AFEW days later Dr. Burney was at the point of setting out for Chessington to share Mr. Crisp's hermitage until the end of the week. He had already said good-bye to the household; but Fanny accompanied him to the door. It was her last chance, she knew. She had long ago made up her mind that one of her secrets must be told to him, and she had more than once, since the printed sheets had been brought to her, tried to screw up her courage to the point of telling him, but she had not yet succeeded. And now he was going to Chessington for four days, and in the meantime the book should be returned to the printer. It was the last chance she would have of discharging the duty which was incumbent on her. She had been hovering around him in the hall, shaking out his gloves for him, polishing the gold knob of his cane, picking a scrap of dust from the collar of his travelling-cloak. In another minute he would be gone—her opportunity would be gone.
And then came the relieving thought of further procrastination:
“I shall write to him at Chessington and confess all.”
It seemed as though she had uttered her thought aloud, for he turned to her with his hand on the latch of the hall door, saying:
“You will write to Chessington to-morrow or the day after, my dear. It is no trouble to you to write. You enjoy it, do you not?”
“Oh, it is my chief enjoyment. That is why I have been practising it so much, just as the others have been practising their music. I have no music in my soul, so I—I have been writing. Of course, it is not to be expected that I could do more than write some nonsense—my equivalent to the strumming of the scales.”
“It pleases me greatly to hear that,” said he. “But you do yourself an injustice; Mr. Crisp never ceases to praise your letters.”
“He is praising his own pupil then,” said she, “for 'twas he who first taught me how to write, and now I have been putting together some imaginary letters, and I thought that if he could see them printed in front of him he would be amused.”
“Imaginary letters? Why not continue your real ones, my dear? It would cost a great deal to have your imaginary ones printed.”
“My dear father,” she cried, “you surely do not think that I would ask you for money to pay for my whim? But if I could prevail on someone—a bookseller—to print what I write, I hope you will consent to my doing so—not putting my name to the thing, of course?”
“And does my Fanny believe that 'tis all so easy to persuade a bookseller to pay her printer's bill?” he said, pinching her ear. “Booksellers are shrewd men of business.”
“But even men of business have their weak moments,” said she. “And so if—if—you would not think it too bold of me to let James take my parcel to a bookseller? You would not forbid me to try to realize my ambition?”
“You may be sure that the one to frustrate your aims will not be your father,” said he, smiling shrewdly. “I will consent if—ah, there is the fatal if—if your bookseller consents. Now goodbye, my dear child. I will take your love to your Daddy Crisp, and tell him to await a real letter from you—not an imaginary one.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him—but even then he had to stoop before his lips were on her forehead.
He was gone in another moment. She stood at the inner side of the closed door and listened to the rattling of the wheels of the chaise over the cobble-stones.
So the ordeal that she dreaded had been faced, and how simple a thing it had turned out after all! Her father had treated the idea which she had submitted to him as if it were nothing beyond the thought of a simpleton—a foolish, simple girl who knew nothing of the world of business and booksellers, and who fancied that a bookseller would print everything that was sent to him.
He had delivered that contingent “if” with the shake of the head and the shrewd smile of one who is acquainted with the seamy side of business, in the presence of a child who fancies that printing follows automatically upon the writing of a book and that there are thousands of buyers eagerly awaiting the chance of securing everything that passes through a printing-press. She had perceived just what was in his mind; and his consent, followed by that contingent “if,” to her publishing what she had written, was given to her with the same freedom that would have accompanied his permission to appropriate all the gold used in paving the streets of the City. She could see from the way he smiled that he felt that she knew as little about the conditions under which books are printed as a child does about the paving of the streets of the City.
She knew that he would never again refer to the subject of those imaginary letters of hers—he would be too considerate of her feelings to do so; he would have no desire to humiliate her. He would not even rally her in a playful way about her literary work, asking her how the printing was progressing, and if she had made up her mind to start a coach as grand as that magnificent piece of carved and gilded furniture which Sir Joshua had just had built for himself—oh, no: her father had always respected her sensibility. Years ago, when her brothers and sisters were making their light jests upon her backwardness, he had stopped them and said that he had no fears for the future of Fanny; and she was certain that in referring to her, as he so frequently did, as “poor Fanny,” he meant nothing but kindness to her. To be sure, at first it grated upon her sensitiveness to be referred to in that kindly pitying way, but she did not resent it—indeed, she usually thought of herself as “poor Fanny.” In a household where proficiency in music was the standard from which every member was judged, it was inevitable that her incompetence should be impressed upon her; but no one was hard upon her—the kindly “poor Fanny” of her father represented the attitude of the household toward her, even when she had confided to some of the members the fact that she was writing a novel. They had been startled; but, then, a novel was not a musical composition, and such an achievement could not be received with the warmth that Esther's playing received. It was really not until the printed sheets of the book lay before Susy that she felt that Fanny had, in one leap, brought herself well-nigh to the level of Esther; and by the time Susy had read the story to the end she had made up her mind that if it might be possible to compare the interest of a literary work with that of the playing of a piece of music, Fanny's work could claim precedence over the best that Esther had done—she had confessed as much to Fanny in secret, and Fanny had called her a foolish child.
