her hands to Fanny.
“Come, my dear, I have helped you before now, and I may be able to help you now. Prithee, what is your trouble?” said Fanny, putting her arm round the girl's shoulders.
Still Susy remained silent, except for her sobs.
“Tell me,” said Fanny, in a whisper. “Is it that you think that I am chagrined about—about—the book?”
In an instant Susy had whirled round on her seat and flung her arms round her sister's neck, laying her head on her shoulder.
“Oh, Fanny, Fanny, 'tis too cruel!” she sobbed. “We were sure that so much would come of it—it seemed so splendid to read, even before it was printed—so much better than any other story that ever came into our hands—and you worked so hard at it—every spare moment when you might have been enjoying yourself—in the cold of last winter up in that room—and at Lynn too—and Chessington—and now, when we think that your cleverness, your patience, your genius, is to be rewarded, nothing comes of it—all your trouble has gone for nothing—all our secrecy! Oh, it is too cruel!”
“You dear child,” said Fanny. “It is only cruel if it sets you crying in this way. What does it matter to anyone if the book has gone and nothing has come of it? I have been thinking that writing a book and publishing it is like throwing a stone into the sea. It may fall so that it sinks down plumb, or it may fall so that it makes a splash for a while, but it sinks to the bottom all the same. Success or failure is only the difference between a splash and a ripple. We were fools to fancy that our little stone would float.”
“But it was not a stone, it was full of life and it should have—it should have—swum! Oh, the people who buy books are so stupid!”
“They are—that was the hope that I builded on. They are stupid, but not stupid enough to buy my book.”
“Oh, Fanny!”
“That is really the frame of mind that I find myself in to-day. I tell you truly, Susy, that after the first week, I schooled myself to think of the business in this way; and I am certain that in another month I shall even feel delighted that my little pebble made no splash. Look at the matter philosophically, Susy.”
“Oh, philosophically!”
“Well, reasonably. Are we in a different position to-day from that we were in before the book was published? We are not. We are just the same as we were before. It has not injured us in any way. Nay, if you think of it, we are—I, at least, am—all the better for having failed, for I have learned my lesson. I was beginning to feel cleverer than I had any right to think myself, and this has come as a chastening—to make me know my right place. These rebukes do not come by chance, Susy. I know now that I was inclined to hold my head too high. I don't think that I will do so again.”
“You never held your head too high—just the opposite. And I think it very cruel that you should be rebuked for nothing. But I do not blameanyoneexcept the wretched people who refused to buy your nice book, but spent their seven and sixpence at Vauxhall or Ranelagh—perhaps watching Mr. Foote and his puppets at the Haymarket. Oh, I have no patience with them! Why, it only needed a thousand people to buy the book and it would have been accounted a success!”
“Then we shall put the blame on the shoulders of that thousand, wheresoever they may be found, and for my part I shall not hold a second thousand altogether blameless—my indignation may even extend to a third. Now, that's the last word I mean to speak about the book. It has by this time reached the bottom of the sea on which I threw it; and there let it lie!”
“You are an angel—I see that plainly now.”
“Ah, there you see, what I said was true: I am much better for the rebuke I talked about; you never perceived before that I was an angel. Now let that be the last word between us on the subject of my poor little 'Evelina.' Her entrance into the world has proved fatal. Oh, Susy, she was stillborn, but her parent is making a rapid recovery.”
“That may be; but cannot you join with me in——”
“I will join with you in maintaining silence on the subject of the little one. I cannot bear to hear her name mentioned. I refuse to say another word about her or her fate. She must have been greatly beloved of the gods to die so young. Let that be 'Evelina's' epitaph. I will say nothing more about her.”
It so happened, however, that she was compelled to say a good deal more on the subject, for within half an hour Cousin Edward had called, and he began to talk of “Evelina” at once.
“I went to Hill's library in the Strand yesterday, to get a book for mother, and there, sure enough, I saw your 'Evelina,'” said he. “I asked the man in charge what it was about, and he replied that he didn't know; it was bad enough, he thought, to be compelled to hand out books all day to readers without being forced to read them for himself; but he supposed that 'Evelina' was a novel of the usual sort.”
“That was not extravagant praise,” remarked Susy.
“He didn't mean to praise it,” said Edward. “But when I asked him if anyone who had read it had recommended it, he admitted that every one of the five ladies who had read it was ready to speak well of it—one of them had taken it away a second time; and—would you believe it?—while I was standing at the counter a footman entered the shop with a demand for 'Eveliena,' as he called it; and he carried off the copy that was already on the desk.”
