THE two girls left the room slowly, after sending in the direction of Fanny a glance which they meant should encourage her—a glance which should let her know that they were quite ready to share her punishment, should the worst come to the worst.
Fanny replied to them with her eyes; and then prepared for the worst.
It quickly came.
“My dear daughter,” said Dr. Burney, when they were alone, Mrs. Burney in her chair at the head of the table. “My dear Fanny, I am no believer in leading by degrees up to such a communication as I have to make to you. I think that the sooner it is got over the better it will be for all whom it may concern. Well, this is it: Mr. Thomas Barlowe has written to me asking my permission for him to address you with a view to marriage.”
He made a pause, looking at her to observe the effect of this revelation.
And what he saw at first was a girl with a pale face and downcast eyes, awaiting, almost breathlessly, an accusation from which she shrank; but when he had spoken he saw a great change come over her. Not immediately, but gradually. It seemed to him that she had not fully realized the meaning of his words—that she was puzzled—trying to recall what he had said. Then the light seemed to dawn upon her. She flushed, and, after a few moments, threw back her head and went into a peal of laughter—a real schoolgirl's fit of laughter at something amazingly comic—the tumbling of a clown into a pool of water with a splash, or, perhaps, the slipping of a dignified beadle upon a butter slide. Her laughter went on for a long time, but without in the least suggesting hysteria—it was simply a girl's natural laughter on realizing the comic side of a situation which grown-up people would regard as extremely serious.
Neither her father nor his wife could understand why she should receive in such a spirit an essentially serious communication—the most serious that any young woman could receive. They had not before them the ludicrous picture that presented itself to her imagination—a picture of the Roman Rauzzini on the one side and the Poultry Barlowe on the other, asking her to choose between them. It was this presentment, coming in a flash the moment she realized that the publishing of the book was not the question which she had to face, that forced her to yield to that long fit of laughter.
Her father and stepmother sat stolidly by, but she knew that had she and her father been alone, he would at least have smiled with her.
In a few minutes she had recovered herself sufficiently to be able to apologize for her levity.
“I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am behaving like a goose, but I could not help it—something forced me—something that occurred to me—a funny thing. I am very sorry.”
“There is nothing funny that I can see in the honourable request made by an honest young man, my dear Fanny,” said Mrs. Burney.
“No, no; nothing whatever; only—well, funny ideas will occur to foolish people like myself at the most serious moments,” said Fanny.
“That is quite true, indeed,” said her father. “I have myself experienced what you say. Perhaps, after all, I should not have blurted out what I had to tell you—it came to you as a surprise, I doubt not.”
“A great surprise, indeed,” she replied. “I cannot understand how Mr. Barlowe could ever fancy that I—that he—that—oh, I should have known what that terrible entertainment was meant to lead to—but when, in that clumsily marked way I was sent into the drawing-room with him alone, he began to talk of his uncle, the Aider-man—he said that the Alderman was quite approachable even in regard to ordinary people like ourselves—and then came his cousins—all of them remarkable! But you should have seen him slice away at the ham—the biggest ham I ever saw—it needed to be—such eating!”
“The recollection of that no doubt made you laugh,” said Dr. Burney. “But, at the same time, you must remember that though the customs of the Poultry are not ours, still, they may be very reasonable customs—perhaps more reasonable than our own. It may suit us to dine as late as halfpast four and only to have a slice of cake with our tea; but business people find it more convenient to dine at one o'clock—it makes an equal division of their long working-day—so that a slice of ham——”
“I know that is quite true, and I was not so foolish as to give myself airs because I had dined at half-past four and had no appetite for ham,” said Fanny; “but—oh, mother, you saw how foolishly formal was the whole thing.”
“I said that I thought it quite unnecessarily formal,” replied Mrs. Burney, “and if I had had any notion that it was going to be like that I would certainly have given Mrs. Barlowe a hint. Still, Thomas is, I know, an excellent young man who has never given his parents an hour's uneasiness, and his intentions are honourable, and so should be honoured. If you have no tender regard for him at present that is no reason why, when you get accustomed to the thought of him as a suitor for your hand——”
“Oh, mother, that is quite impossible!” cried Fanny. “How could I ever get accustomed to such a thought?”
“I do not know why you should not,” replied Mrs. Burney. “He is a most worthy young man, and Mr. Barlowe's business is one of the best in the City. You must remember, my dear Fanny, that in these days a girl, unless she has a portion, runs a very great chance of becoming an old maid, so that no opportunity of settling down in a comfortable home should be neglected.”