Fanny had seated herself in the parlour opening off the little hall, on the departure of her father, and her memory took her back to the days she had passed in the house at Poland Street, when she had written her story of Caroline Evelyn, and had been induced by her stepmother to burn it, with sundry dramas and literary moralizings after the manner of theTatler—all the work of her early youth. She recalled her resolution never again to engage in any such unprofitable practices as were represented by the smoke which was ascending from the funeral pyre of her “Caroline Evelyn” and the rest.
How long had she kept to her resolution? She could not remember. She could not recall having any sense of guilt when she had begun her “Evelina”—it seemed to have sprung from the ashes of “Caroline Evelyn”—nor could she recollect what had been on her mind when she was spending those long chilly hours of her restricted leisure toiling over the book. All that she could remember now was her feeling that it had to be written—that it seemed as if someone in authority had laid on her the injunction to write it, and she had no choice but to obey.
Well, she had obeyed—the book had been written and printed and she meant to send the corrected sheets back to Mr. Lowndes in the course of the day. Her father's consent to its publication had been obtained and it would be advertised for sale within some months, and then——
Her imagination was not equal to the pursuit of the question of its future. Sometimes she felt that she never wished to hear of the book again. She could almost hope that sending the sheets back to Mr. Lowndes would be the same as dropping them, with a heavy stone in the parcel, into the deep sea.
But that was when the trouble of getting her father's permission to publish it was looming before her. Now that this cloud had been dispelled she felt less gloomy. She had a roseate dream of hearing people talk about the book and even wishing to know the name of the author. She had a dream of Fame herself carrying her away to sublime heights—to such heights as she had been borne by the singing of “Waft her, Angels.” Her dream was of sitting on these heights of Fame by the side of the singer—on the same level—not inferior in the eyes of the world—not as the beggar maid uplifted in her rags to the side of the King.
That had been her dream when listening to the singing, and it returned to her now, as she sat alone in the little parlour, having just taken the last step that was necessary before giving to the world the book which was to do so much for her. Her visions of success showed her no more entrancing a prospect than that of being by his side with her fame as a dowry worthy of his acceptance at her hands; so that people might not say that he had chosen unworthily—he, who had all the world to choose from.
And quite naturally there came to her in due sequence the marvellous thought that he had already chosen her out of all the world—he had chosen her, believing her to be the dowerless daughter of a music-teacher—the one uninteresting member of a popular family!
This was the most delightful thought of the whole train that came to her. It was worth cherishing above all the rest—close to her heart—close to her heart. She hugged that thought so close to her that it became warm with the warmth of her heart. Even though her book should never be heard of again, even though the world might treat it with contempt, she would still be consoled by the reflection that he had chosen her.
“Why on earth should you be sitting here in the cold, Fanny?” came the voice from the opened door—the voice of firm domestic virtue.
“Cold? cold? Surely 'Tis not cold, mamma,” she said.
“Not so very cold; but when there is a fire in the work-room it should not be wasted,” said Mrs. Burney. “But to say the truth you do not look as if you were cold; your face is quite flushed, child. I hope you do not feel that you are on the brink of a sickness, my dear.”
“Dear mamma, I never felt stronger in my life,” cried Fanny with a laugh.
“I am glad to hear that. I was saying to Lottie just now that for some days past you have had alternately a worried look and the look of one whose brain is over-excited. Is anything the matter, my child?”
“Nothing—nothing—indeed nothing! I never felt more at ease in all my life.”
“Well, well, a little exercise will do you no harm, I am sure; so put on your hat and accompany me to the fishmonger's. He has not been treating us at all fairly of late. It is not that I mind the remark made quite respectfully by James at dinner yesterday—it would be ridiculous to expect to find fish as fresh in the centre of London as he and his shipmates were accustomed to in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; but it would not be unreasonable for us to look for turbot with less of a taint than that we had yesterday. You will hear the man excuse himself by asserting that I chose the fish at his stall; but my answer to that—well, come with me and you shall hear what is my answer.”