“For the delectation of the servants' hall?” suggested Fanny.
“Not at all—it had been recommended to her ladyship, he said, and he had been commanded on no account to return without it; her ladyship was liberal; she would not mind paying sixpence for it, instead of the ordinary fourpence.”
“That was more than liberal, it was generous to a degree,” said Fanny.
“Don't interrupt him,” cried Susy. “Continue your narrative, Eddy. I am dying to hear the rest.”
“I asked the library man if he knew who wrote the book, and he replied that he had heard the name, but had forgotten it; so far as he remembered the author was a peer of high rank but eccentric habits,” said Edward.
“The book represented his eccentric habits, I suppose,” remarked Fanny.
“I ran out of the place roaring,” said Edward. “'A peer of high rank but eccentric habits'—describes you to a T, doesn't it, Cousin Fanny? Pray what is your lordship's next work to be, and when will it be given to an eager world?”
“Is that all you have to tell?” asked Susy.
“By no means. When I heard that the book was thought well of in the Strand, I thought I would try to get at the opinion of Stanhope Street—you know Masterman's circulating library there? Well, I boldly entered, and there, sure enough, was a well-thumbed 'Evelina' in front of the librarian. I asked for some book that no one had ever heard of, and when the librarian had told me that he had never been asked for that book before, I pointed to 'Evelina,' inquiring if it was any good. 'I'm dead tired on account of its goodness, for I was fool enough to take it to bed with me last night, and I never closed my eyes in sleep,' he replied. 'I had it praised to me by a lady of quality, and so too hastily concluded that it would either send me asleep with its dullness, or shock me with its ribaldry; but it did neither, unhappily.' Just then a chariot stopped at the door and another footman entered with the name 'Evelina' written on a sheet of paper, and off he popped with the full three volumes under his arm. I waited no longer; but hurried hither to give you my news. I did not get so far, however, for I was unlucky enough to be overtaken by that vile downpour of rain, and it did not blow over until your dinner hour was at hand.”
“You are my good angel,” cried Fanny, her cheeks glowing. “We have heard nothing of all this respecting the book, and, hearing nothing, we took it for granted that it was dead—dead before it was ever alive. Oh, this is good news you have brought us, Eddy!”
“The best news that has come to us for months!” said Susy. She had turned her head away and was furtively wiping her eyes. The good news affected the sympathetic Susy almost as deeply as her disappointment had done.
“But I have only told you of my adventures of yesterday,” said Edward. “To-day I tried the booksellers, beginning with Mr. Davies and working-round to the Dillys in the Poultry—it cost me three shillings, for I had to buy something that I did not particularly want in every shop to excuse my inquiries—and I found 'Evelina' on every counter. I cannot say that any customer came in to buy it while I was in any shop, but you may be sure that the book would not be on the counter unless it was highly thought of. Of course I had need to be very discreet among the booksellers; I dared not ask who was the author, but I longed to do so, if only to hear what new story had been made up about it.”
“You heard quite enough to make us glad,” cried Susy. “Oh, how foolish we were to take it for granted that because we had no news of the book, it was dead! It is alive—greatly alive, it would appear! How could any news of it have come to us here? We should have gone forth in search of it.”
“I knew that we could depend on your discretion,” said Fanny, laying a hand on each of his shoulders. “I do not think that I ever thanked you as I should for the wise way in which you managed the business with Mr. Lowndes, and now I must not neglect to do so for having acted the part of a benevolent agent in bringing us such good news about the book.”
“Psha! there should be no talk of gratitude and the like between us,” said he. “There are family ties—I think of the honour of our family. People already talk of the clever Burneys, but they left you out of the question, Cousin Fanny, since they only thought of music. But now that you have shown what you can do in another direction, you must be reckoned with alongside the others.”
“And what about the other branch of the clever Burneys?” said Fanny. “Don't you think that people will some of these days begin to ask if Edward Burney, the great painter, is really a brother of the musical Burneys? I hope they will, dear Edward; I hope that the fame of Edward Burney, the painter, will go far beyond that of the musical Burneys, as well as poor Fanny Burney who once wrote a novel.”
The young man blushed as Fanny herself would certainly have done if confronted with the least little compliment. But there was no false shame about his acceptance of her suggestion.