“That is perfectly true,” said Dr. Burney. “You will understand that we have no desire to force this or any match upon you, my dear child: so long as I have a house over my head you shall share it. But I am sure that you must know that I am a poor man to-day, although I have worked as hard at my profession as any living man, and I cannot provide you or your sisters with any portion. Heaven knows that if I had a fortune I would gladly divide it among you; but as it is, I think it right to tell you that you need expect nothing.”
“Dearest father,” said Fanny, dissolving into tears, as she took his hand and kissed it, “I have never expected a fortune from you—not a penny piece. I know that I shall be portionless, and I daresay that Mr. Barlowe thinks himself generous in his proposal; but I could never bring myself to accept him—to look on him as a suitor. It would be quite impossible. If I thought it possible that I should ever have any affection for him, I might feel myself justified in encouraging him; but I know that it would be out of the question. I would prefer to go forth and beg my bread—nay, to starve.”
“Then we shall pursue the matter no farther for the present,” said her father, kissing her on the forehead as she nestled close to him.
“Yes, that is best—for the present,” acquiesced his wife. “Still, if you will be advised by me, my dear Fanny, you will remember that Mr. Barlowe is ready to address you knowing that you will be portionless, and if you bear that in mind, perhaps you will be surprised to find some' day, not so far distant, that the thought of him is not so repugnant to you. You are no longer a girl, and when one is midway between twenty and thirty every extra year counts in reducing one's chances of being settled in life. I could cite dozens of instances that I have known of young women being glad to accept at twenty-eight the suitors they scorned at twenty or even twenty-five. Oh, yes, the years come upon one and bring with them a clearer vision of life and love; frequently they bring regret for opportunities neglected. But we will not press the matter any farther—just now. I dare say the young man will submit to be put off—for a time.”
“Nay, for ever,” said Fanny resolutely.
“Oh, well,” said her stepmother.
After a pause, during which Fanny seemed to be debating some matter in her mind, a little line showing itself along her forehead, she said slowly: “I do not think that I shall be a burden on you, dear father; I believe that one day I may be able to do something.”
“Do not fancy that I would ever think of you as a burden, my dear child,” said her father. “But what do you mean by saying that you may one day do something?—some work, do you suggest?”
“Something—I am fond of writing,” she murmured.
He laughed gently, saying:
“You are a very good girl, my love, and I know how much I am indebted to you for your admirable copying of my notes for the History; but do not let the idea take hold of you that such work is well paid. If you ever get in touch with a bookseller, he will tell you that the work of a copyist is very poorly paid.”
“I was not thinking of copying,” murmured Fanny.
“Of what then, pray?” he asked.
“If I could but write a book,” she replied, with her eyes on the floor.
“A book!” cried Mrs. Burney, who thought that she had been silent long enough. “A book!”
“To be sure—to be sure,” said her father, in the indulgent tone of a parent humouring a child. “You might write a book—so might anyone who could pay for a ream of paper, a bottle of ink and a box of quills. You should speak to Mr. Newbery about it: he has printed many nursery stories since 'Goody Two Shoes.' You might indeed do something that the children would take a fancy to. Well, Francis Newbery is as honest a man as his uncle, and we may talk to him about it. By the by, did not you once tell me that you had written something, or that you were going to write something? You thought it proper to get my leave. I had forgotten that. Well, if it be a moral nursery story, we might interest Mr. Newbery in it.”
“I do not think that it is quite wise to encourage a girl to neglect her useful household duties in order to compile some rubbish that no one would read,” said Mrs. Burney.
“Of course you will understand that you are not to neglect your household duties, Fanny,” said her father.
“If she performs her household duties and sticks to her needlework, she will have no time left for scribbling rubbish,” cried Mrs. Burney, hastily.
“She made a bonfire of all that childish nonsense long ago, and I hope that she will never be so foolish as to waste good paper and pens and, most precious of all, good time, over such exercises. That is all we have to say just now, I think—is it not, Doctor? I shall reply to Mr. Barlowe's letter—a most creditable letter—straightforward—honourable! I am only sorry that I cannot make the reply to it that it deserves.”
She had opened the door and called for William, their manservant, to remove the breakfast things. Fanny lingered for a few minutes after she had risen from her chair. She had assumed from the moment she had begun to speak of writing, that her opportunity had come; if her stepmother had not interposed so hastily and so emphatically, she would have made her confession as to “Evelina,”, let the consequences be what they might; but now that the servant had come with his tray and her stepmother jingled her key-basket, she perceived that her chance was gone. She had a sense of sneaking out of the room.