Fanny went with her and heard.
THE faithful Cousin Edward had carried the sheets of “Evelina” to Mr. Lowndes's shop, with her list of errata, sisters Lottie and Susy giving him ample instructions as to the disguise he should assume in discharging that duty; it would be terrible, they thought, if the secret which they had so carefully guarded for so long should be revealed just when it was most important that it should be kept. Their imagination was keen enough to suggest to them the possibility of good Mr. Lowdnes setting a watch upon the people entering his shop, and giving instructions that the bearer of the parcel of “Evelina” should be detained and brought into his presence to be questioned.
They advised that Edward should muffle up his face well before going into the shop, and then lay down his parcel and fly like the wind—that would be the best way of defeating the curiosity of the bookseller.
But Edward was of the opinion that such a course of action might possibly only stimulate the man's curiosity as well as that of the people in the street, and the cry of “Stop thief!” might bring his frantic flight to a standstill. He thought that the most artful course to adopt would be to hang around the shop until he found that several customers were within; then he would enter quite casually and wait until Mr. Lowndes had served one customer and was about to attend to another. If the parcel were thrust into his hands during this interval, he, Edward, would have a good chance of getting safely away before Mr. Lowndes should have time to examine its contents.
They were rather struck with his idea, and he got permission to put it into practice; but in any case he must take the greatest care of the parcel; valuable parcels were snatched out of people's hands every day.
He smiled.
In another hour he was back at the house in St. Martin's Street to report to them the safe delivery of the precious parcel. After all, he had had nothing more exciting to do than to place it on a counter—the elderly gentleman with a pen behind his ear had not even taken the trouble to rise from his stool to receive it.
“Parcel for Mr. Lowndes? All right. Leave it there”—those were the exact words with which the parcel was received, Edward reported—the clerk was buried in his ledger before he had left the shop.
The girls were not a little disappointed at this very tame conclusion of what they expected would have been an exciting episode; and to say the truth, their chagrin was shared by Cousin Edward.
He had looked for his resources of artfulness to be drawn on in the transaction—perhaps even his physical qualifications for the defence of the sacred secret as well. He felt as a strong man might feel on going forth to meet a giant, to find himself confronted by a dwarf. The mission was unworthy of his powers. Fanny's thanks heartily given to him, with the repeated assurance that, but for him, the affair could never have been carried out, scarcely compensated him for the tameness of the affair.
For the next month or two it was a busy household in St. Martin's Street. Lieutenant Burney was joining his ship for another long voyage, and he had to be provided with a fresh outfit. The stitching that went on in the work-room surpassed even that maintained during the months preceding Esther's marriage; but the labour was lightened upon more than one occasion by the appearance of Mr. Garrick. Mr. Garrick had the freedom of the house in St. Martin's Street, as he had had that of the Poland Street domicile, where he had so often spent hours amusing the children with his inimitable drolleries.
But Mrs. Burney thought he went a little too far in taking off their friends, and even their own father, though his malicious touches were as light as the pinches of Puck. He had been paying a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, and he convulsed even Mrs. Burney by his acting of the scene of his reception by them, the lady much more coy than she had ever been at the Wells, and the gentleman overflowing in his attentions to her; but both of them esteeming him as their benefactor.
And they were so well satisfied with the honourable estate to which he had called them, that they appeared to be spending all their time trying to bring about matches among their acquaintance. No matter how unsuitable some of the projected unions seemed, no matter how unlikely some of the people were to do credit to their discrimination, they seemed determined that none should escape “the blissful bondage”—that was Mr. Kendal's neat phrase. Mr. Garrick repeated it with a smile that made his audience fancy that Mr. Kendal was before them.
“'The blissful bondage—that's what I term it, sir,'” said Mr. Kendal, through Mr. Garrick. “'But the worst of the matter is, Mr. Garrick, that we have nearly exhausted our own circle of friends'—'I can easily believe that, sir,' interposed Mr. Garrick—' and so we feel it our duty to fall back upon you.' 'Lud, sir,' cried Mr. Garrick, jumping a step or two back as if to avoid a heavy impact—'Lud, sir! a little man like me! I should be crushed as flat as a black beetle.' 'Nay, sir, I mean that we are compelled to ask you for a list of a few of your friends who, you think, should be brought together—half a dozen of each sex would be sufficient to begin with.'”