“I mean to become as good a painter as I can, in order to be worthy of the name of Burney,” said he. “I feel proud of being a Burney—more so to-day than ever before, and I hope that the rest of the Burney's will some day look on me as doing credit to our name.”
“I am sure that they will have every reason to do so,” said Fanny.
When he had gone, Susy gave way to her delight at the news which he had brought. She was a good deal taller than Fanny, and catching her round the waist after the manner of the Elizabethan dancer with his partner, she danced round the table with her, lilting a somewhat breathless pæan. Fanny herself needed no coaxing to be her partner in this revel. In her jubilant moments she got rid of the primness which most people associated with her. She had a wild jig known as “Nancy Dawson,” and she had more than once found it necessary to get rid of her superfluous spirits through this medium. She joined in her sister's little whoop at the completion of the third “lap” of the table, and they both threw themselves breathless on the sofa.
“I knew it,” said Susy between her gasps. “I knew that I could not be mistaken in believing 'Evelina' to be good—I knew that she would make her way in the affections of her readers, and I was right—you see I was right.”
“You were right, dear Susy—quite right,” said Fanny. “I do not like to be too sanguine, but I do believe, from the reports Eddy brought us, that the book will find plenty of readers. Now that we can think over the matter in a reasonable way, we must see how foolish we were to expect that the very day after the book was published people would crowd to buy it; but now, after six weeks, when Eddy goes in search of news about it, he brings back a report which is—we had best say for the present no more than 'quite satisfactory'—that was the bookseller's report about the sales of the first volume of the padre's 'History'—'quite satisfactory'—that should be quite satisfactory for the author of 'Evelina' and her sisters. There is nothing in the book to stir people as it would if written by Mr. Wilkes, but in its humble way it will, I am now persuaded, be pronounced 'quite satisfactory.' At any rate, there goes my sewing for the evening.”
She rolled up the strip of linen into a ball and used her hand, after two false starts, as a battledore, to send it flying across the room within reach of Susy, who, being more adroit, was able at the first attempt to return it with both force and precision. Once more Fanny struck it, and her sister sent it back, but by this time the unequal ball had opened out, so that it was only by her foot that Fanny could deal with it effectively. Then, daintily holding up their petticoats, the author of “Evelina” and Susy Burney played with the thing until once more they were panting and laughing joyously.
Perhaps Fanny had a faint inkling of the symbolism implied by this treatment of the discarded needlework.
BUT little Miss Burney had recovered all her primness on the evening when, a week later, she accompanied her stepmother to partake of tea at the home of the Barlowes in the Poultry.
Young Mr. Barlowe had, for some time after his visit to St. Martin's Street, brooded over his indiscretion in allowing his impulse at the moment of saying good night to carry him away so that he pressed Miss Burney's hand, looking into her eyes with an expression in his own of the deepest sympathy—rather more than sympathy. He felt that he had been unduly and indiscreetly hasty in his action. It had been purely impulsive. He had by no means made up his mind that Miss Burney would make him a satisfactory wife. His father and mother had, for a long time, thought very highly of Mrs. Burney, looking on her as a most thrifty and excellent manager of a household. She had shown herself to be all this and more when her first husband was alive and they had visited her at Lynn; and she had proved her capabilities in the same direction since she had married Dr. Burney. Unfortunately, however, the virtues of a stepmother could not be depended on to descend to the children of her husband's family, and it was by no means certain that Miss Burney had made full use of her opportunities of modelling herself upon her father's second wife.
No, he had not quite made up his mind on this subject—the gravest that had ever occupied his attention, and he remained sleepless for hours, fearful that he had gone too far in that look and that squeeze. He had heard of fathers and even brothers waiting upon young men who had acted toward a daughter or a sister pretty much as he had in regard to Miss Burney. He had rather a dread of being visited by Miss Burney's brother, that young naval officer who had boasted of having been educated by a murderer. Mr. Barlowe thought that a visit from such a young man would be most undesirable, and for several days he went about his business with great uneasiness.
But when a week had gone by and neither father nor brother had waited upon him, he began to review his position more indulgently than when he had previously given it his consideration. He thought more hopefully of Miss Burney as a wife. Perhaps she might have profited more largely than he had thought by her daily intercourse with so capable a woman as Mrs. Burney. At any rate, she was not musical, and that was something in her favour. Then her stepmother had praised her needlework, and everyone knows that to be a good sempstress is next to being a good housekeeper.