As she went slowly up the stairs she could hear the voice of her stepmother remonstrating with her father for having said something that she, Fanny, might regard as encouragement to waste her precious time in the pursuit of such folly as writing a book.
She heard her father's little laugh as he explained (she was sure) that of course he had not been speaking seriously; but that he had not the heart to be severe upon her and her harmless scribbling.
The author of “Evelina” went very slowly upstairs, and when she reached the work-room landing she found Susy and Lottie waiting for her, glowing with excitement. Susy was waving over her head what seemed to be a bulky pamphlet. Coming closer, Fanny saw that it was the chief of the literary reviews, which had apparently just arrived at the house.
“A splendid column about 'Evelina,'” she whispered. “Not so good as it should be, but still splendid. Here it is. But why are you so glum? Surely they did not scold you now that the book is so great a success.”
“They did not ask me to tarry in the room to charge me with double-dealing in regard to the book,” said Fanny. “They would not allow me to make my confession when I had the opportunity—the best that I shall ever have. 'Twas not my confession that was on thetapis, but quite another. That is why I look glum.”
“Another—another confession? But what had either of them to confess?” cried Lottie.
“Nothing. They didn't confess.”
“But whose confession was it, then, if not theirs?” asked Lottie.
“It was young Mr. Barlowe's,” said Fanny, with a lugubriousness that was quite comic. “Young Mr. Barlowe wrote to the padre to confess that he was passionately—madly—in love with me, and threatening to drown himself unless permission were given to him to address me—we all know how fervently young Mr. Barlowe would put his case—that was what I was summoned to listen to—the fiery letter—only it was too ardent for my ears: I was only told its purport.”
“But who would ever have thought that he had it in him?” cried Susy. “Such impudence! I never dreamt that he could rise to such a height of impudence or I should have thought better of him.”
“'Tis not too late yet, my child,” said Fanny. “You are at liberty to think as highly of Thomas as you please—or as it would please him. Please take over his blighted affections and it will be a weight off my mind. Now give me a chance of reading my splendid review—not that I care in the least what these foolish critics may say of me—I care nothing, I tell you, only if you do not let me see it at once I shall die at your feet.”
“There it is,” said Susy, “a full column! The idea of anyone written of in such terms being proposed to by Thomas Barlowe! Such impudence indeed!”
THE levity shown by Fanny Burney and the flippancy of her phrases did not wholly conceal from her sisters all that she was feeling on the subject of the proposal to which she had referred with such lightness. She knew that while her father and her stepmother would not treat her with any marked disfavour on account of her rejection of the worthy young man who was ready to offer her a home, still Mrs. Burney at least regarded with great disfavour the nature of the answer which she had to send to the Poultry, and Fanny was very well aware of the ease with which so conscientious a guardian as Mrs. Burney could make her feel every day of her life what was Mrs. Burney's opinion of her rejection of an eligible young man.
Fanny recognized the great merits of her stepmother, and she could look from her standpoint at most of the incidents of their daily life. In that household one mouth less to feed was worth consideration—the number of mouths to feed was a constant source of thought with Mrs. Burney, as was also the question of a provision for the future of all of them.
Mrs. Burney would be fully justified in feeling cross with her, not being aware of the fact that another young man, compared with whom Thomas Barlowe was as the dust of the ground, was burning, with an ardour of which Thomas was incapable, to take her to himself and provide for her in a style undreamt of in the Poultry.
But the worst of the matter was that she could not let her stepmother into this secret. She could not say that she was engaged to marry Signor Rauzzini, and she might leave herself open to the gravest rebuke for having listened to his protestations of devotion without obtaining the consent of either of her parents.
And through all this tangle of reflections there ran the silken thread of consciousness that she was no longer the Fanny Burney who was regarded by her stepmother as the dunce, but Fanny Burney the writer of “Evelina,” to whom the most critical review had devoted a full column of adulation!
That was what made her position so anomalous; and it was because she took the happenings of the previous days to heart that she went to bed with a shocking headache, and after a sleepless night was found on the verge of a fever. She was suffering from suppressed secrets; but the doctor did not know this. He prescribed James's Powders; and when these should have done all that they were meant to do—a small part of all that Dr. James and Mr. Newbery affirmed they would do—a change into the country.
But several weeks had passed before she was strong enough to start on the latter and most essential portion of the prescription, and found herself in her own room in Mr. Crisp's isolated house at Chessington.