“Of course I demurred,” said Garrick, telling his story, “but before 'the blissful bondage' had been repeated more than a score of times I began to think of all against whom I bore a grudge—here was clearly the means of getting level with them; the only trouble with me was that I found myself confounding the people who bore me a grudge with those against whom I bore a grudge—the former are plentiful, the latter very meagre in number. With the exception of a few very dear animosities which I was hoarding up to make old age endurable, I have killed off all my enemies, and was forced, like Mr. Kendal, to fall back on my friends; but even among these I could find few that I could honestly say were deserving of such a fate as I was asked to nominate them for. I ventured, however, to mention the name of Lieutenant Burney, of His Majesty's Fleet, coupling it with—I could not at first think of an appropriate partner for James, but at last I hit upon exactly the right lady.”
“What! a splice before I set sail next week?” cried Jim. “That's good news, sir. And the lady's name, if you please, and her address. Give me my hat, Susy; there is no time to be lost. A splice in a trice. Come, Mr. Garrick, her name? Cannot you see that I am hanging in stays until you tell me who she is?”
“She is a very pleasant lady, sir. I can assure you of that,” said Garrick. “Not too tall even with her hair builtà la mode; a pleasant smile, and a happy way of conversing. In short, Lieutenant Burney, I can strongly recommend the lady, for I have known her for the past twenty years and more, and from the first she was a staid, sensible person—the very partner for a sailor, sir, being so contrary to him in every point.”
“Hark'ee, Mr. Garrick; though I don't quite see myself in tow of such a state barge, I'll trouble you to relieve my suspense by telling me her name.”
“I have more than once thought when I was young that she would make me an excellent wife,” said Garrick; “but I soon perceived that I was not good enough for her. She has always been an exemplary sister, and I saw that, try as I might, I could never become her equal in that respect; and for married happiness, my boy, there is nothing like——”
“Her name—her name?” shrieked the girls.
The actor looked at them with pained surprise on every feature.
“Her name?” he said. “Surely I have described her very badly if you have not recognized the portrait. But, for that matter, I have often felt how inadequate are words to describe character combined with grace—a nature inclined to seriousness in conjunction with a desire to attract—loftiness of purpose linked with a certain daintiness——”
He made a few gestures with his hands, keeping his elbows close to his side, and then imitated the spreading of a capacious skirt preparatory to sinking in a curtsey, and in a moment there was a cry from every part of the room of “Miss Reynolds—Miss Reynolds!”
“And who has a word to say against Miss Reynolds?” cried the actor.
“No one—no one,” said Fanny. “Character combined with grace—Miss Reynolds linked with Lieutenant Burney.”
“She would make a fine sheet anchor for an Admiral of the Blue,” laughed Jim. “And with your permission, sir, I will postpone my offer until I have attained that rank.”
“I have advised Mr. Kendal to hurry things on,” said Garrick gravely. “For if you have time to spare before making up your mind, the lady cannot reasonably be thought equally fortunate. 'Lieutenant Burney, your attitude is not complimentary to the blissful bondage'”—once more it was Mr. Kendal who was in the room.
“Call the roll,” said Jim. “Who comes next on your list, Mr. Garrick?”
“Well, I was thinking of Dr. Johnson with Mrs. Abington,” said Garrick; “but perhaps you may quibble even at that.”
The room rang with laughter, for everyone had seen the beautiful actress whose lead in dress was followed by all the ladies in the fashionable world who could afford to do so, and a greater number who could not; and the worsted hose and scorched wig, two sizes too small, of Dr. Johnson had been gazed at with awe by the Burney family when he visited the house in St. Martin's Street.
“Let the banns be published without delay,” cried Jim. “Next pair, please.”
“Well, I was thinking of Signor Rauzzini and Mrs. Montagu,” said Garrick, “but perhaps that would not be approved of by you any more than the others.”
“Nay, Mr. Garrick, I will not have our friends made any longer the subject of your fooling,” said Mrs. Burney.
Garrick and Jim had the laugh between them, but it seemed that they alone saw the jest of coupling the lively Roman with the mature leader of the bluestockings: the girls bent silently over their work.
“Madam,” said Garrick apologetically, “I ask your pardon for my imprudence. May I ask which name I am to withdraw? Was my offence the introduction of the lady's name or the gentleman's? Oh, I can guess. Those rosy-tinted faces before me—I vow that you will find yourself going to sea with a chestful of pink shirts, Lieutenant—those sweet blushing faces reveal the secret more eloquently than any words could do.”