He thought that on the whole she would do. Her brother, Lieutenant Burney, would naturally spend most of his time at sea. That was a good thing. Thomas felt that he should hesitate to make any change in his life that involved a liability of frequent visits from a young man who had been taught by a murderer. Who could tell what might happen in the case of such a young man? As for Miss Burney herself, she was, quite apart from her housewifely qualities, a most estimable young lady—modest and retiring, as a young woman should be, and very beautiful. To be sure, he had often heard that beauty was only skin deep, but even assuming that it did not go any deeper, it had always been highly esteemed by men—none of them seemed to wish it to be of any greater depth; and it was certain that a man with a handsome wife was greatly envied—more so even than a man who was married to a plain woman but a good housewife. Oh, undoubtedly her beauty commended her to his most indulgent consideration. He had no objection in the world to be widely envied, if only on account of his wife's good looks. It never occurred to him that it might be that some people would think very ordinary a face that seemed to one who was in love with it extremely lovely. He preserved the precious privilege of a man to raise up his own standard of beauty and expect all the rest of the world to acknowledge its supremacy.
Yes, he thought that Miss Burney, beauty and all, would suit him, but still he hesitated in making another call.
This was when Mr. Kendal had the honour of waiting upon Mrs. Burney, and his visit only preceded by a day or two Mrs. Burney's call upon her old friend, Mrs. Barlowe, in the Poultry; this interchange of courtesies being speedily followed by an invitation for Mrs. Burney and a stepdaughter to drink tea with the Barlowe family.
“I am taking you with me, Fanny, because you are the eldest and, as should be, the most sensible of the household,” said Mrs. Burney, explaining—so far as she thought wise—the invitation on the morning it was received. “There will be no music at Mrs. Barlowe's, I think, and so you will have no distracting influence to prevent your forming a just opinion of my old friends.”
“I do not mind in the least the absence of music for one night,” said Fanny.
“I am sure of that,” said Mrs. Burney. “Goodness knows we have music enough here during any day to last us over a whole week. The others could not live without it, even if it were not your father's profession.”
“Without which none of us could live,” remarked Fanny, who had no wish to be forced into the position of the opponent of music in the household.
“Quite right, my dear,” acquiesced the elder lady. “It is a precarious way of making a living. To my mind there is nothing so satisfactory as a good commercial business—a merchant with a shop at his back can afford to laugh at all the world.”
“But he usually refrains,” said Fanny.
“True; he looks at life with proper seriousness, and without levity. Great fortunes are the result of serious attention to business. Levity leads to poverty.”
“Except in the case of Mr. Garrick and a few others.”
“Mr. Garrick is certainly an exception. But, then, you must remember that he was a merchant before he became an actor, and his business habits never left him. I have heard it said that he got more out of his company for the salaries he paid than any theatre manager in Europe. But I did not come to you to talk about Mr. Garrick. I only meant to say that I know you are an observant girl. You do not merely glance at the surface of things, so I am sure that you will perceive much to respect in all the members of Mrs. Barlowe's family.”
“I am sure they are eminently—respectable, mamma; and I am glad that you have chosen me to be your companion this evening. I like going among such people—it is useful.”
She stopped short in a way that should have aroused the suspicions of Mrs. Burney, but that lady was unsuspecting, she was only puzzled.
“Useful?” she said interrogatively.
Fanny had no mind to explain that she thought herself rather good at describing people of the Barlowe type, and was ready to submit herself to more experience of them in case she might be encouraged to write another novel. But she knew that she would have some difficulty in explaining this to her stepmother, who herself was an excellent type.
“Useful—perhaps I should rather have said 'instructive,'” she replied, after a little pause.
“Instructive, yes; I am glad that you look at our visit so sensibly—I knew you would do so. Yes, you should learn much of the excellence of these people even in the short time that we shall be with them. And it is well that you should remember, my dear Fanny, that you are now quite old enough to have a house of your own to look after.”
It was now Fanny's turn to seem puzzled.
“I do not quite see how—I mean why—why—that is, the connection—is there any connection between——?”
“What I mean to say is that if at some time a suitor for your hand should appear, belonging to a respectable mercantile family, you will know, without the need of any telling, that your chances of happiness with such a man are far greater than they would be were you to wed someone whose means of getting a living were solely the practice of some of the arts, as they are called—music or painting or the rest.”