Meantime, of course, she had no further news of the book, and she remained unconfessed, so far as the secret of its publication was concerned. Her sisters did not so much as mention its name or the name of Thomas Barlowe, so cleverly had they diagnosed the nature of her malady and so tactfully did they try to hasten her recovery.
Her old friend Mr. Crisp had been her guide since her childhood. She always alluded to him as her second Daddy—so far as paternal influence was concerned she might have given him the foremost place. He it was who had led her on to embody in letters to him the daily incidents of her life, thus unconsciously setting the loom, as it were, in which “Evelina” was to be woven. He it was who became her teacher and her critic, and it was possibly because she feared his criticism of her work that she refrained from making a confidant of him from the first. She felt that she could face the public and the reviewers—it did not matter how they might receive the book, but she was too timid to submit it to the mature judgment of the man who had first put a pen in her hand. It was not on her own account that she refrained from giving him a chance of reading her book, but on his: she knew how hurt he would be if he found her book to be an indifferent one, and whether indifferent or not, how angry he would be if people did not buy it by the thousand.
Now, however, that she found herself alone with him, she made up her mind to tell him all about it. She would choose her own time for doing this; but it would certainly be done before she returned to St. Martin's Street.
But on the second day after her arrival at Ches-sington a parcel came for her, addressed by Susy. On opening it, she found it to contain two volumes of “Evelina.” The letter that was enclosed told her that Cousin Edward had called at the Orange Coffee House and found that a set had been left there at the instance of Mr. Lowndes, addressed to Mr. Grafton. Of these, Lottie had read the first two, which were now sent on to the author, but the third she had not finished, and hoped that Fanny would not mind her detaining it for a few days longer.
This was really the first glimpse that the author had of her book in its binding. She had, in the name of Mr. Grafton, requested Mr. Lowndes to send a set of the volumes to the Orange Coffee House. But that was nearly three months ago, and until now Mr. Lowndes appeared not to have thought it worth his while to comply with the request. Now, however, it seemed to have occurred to him that the author of a book that everyone was talking about might be worth conciliating, and so he had directed a set of volumes to the Coffee House.
At once Fanny made up her mind that she would pave the way, so to speak, for a full confession to Mr. Crisp.
“Susy has sent me on two volumes of a new novel, lest I should feel dull,” she said. “As if I am not much more likely to feel dull in the company of a new novel than of my old Daddy!”
“I thought that your stepmother prohibited the reading of novels, new or old, in your house,” said he.
“Perhaps mamma did not know anything about this particular one,” replied Fanny; “besides, it is to be read in your house, not ours.”
“So that the responsibility will be mine?” said he. “Mrs. Burney is only answerable to heaven for keeping your mind free from the baleful influence of novels, but I am in a worse case, for I am answerable to Mrs. Burney. And what is the name of the precious production?”
“Let me see,” said Fanny, artfully referring to the title page. “Oh, yes: 'Evelina; or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World.' Do you call that an alluring title?”
“Too sentimental by half,” he replied. “But I have heard of the thing, and one of the reviews dealt with it some weeks ago.”
“Praise or blame?”
“Oh, foolish adulation for the great part; but not without a reasonable word here and there.”
“The reasonable part you are sure must be the censorious? That is not fair to the poor author.”
“Poor author? Yes, they are all poor authors nowadays. What's the name of this particular item of poverty?”
“There is no name on the title page; but I hear that the writer was Mr. Anstey himself.”
“What! another 'Bath Guide'!”
“Sir Joshua Reynolds told mamma that he had remained up all night reading it.”
“Poor Sir Joshua! His eyes are none too good at the best! And does Susy believe that the book which kept Sir Joshua awake is the best one to send you asleep? You came to Chessington, you know, to get as much as possible; 'Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!' the truest words that Shakespeare ever writ.”
“What I propose to do is to try it upon you, my dear sir. I mean to give you a dose of it this evening, instead of gruel, and if it makes you sleep I will know that I may continue it for myself—it will be more wholesome than poppy or mandragora.”
“Good! But I dare swear that it will be bad enough to keep me awake. You know that extremes meet in the case of books, as well as other matters; one keeps awake reading a good book, in expectancy of its undeveloped goodness; and reading a bad one, wondering how far the author can actually go in point of dullness.”
“I have often thought that; but Susy has sent only two of the three volumes.”
“So that we shall not be able to fathom the full depth of the author's dullness? We should be grateful to Susy—so should the author. Well, you shall begin after tea, while there is yet daylight:Le livre ne vaut pas la chandelle.”
“Nous verrons,” cried Fanny.