Undoubtedly the three girls were blushing very prettily; but at the mention of the word “secret” two of them gave a little start, but without looking up.
“The secret—oh, I have been feeling for some time that I was well to the leeward of a secret,” cried Jim, “and I'll not start tack or sheet until I learn what it is.”
“What, sir; you a sailor and not able to penetrate the secret of a pretty girl's blushes!” cried Garrick.
The brother looked at each of his sisters in turn. They continued stitching away demurely at his shirts.
“Helm's a-lee,” he said. “Ready about, and off we go on another tack, for hang me if I see anything of guilt on their faces, bless 'em! Come, Mr. Garrick, you shall interpret them for me. Let me into the secret which you say you have read as if it was a book.”
Susy gave a sharp cry.
“The needle!” she said. “That is the third time it has pricked me since morning.”
“Pay no attention to her, sir,” cried Garrick. “It was a feint on her part to put us off the scent of the secret.”
“In heaven's name, then, let us have it,” cried Jim.
“If you will have it, here it is,” said Garrick. “Your three sisters, Mr. Burney, are contemplating applying to Mrs. Montagu to be admitted to the freedom and the livery of the Society of Bluestockings. That is why they thought it akin to sacrilege for me to introduce the lady's name into a jest. Their blush was but a reflex of their guilty intention.”
“Indeed, Mr. Garrick, you go too far sometimes,” said Mrs. Burney. “Mrs. Montagu is a worthy lady, and our girls respect her too highly to fancy that they have any qualification to be received into her literary set.”
“Faith, Madam, I know my duty too well, I hope, to accuse any of the Miss Burneys of possessing literary qualities,” said Garrick. “But what I do say is that if such qualities as they possess were to be introduced into Mrs. Montagu's set, it would quickly become the most popular drawing-room in town. The idea of thinking that any young woman would go to the trouble of writing a book when she can reach the heart of mankind so much more easily by blushing over the breast of a shirt! Continue stitching and doing your own blushing, dear children, and you will never give anyone cause to blush for you.”
He bowed elaborately to each of them in turn and afterward to Mrs. Burney, and made a most effective exit. He always knew when he should go, and never failed to leave a few fragrant phrases behind him, as though he had dropped a bunch of roses for the girls to cherish.
“Where should we be without Mr. Garrick?” said James, when he had seen the actor to the door and returned to the work-room.
“If only he would not go too far in his jesting,” remarked Mrs. Burney, shaking her head. “Mr. Garrick sometimes forgets himself.”
“That is how it comes that he is the greatest actor in the world,” said James. “It is only when a man has learned to forget himself completely that he causes everyone else to remember him. Now there's the text for a homily that you can write to your Daddy Crisp, Fanny.”
“I'll note it, Jim, and if Mr. Crisp breaks off correspondence with me you shall bear the blame,” said Fanny.
“Mercy on us!” whispered Susy when she was alone with her sister a little later. “I never got such a fright as when Mr. Garrick pretended to read your secret. Thank goodness! he failed to get the least inkling of it.”
“Thank goodness, indeed!” whispered Fanny. But she was thinking of quite a different secret when she spoke.
HE was beside her before she was aware of it, in the great music-room at Lady Hales's house. She had not seen him approach her—she could not have done so without turning round, for he had approached her from behind, and slipped into the chair that Esther had vacated in order to play to the company. Esther's husband, who had been in the seat beyond her, had been led away some time earlier by Mr. Linley's clever son in order that he might give an opinion respecting one of the songs in a piece namedThe Duenna, which was about to be produced at Drury Lane.
He was beside her and whispering in her ear, though she had not even known that he was to be present.
Of course he went through the pantomimic form of inquiring how it was that she was alone—this was, she knew, for the benefit of anyone who might be watching them and suspect an assignation. The idea of anyone seriously fancying that Dr. Burney's daughter would have an assignation with Signor Rauzzini in such a place and in the midst of such a company! But Signor Rauzzini came from a land of intrigue, and his experience of England led him to believe that he had come to another; and so he made those gestures of inquiry, and she gave him a few words of explanation, so that no one might suspect! But, for that matter, their chairs were in the least conspicuous place in the room, and the shadow of the heavy hangings of a window fell half across them both.
“And we have not met for months,” said he in French.
“Nay, have you forgotten our evening at the Pantheon?” she asked.