“I do not doubt that, mamma,” said Fanny demurely. She was beginning to think that her stepmother was a far better type than she had fancied.
And her stepmother was beginning to think that she had never given Fanny credit for all the good sense she possessed.
The six o'clock tea-party in the Poultry was a function that Fanny Burney's quick pen only could describe as it deserved to be described. All the time that it was proceeding her fingers were itching to start on it. She could see Mr. Crisp smiling in that appreciative way that he had, as he read her smart sentences, every one of them with its little acid flavour, that remained on the palate of his memory. She was an artist in character drawing, and she was one of the first to perceive how excellent was the material for artistic treatment that might be found in the house of the English tradesman—the superior tradesman who aspired to be called a merchant. She neglected no opportunity of observing such houses; it was only when she was daily consorting with people of the highest rank that she became alarmed lest her descriptions should be accepted as proof that she was in the habit of meeting on terms of intimacy the types of English bourgeois which she had drawn.
The ground-floor of Mr. Barlowe's house in the Poultry was given over to his business, which, as has already been mentioned, was that of a vendor of gold and silver lace. The walls carried shelves from floor to ceiling, and every shelf had its line of boxes enclosing samples of an abundant and valuable stock. The large room at the back was a sort of counting-house parlour, where Mr. Barlowe sat during the day with his son and an elderly clerk, ready for the customers, whose arrival was announced by the ringing of a spring.-bell. The scales for the weighing of the bullion and the worked gold and silver wire were suspended above, the broad counter in the shop, and from a hook between the shelves there hung a number of ruled forms with spaces for oz., dwt. and grs. On these were entered the particulars of the material supplied to the workmen who made up the lace as required. The upper part of the house was the home of the family, the spacious dining-room being in the front, its convex windows overhanging the busy thoroughfare. Opening off this apartment was an equally large drawingroom, and the furniture of both was of walnut made in the reign of Queen Anne, with an occasional piece of Dutch marqueterie of the heavier character favoured by the craftsmen of the previous sovereigns. The rooms themselves were panelled with oak and lighted by candles in brass sconces.
It seemed to Fanny, on entering the diningroom, that every seat was occupied. But she soon saw that there were several vacant chairs. It was the imposing row of figures confronting her that made the room seem full, although only six persons were present besides young Mr. Barlowe and his parents, who met Mrs. Burney and her stepdaughter at the door. Fanny greeted Thomas at once, and she could see that his eyes were beaming, but with a rather more subdued light than shone in them on that night when he had pressed her hand.
She was conscious, at the same time, of the approach of a big elderly gentleman, wearing a well-ordered wig, evidently newly curled, with a small lady clad in expensive and expansive black silk by his side. He was holding the tips of her fingers and they advanced in step as though they were starting to dance a minuet.
They stood in front of her and her mother, while Thomas, moving to one side, said, making a low bow:
“Miss Burney, I have the honour to present to you my father, Mr. Barlowe, and my mother, Mrs. Barlowe. Mrs. Burney, madam, you are, I know, already acquainted with my parents.”
The little lady curtsied and her husband made a fine shopkeeper's bow, first to Fanny, then to Mrs. Burney.
The formality of the presentation was overwhelming to poor Fanny. She could feel herself blushing, and she certainly was more overcome than she had been when Count Orloff, the Russian, visited the house in St. Martin's Street and she gazed with awe upon the thumb that had, it was rumoured, pressed too rigidly the wind-pipe of the unfortunate Peter. All that she could do was to try to hide her confusion by the deepest of curtsies.
“We are sensible of the honour you have done us, madam,” said Mr. Barlowe when he had recovered himself—he was addressing Fanny, ignoring for the moment the presence of Mrs. Burney.
“Our son has spoken to us of you with great admiration, Miss Burney,” said the little lady. “But I protest that when I look at you I feel as King Solomon did when he saw the Queen of Sheba, the half has not been told.”
“Oh, madam, you flatter me,” said Fanny, trying to put some force into a voice that her shyness had rendered scarcely audible.
Her stepmother, perceiving how she was suffering, hastened to greet in a much less formal way their host and hostess; but she had considerable difficulty in bringing them down to her level. It seemed that they had prepared some high phrases of welcome for their younger visitor only, and they had no mind that they should be wasted.
“My stepdaughter is of a retiring nature,” said Mrs. Burney. “She is quite unused to such ceremony as you honour her with. Well, Martha, how is the rheumatism?”