And she started reading the book that same day, an hour before sunset. The room in which they sat was a small one with a window facing the west and overlooking a long stretch of billowy common. The spicy scent of the wallflowers in the little garden patch at the side of the house was wafted through the half-open lattice, and occasionally there came the sound of the ducks gabbling at the pool beyond the gate that shut off the house from the lane. It was a cloudless evening, and the sunset promised to be peach-like in its tender tints of pink and saffron with the curves of delicate green in the higher sky. Fanny sat at the window and the old man reclined at his ease upon the sofa.
“I am giving myself every chance,” he said. “All that I ask of you, my Fannikin, is that you do not glance at me every now and again to see if I am still awake. If you do so, I shall never yield to so much as a doze.”
“I promise faithfully to await your signal that you are alert,” said she.
And so began one of the most delightful hours of her life.
She was not a particularly good reader aloud when a book was casually put into her hands, but here she had before her a volume that she could almost have repeated verbatim, so that she soon found that she was just too fluent: she felt that if she went on at this rate his critical ear would tell him that she had every page by heart, and he would ask her for an explanation of so singular a thing as her being able to repeat so much of a book which she professed to have in her hands for the first time. She put a check upon her fluency, and though she did not go so far as to simulate stumbling over certain words, she neglected the punctuation now and again, and then went back upon some of the passages, causing him to give a little grumble and say:
“Be careful, my dear; there's no need for haste: the evening is still young.”
After that she was more careful—which is the same as saying she was more careless of adhering to the scheme she had adopted. She felt that as he had now been put off the scent, she might run along as she pleased without there being a chance of his suspecting anything through her showing herself familiar with passage after passage.
Before she had got through more than a dozen pages she heard a creaking of the sofa—she trusted herself to glance in that direction and found that he was no longer reclining: he was sitting up and listening attentively. She continued reading without making a remark for a full hour. The sun had set, but the twilight was clear enough to allow of her seeing the print on the page before her for some time still; then the darkness seemed to fall all at once, and she laid the book down when she had come to the close of one of the letters.
“Candles,” he said. “Candles! Upon my word, the world is right for once: the stuff is good. We must have candles. Candles, I say!”
“Supper, say I,” cried Fanny. “I feel that I have need of bodily refreshment after such a task. Does it sound real to you, Daddy Crisp—all about the Young Lady who is about to enter the world?”
“Not merely does it sound real, it is real—it is reality,” he replied quickly. “The man who wrote what you have read has something of the genius of—of—now whom does he resemble, think you?—Richardson here and there, and in places, Fielding, it seems to me.”
“You suppose that 'tis written by a man?” she said.
“Why, of course, 'tis the work of a man,” he replied. “Where is the woman living that is capable of writing a single page of that book? What, have I gone to so much trouble in training you to understand what is bad and what is good in writing, to so little purpose, that you should have a doubt as to the sex of what you have just read?”
“The sex of a book—a novel?”
“Why not? There are masculine books and there is feminine—trash. There you have the difference.”
“And you do not consider this to be—trash?”
“Will you get the candles, Miss Burney? It seems that you are sorely in need of illumination if you put that question to me seriously. Trash? Madam, you perceive that I am all eagerness to hear the rest of the story, and yet you put that silly question to me! Look you here, you rogue, cannot you see that the very fact of your putting such a question to me shows that the book is the work of a man? When a carefully trained woman such as you cannot yet discriminate between the good and the trash that is written, how would it be possible for a woman to write what you have read?”
“You think there is nothing womanly in the book?”
“There is nothing effeminate in the writing, so much is sure. There is plenty that is womanly in the book, because the man who wrote it knows how to convey to a reader a sense of womanliness to be in keeping with the character of the letters—that is what is meant by genius. A woman trying to produce the same effect would show the frill of her petticoat on every page. She would make the men's parts in the book as feminine as the women's. Now, no more chatter an you please, but get the candles.”
“And Mrs. Hamilton will get our supper by their light.”
Fanny tripped away, and was behind the door of the larder before she allowed the laughter which was pent up very close to her eyes to have its freedom. It was a very hearty laugh that she had, for there was a constant buzzing in her ears of the question:
“What will he say when he learns the truth?”
She was ready to dance her Nancy Dawson in delight at seeing the effect of the book upon the old man whom she loved—the man who was directly responsible for its existence. If Mr. Crisp had not taken trouble with her, encouraging her to write her letters to him in a natural style, the correspondence in “Evelina” would, she knew, be very different from what it was. So, after all, she reflected, he was right in pronouncing the book the work of a man; but he had no idea that he was the man who was responsible for it. That reflection of hers was as fully imbued with the true spirit of comedy as her anticipation of the effect that would be produced upon him by the revelation of the authorship.