“Forgotten it? But that is months ago—ages. And it was all unfinished—broken off when at its best—mutilated. That hour we had! Oh, was it a melody suddenly interrupted when it was approaching its best? Was it a poem snatched away by some ruthless hand just when we had begun a deathless line?”
“What I remember best is your singing of 'Waft her.' I am not quite sure that I have yet returned to the earth from those regions whither I felt myself wafted. Are you conscious of having any part inDidointo which you can throw yourself with the same spirit?”
“Dido!pah!Didois a paltry playhouse—Maestro Handel's work is a Sistine Chapel—ah, more—more—a noble cathedral. When other composers built their garden houses in imitation of Greek temples, he spent all his time raising cathedrals. His genius is his own—mighty—overpowering! Every time I approach the greatmaestroI feel that I should put off my shoes from my feet. It is holy ground—it is—ah, mademoiselle, it was you who led me to chatter of myself and my music when we were last together, and I had no wish to do so; I meant to talk of yourself alone, but we had parted before I had the chance again. I have been wondering ever since if such a chance would return—if I had not thrown it away; and now you have lured me once more toward the golden net of music; but I have seen it spread: I will not step into it. I want to talk to you of love—love and you—and—me.”
He had restrained his voice so that it was no more than a whisper, and he had chastened his gestures until he seemed rigid. Fanny knew that even if their chairs had not been far away from the next that were occupied, his words could reach no ears but her own; but the effort that he was making to restrain his gestures—oh, was it not more significant to any observant eye than his most florid action would have been? With bent head she was conscious of the quivering of the muscles of his clenched hands—of the tremulous earnestness of his expressive face. Surely everyone who so much as glanced at him would know what was the subject of his discourse—and hers—hers—but what should hers be? What answer was she to make to such a man whispering such a word as love?
“I am afraid,” she said. “You make me afraid. Is this the place? Is this the time? Am I the one?”
“Every place is the place—every time is the time—and you—you are the only one,” said he, becoming more fervent every moment. “If you and I were alone—but we are alone—our love isolates us—we are alone in the splendid isolation of our love. What are these people who are about us? They are nothing to us—less than nothing, What are the people in a church to the devout one who enters and keeps his eyes fixed upon the lovely face of the saint to whom he prays. The saint and he are in communion together, and their communion isolates them though the church is crowded? I keep my eyes of devotion upon your face, my beautiful saint, and I am rapt with the glory of this hour—we are carried away on the wings of our love until the world is too far beneath us to be seen—only the heaven is revealed to us—to me—I look into your face and I have a glimpse of heaven itself! Ah, gentle saint, you will not deny me a response—one word—only lift up your eyes—let our eyes meet and it will be as if our lips had met. I am but a mortal, but I feel, gazing into the face of my saint, as if I were immortal—immortal and crossing the threshold of the heaven that is hers—I feel that we are equal——”
She drew in her breath—the sound was something like a gasp—the gasp of one who has been swept away into the midst of a swirling sea and made breathless. She had been swept away on the amazing flood of his words; it was not until he had said that word “equal” that she felt herself swirled into the air once more, so to speak, and gave that gasp for breath: he, too, was breathless after his long and fervid outburst, repressed as to tone, but sounding therefore all the more passionate. Her gasp sounded like a sigh; his like a sob.
“Not yet—not yet,” she said in a whisper—disjointed and staccato. “I cannot listen to you yet. I dare not—I have my pride.”
“Pride? What is pride? How have I wounded your pride?” he said. “Ah, my God! you cannot think that I would propose anything that is not honourable? You do not look on me as such a wretch? Ah, you cannot.”
“Oh, no, no,” she said quickly. “I would trust you. I have looked into your face. I have heard you sing.”
“You place your faith in me? But you cannot do that unless you love me. And if you love me—have I been too headlong? Have I startled you? But surely you must have seen that on the very first day we met, before I had been an hour in your presence, my life was yours. I tell you that I knew it—not an hour—one glance was enough to tell me that I was all yours, and that for me no other one lived or would ever live in the world. What have you to say? Do not you believe me? What did you mean by that word 'pride'? It does not seem to me that it had any connection with you or me.”