And that was why this young student of the human comedy was able to restrain herself from making the revelation to him at once: she had, as it were, a delicate palate for comedy, and it was a delight to her—the gratification of her natural vanity had nothing to do with it—to lead him on to commit himself more deeply every moment on the question of the sex of the writer. Oh, no; she had no idea of making any confession to him for the present. She would have many another chat with him before the moment for thatdénouementin the comedy should arrive.
So she got the candles and the housekeeper laid the cold chicken and the plates on the supper-table, and Mr. Crisp set about mixing the salad in the manner he had acquired in Italy. And all the time they were engaged over the simple meal he was criticising what she had read, and he had scarcely a word to say about it that was not favourable. But he took care to protect himself in case he should be forced to retire from the position he had taken up.
“A man is a fool to pronounce an opinion on a book before he has had the last page read to him,” he said. “I have only been touching upon the part that I have heard, and I say that it seems to me to be as good as anything I have read for years; but that is not saying that the remainder, or some portions of the remainder, may not be so greatly inferior as to compel me to pronounce unfavourably of the book as a whole. I have had instances of such inequality shown by many writers, and it may be that the writer of 'Evelina' will be added to the list, although he shows no sign of falling off up to your last page. Do not be hurried by me, my dear, but if you have indeed made up your mind to eat no cheese, Mrs. Hamilton can remove thedébris, and unless you are tired, you will read me a few pages more.”
She read until midnight. The only pauses that she made were when he trimmed the wicks of the candles. He commended her fluency. She had never read better in his hearing, he said. She showed that she understood what she was reading; and that, after all, was the greatest praise that could be given to anyone. He did not suggest the likelihood that she was tired.
There was the sound of the bleating of lambs occasionally borne from the meadows beyond the little stream—the sound of an owl that came nightly about the house from the barn of the farm a few hundred yards away—the sound of a large moth bumping against the glass of the casement through which the candle-light shone. There was nothing to interrupt her in her delightful task until the church clock struck the hour of midnight.
“Not another line,” she cried, jumping from her chair. “Poor Evelina! she will be the better for a sleep. When she awakens she may be able to see more clearly who are her true friends and who are not to be trusted. Good-night, dear Daddy; and receive my thanks for your attention.”
“Give me the volume,” he said. “I usually awake before six, and so shall have a couple of hours of it before rising.”
“You will not get it from me, sir,” she cried. “Captain Mervain knows the naval rule about drinking glass for glass, and let me tell you that the same rule holds in the matter of reading a book—chapter for chapter between us, sir; we shall finish as we have begun.”
She blew him a kiss and ran upstairs to escape his protests: he shouted them after her from the foot of the stairs.
THE next morning was a lovely one, and Fanny was feeding the ducks in the brook before eight o'clock. When she came into the house to breakfast she found Mr. Crisp in the porch.
“You have given me a sleepless night,” he said. “I lay awake endeavouring to determine for my own satisfaction what would be the outcome of the girl's meeting that dreadful Branghton family. I worked out the story to its proper conclusion—so I thought—on my left side; but when I turned on my right I found that I had been grossly astray in all my fancies; and forthwith I set to work to put myself right. After an hour or two I thought I had succeeded, but, lo! a turn on my back and I saw that, as I planned it, the story would never come to an end. So I kept on until the dawn. Then I fell asleep, but only to find myself surrounded by demons, in the form of Branghtons, and a master devil wearing the epaulets of a naval officer, and he made for me with a horrid leer and a cry of Mervain! I awoke in a worse state than did the Duke of Clarence in the play, and I have not slept since. Oh, that little mischief, Susy! Wherefore did she send hither that magic book to be my undoing?”
“Ah, sir, never before did I perceive the evil of novel reading,” she said. “I could not understand my mother's banning all such books, but now I see the wisdom of it. I now see how they tend to unsettle one. But it may not yet be too late to save you from the evil influence of 'Evelina.' If I read no more of her story, you will soon forget her and all may be well.”
“You will read no more? Good! Carry out your threat and I will e'en take the coach to London and buy a full set at Mr. Newbery's.”
“At Mr. Newbery's? Ah, sir, that is a threat you could not carry out, however vindictive you might be.”
“And why not, prithee? Think you I would begrudge the seven or eight shillings it would cost?”
“Nay, sir; but if you went to Mr. Newbery you would probably find yourself treated badly by him if you accused him of publishing the book. 'Tis Mr. Lowndes who is the guilty person.”
“You will not put one to the humiliation of a journey to London all for a trumpery novel?”
“Nay, not for a trumpery novel; but we were talking of 'Evelina.'”
“I submit to the correction, my dear; and so now we are in perfect agreement, you will continue the story, if only to allay my sleepless speculations.”
“I wonder how it will sound when read in the morning? I fear that it will be as dull as a play would seem in the garish light of day.”
“Tell not that to me. There are novels of the morn as well as of the even, and I believe that the freshness of this one will be best appreciated in the brightness of such a morning as this. At any rate, we can but make a trial of it. If we find that it does not read well, you can lay it aside till the evening.”
Fanny was delighted to find that he was as interested in her book as Susy had been; and the noon came and found her beginning the second volume to him, sitting by his side in the sunlight that bathed the little garden, and his attention never flagged. Once or twice, however, he grumbled, but her ear assured her that his grumble was not a critical one; it was only meant to censure the behaviour of the rude Captain Mervain.
They were still in the garden when, shortly after noon, a chaise was heard in the lane: it appeared to be on its way to the house.
“What! as I live 'tis mamma and my sisters come to pay us a visit,” cried Fanny, seeing a handkerchief waved to her from the window.
“They shall be made welcome, for I cannot doubt that they have brought the third volume with them,” said Mr. Crisp, rising to receive his visitors.
In this way the reading was interrupted, and indeed Fanny was rather glad of a respite. She had not risen from her chair since nine o'clock. A chance of stretching her limbs was very acceptable.
Mrs. Burney and the girls had scarcely settled down to their cakes and sweet wine, after explaining that Dr. Burney had insisted on their taking this drive into the country, the day promised to be so fine, when Mr. Crisp turned to Susy, saying:
“You wicked girl! What did you mean by sending us the two volumes of that vile novel to upset us poor country folk? And I hope you have not neglected to bring with you the third.” Poor Susy reddened and glanced at Fanny without trying to make any reply.
“Eh, what is this?” cried the old man. “Do you mean to disclaim all responsibility for the act? Ah, 'tis too late for you to make such an attempt. The evil has been done. The poison has begun to work in our blood; and its effects can only be neutralized by the contents of the third volume. Say at once, I pray, if you have brought it.”
“Do not trouble poor Susy with your tropes, sir,” said Fanny. “She cannot grasp your meaning, and only trusts that we have not gone mad. I suppose the road was as usual—half of it muddy and the rest dusty?”
“I insist on hearing if the third volume is in the chaise,” said Mr. Crisp, firmly. “If it be not, then you may drive straight back to St. Martin's Street and return hither with it in time for Fannikin to read it to-night.”
“Pray what book is it that you refer to, Mr. Crisp?” inquired Mrs. Burney.
“What book, madam! As if there were more books than one printed this year! Why, Mrs. Burney, where have you been living all this time, that you have never heard of 'Evelina '?” cried he.
“I have heard of little else save this 'Evelina' for some time past; but I have no time for reading novels, nor has any member of my family,” replied the lady.
“I insisted on one member of your family finding the time yesterday and to-day, and the consequence is that she has gone through the first volume and part of the second since Susy was so obliging as to send them hither. I was in hopes that you had brought the third volume; but I perceive that we shall have to wait for it now.”
Susy was examining very closely the pattern on her plate when Mrs. Burney turned to her, saying:
“Does Mr. Crisp mean that you got that novel and sent it hither to Fanny?”
“Only part of it—no more than two volumes,” said Susy quickly, as though anxious to submit extenuating circumstances to the notice of her stepmother.
“Did you get it at Hill's library, or where?” inquired Mrs. Burney.
“I did not get it at a library,” replied Susy slowly, as a reluctant witness might answer an incriminating question.
“What, did you buy it? Did you spend your money on it?” cried Mrs. Burney, with a note of amazement not free from anxiety.
“Oh, no; I did not buy it,” said Susy.
“How did it come into your hands, then—tell me that?”
“Cousin Edward brought it for Fanny.”
“And you read the first two volumes and are now reading the third?”
“Nay, mamma, 'tis I that was led by my curiosity,” said Lottie hastily.
“Though you have often heard me protest against the vice of novel reading? I wonder at you, Lottie. I am shocked that you should so yield to a vulgar temptation,” said Mrs. Burney.
“Nay, my dear madam, you must not talk of our dear 'Evelina' as if she were an everyday person,” said Mr. Crisp. “On the contrary, she is a most interesting young lady, and if I do not soon learn what happens to her now that she has formed some very dubious intimacies, I shall be inconsolable. Have you read the book, Mrs. Burney?”