“Do not ask me to explain anything just now,” she said. “You would not like to be asked to explain how you came to—to—think of me—to feel in regard to me as you have said you do——”
“Why should I shrink from it?” he asked. “But no one who has seen you would put such a question to me. I loved you because you were—you. Is not that enough? It would be sufficient for anyone who knew you. I saw you sitting there—so sweetly timid—a little flower that is so startled to find itself awakened into life in the spring, that it would fain ask the earth to hide it again. I thought of you as that modest little flower—a violet trying to obscure its own charm by the leaves that surround it; but all in vain—in vain, for its presence has given a subtle perfume to the air, and all who breathe of its delicate sweetness take the spirit of the spring into their souls and know that a violet is there, though hidden from their view. That is how I saw you. I have always loved the violet, and felt that shyness and sweetness were ever one; and am I to be reproached if I have a longing to pluck my violet and have her ever with me?”
“This is madness—the poetry of madness,” she cried, and there was really a piteous note in her voice. “But if I did not believe that you feel every word that you have spoken, I would let you continue, and drink in the sweetness of every word that falls from your lips. It is because I know that you are speaking from your heart and because I also know my own unworthiness that I pray of you to say no more—yet.”
“Why should I not tell you the truth, if you confess that you believe I am speaking sincerely?”
“Sincerely, but in a dream.”
“Is all love a dream, then?—is that what is in your thought?”
“I do not want it to be a dream. I wish the love to continue with your eyes open, and therefore I say—not yet.”
“You wish my love to continue? Oh, never doubt that your wish shall be granted. But why that 'not yet '? I am weary of this mystery.”
She was perplexed. Why should she hold out any longer against this impetuous Prince of the land of King Cophetua? Why should she not be as other girls who allow themselves to be lifted out of insignificance by the man who loves them. Why should that gift of being able to see more closely into the truth of things that most others accept without a question, be laid upon her as a burden?
She had a strong impulse to let her resolution go down the wind, and to put her hand in his, no matter who might be looking on, and say the word to him that would give him happiness. Who was she to suggest that his happiness would not endure—that her happiness would not endure?
She was perplexed. She had more than once been called prim; but that only meant that it was her nature to weigh everything in a mental balance, as it were, and her imagination was equal (she thought) to the task of assigning their relative value to the many constituents of human happiness. If she had been told that this meant that she had not yet been in love, and that she was not now in love, she would not have felt uneasy in her mind. She did not mistrust the feeling she had for the man who was beside her. Surely this was the very spirit of truth in loving, to be ready to sacrifice everything, so that unhappiness should not overtake him; and she had long ago felt that unhappiness only could result from his linking his life with one who was rather less than a mere nobody. The thought never once left her mind of what would be said when it was known that she had married him. A dunce's triumph, the incident would be styled by the wits, and (assuming that the wits were masculine) how would it be styled by the opposite sex? She could see uplifted hands—incredulous eyebrows raised, while they discussed it, and she knew that the conclusion that everyone would come to was that to be the most divine singer in the world did not save a man from being the greatest fool in the world.
Was her love the less true because her intelligence insisted on her perceiving that such a man as Signor Rauzzini would not be happy if married to a nonentity like herself? “Surely not,” she would have cried. “Surely it is only the truest of all loves that would be ready to relinquish its object rather than bring unhappiness upon him! Is intelligence never to be found in association with true love? Must true love and folly ever be regarded as allies?”
Her intellect was quick in apprehending the strength of the position taken up by two combatants in an argument; but the juxtaposition of the Prim and the Passionate was too much for her. She was all intellect; he was all passion. Her mental outlook on the situation was acute; but his was non-existent. His passion blinded him; her intellect had a thousand eyes.
And there he was by her side; she could almost hear the strong beating of his heart in the pause that followed his question.
“What is this mystery?”
It was her feeling of this tumultuous beating of his heart that all but made her lose her intellectual foothold. His heart beating close to hers swayed her as the moon sways the tides, until for some moments she could not have told whether it was her heart or his that was beating so wildly—only for some moments, however; only long enough for that madness to suggest itself to her—to let her resolution fly to the winds—what did anything matter so long as she could lay her hand in his, and feel his fingers warm over hers? It was her first acquaintance with the tyranny of a heart aflame, and for a moment she bent her head before it. He thought that he had got the better of her scruples, whatever they were, by the way her voice broke as she said:
“Madness—it would be madness!”
He was not acute enough to perceive that she was talking to herself—trying to bring her reason to help her to hold out against the throbbing of her heart—hisheart.
“It would indeed be madness for us to turn our backs upon happiness when it is within our reach,” said he. “That is what you would say, sweet saint?”
But she had now recovered herself.
“Indeed it is because I have no thought except for your happiness that I entreat of you to listen to me,” said Fanny.
“I will listen to you if you tell me in one word that you love me,” said he.
There was no pause before she turned her eyes upon him saying:
“You know it. You have never doubted it. It is because I love you so truly I wish to save you from unhappiness. I want to hold your love for ever and ever.”
“My sweet saint! You have heard my prayers. You are to make me happy.”
“All that I can promise as yet is to save you from supreme unhappiness. I am strong enough to do so, I think.”
“You can save me from every unhappiness if you will come to me—and you are coming, I know.”
“I hope that if you ask me three months hence I shall be able to say 'yes'; but now—at this moment—I dare not. It is not so long to ask you to wait, seeing that I have let you have a glimpse of my heart, and told you that as you feel for me, so I feel for you.”
“Three months is an eternity! Why should it be in three months? Why not now?”
She shook her head.
“I cannot tell you. It is my little secret,” she said. “Ah, is it not enough that I have told you I love you? I shall never cease to love you.”
“Oh, this accursed place! These accursed people!” he murmured. “Why are we fated to meet only surrounded by these wretches? Why cannot we meet where I can have you inmyarms, and kiss your lips that were made for kissing?”
There was something terrifying to her in that low whisper of his. He had put his head down to her until his lips were close to her ear. She felt the warmth of his face; it made her own burn. But she could not move her face away to the extent of an inch. Her feminine instinct of flight was succeeded by the equally feminine instinct of surrender. If it had been his intention—and it certainly seemed that it was—to kiss her in the presence of all the company, she would still have been incapable of avoiding such a caress.
He swore again in her ear, and Fanny, for all her primness, felt a regret deep down in her heart that her training would not allow of her expressing herself through the same medium.
But he did not come any nearer to her than that. He changed his phrases of abuse of their entourage to words of delight at her presence so close to him—alternately passionate and tender. His voice became a song in her ears, containing all such variations. His vocalism was equal to the demand put upon it. It was hismétierto interpret such emotions, and now he did justice to his training, even if he fell short—and he was conscious of doing so—of dealing adequately with his own feelings. He called her once again his sweet saint who had heard his prayer; his cherished flower, whose fragrance was more grateful to him than all the incense burned in all the temples of the world was to the Powers above.
It was, he repeated, her violet modesty that had first made him adore her. Her humility brought before his eyes the picture painted by Guido Reni—the Madonna saying:Ecce ancilla Domini.
Ah, her humility was divine. And she was so like his mother—his dear mother who had died when he was a boy and who had taught him to sing. Ah, she was herself now singing in Paradise, and she would look down and approve his choice. She, too, had been as meek as a flower, and had never been so happy as when they had been together at a little farm in Tuscany with him by her side among the olives. Oh, she would approve his choice. And quite simply he addressed his dead mother, as though she were beside him, asking her if she could desire to have a daughter sweeter or more gentle. He had lapsed into his native Italian in this; but Fanny could follow his slow, devout words, and her eyes were full of tears, her heart of love.
She now perceived how simple and gentle a nature was that of the young Roman. He remained unspoilt by the adulation which he had received both in his own country and in England. Seeing him thus revealing a simplicity which she had not associated with him before, she was led to ask herself if there was, after all, so great a difference between them as she had believed to exist. She had forgotten all about his singing, and he was now in her eyes nothing more than a man—the man who loved her. Ah, that was enough. He loved her, and therefore she was bound to save him from the mortification of hearing the whispers of the people around them asking how he could ever have been stupid enough to marry a girl like herself, who was a nobody and without a fortune, when he might have chosen any girl in the world.
Her resolution came back to her with greater force than ever. Since he had made his nature plain to her, it would, she felt, be taking advantage of his simplicity to engage herself to him just as she was. She knew more of the world than he did. She knew how the world talked, and how it would talk regarding herself as well as regarding him in such a matter. He was simple and generous; it was necessary for her to take thought for both of them.
“Have you heard me?” he asked of her in a whisper.
“The tears are still in my eyes,” she replied. “Oh, my dear friend, cannot you see how bitter it is for me to be compelled to ask you to wait for these months that I spoke of? Cannot you see that it is a matter of conscience and honour? Ah, I should never forgive myself if I were to do other than I have done! If you——”
“Dear one,” said he, “I ask for nothing more than to hear you tell me that you love me. Who am I, that I should demand your secret? So long as you do not conceal your love from me, I do not mind if you have a score of secrets locked away in your white bosom. Tell me again that you love me and all must be well.”
She looked at him, but he knew that she could not see a feature of his face by reason of the tears that were still in her eyes.