“Not I indeed,” replied Mrs. Burney, with more than a suggestion of indignation that such a charge should be brought against her. “I have heard enough about that book during the past month to prevent me from having any wish to read it, even if I were a novel reader, which I certainly deny. I am ashamed that any member of my household should so far forget her duty as to read such stuff.”
“Come, come, my dear lady, you must remember that there are novels and novels,” said Mr. Crisp. “I have heard you praise Mr. Richardson, have I not?”
“Mr. Richardson was a genius and a great moral writer, sir, as well.”
“The two are not invariably associated. But what if I tell you that this new book is worthy of being placed between 'Clarissa Harlowe' and 'Pamela'?”
“You will not do so gross an injustice to the memory of a great man, I am sure. But, if you please, we will discuss this no longer. No matter what this 'Evelina' may be, the fact remains that I gave a command that our home should be free from the taint of novel reading, and my wishes have been secretly ignored. I should not wonder if Fanny had encouraged Edward to procure the book for her.”
“I cannot deny it,” said Fanny in a low voice. “'Twas my doing altogether. All the blame should rest on my shoulders—yes, from the first—the very first—from the title page on to 'Finis.'”
“And your delinquency has given me greater pleasure than I have derived from other people's rectitude,” said Mr. Crisp. Then he turned to Mrs. Burney.
“Dear madam, you must forgive our Fannikin for her misdemeanour. If you had but read the book for yourself you would feel as I do on the subject. 'Tis the most fascinating story——”
“That is, I hold, the worst of the matter,” said Mrs. Burney. “The more fascinating the novel, the more dangerous it is, and the greater reason there is why it should be excluded from every honest home. A dull story may do but little harm. One might reasonably tolerate it even among a household of young girls, but a clever one—a fascinating one, as you call this 'Evelina,' should never be allowed to cross the threshold. But, by your leave, sir, we will talk no more upon a question on which I know we shall never agree.”
“That is the most satisfactory proposal that could be made,” said Mr. Crisp, bowing. “I will only add that since you are so fully sensible of the danger of a delightful book in your house, you will take prompt measures to prevent the baleful influence of 'Evelina' from pervading your home, by despatching the third volume to me without delay. The third volume of such a novel may in truth be likened to the match in the barrel of gunpowder: 'tis the most dangerous part of the whole. The first two volumes are like the gunpowder—comparatively innocent, but the moment the third volume is attached—phew! So you would do well not to delay in getting rid of such an inflammatory composition, Mrs. Burney.”
“I promise you that you shall have it at once, sir,” said Mrs. Burney. “And I trust that you will not allow the first and second to return to my house. A barrel of gunpowder may be as innocent as you say, so long as the match is withheld, but still I have no intention of turning our home into a powder magazine.”
That was the last reference made to “Evelina” while Mrs. Burney and the two girls remained at Chessington. They went away so as to be back in St. Martin's Street in time for dinner; but the moment they were together in the chaise Mrs. Burney burst out once more in her denunciation of the vice of novel reading. From her general treatment of the theme she proceeded—as the girls feared she would—to the particular instance of its practice which had just come under her notice. She administered to poor Susy a sound scolding for having received the book from her cousin Edward in secret, and another to poor Lottie for having ventured to read it without asking leave. The girls were soon reduced to tears, but not a word did they say in reply. They were loyal to their sister and her secret with which they had been entrusted. Not a word did either of them utter.
The drive home on that lovely afternoon was a dreary one, especially after Mrs. Burney had said:
“I fear that this duplicity has been going on for a long time in our house. Yes, I have noticed more than once an exchange of meaning glances between you and Fanny, and sometimes, too, when your cousin Edward was in the room. It seemed to me that you had some secret in common which you were determined to keep from me. I said nothing at that time, for though my suspicions were awakened, yet I thought it best to take the most favourable view of the matter, and I assumed that the secret—if there was a secret—was an innocent one—such as girls in a family may share among themselves about some trifling thing; but now I have no doubt that your glances and your winks and your elbowings had to do with the smuggling of books into the house for your surreptitious reading. I am ashamed of you. It hurts me deeply to find that, after all the care I have taken to preserve you in innocence of the world and its wickedness, you have been behaving with such duplicity. I shall, of course, think it my duty to let your father know what I have found out, and he may be able to suggest some means of preventing a repetition of such conduct.”
The poor girls dared not even look at each other for mutual sympathy, lest such glances should be interpreted by their mother as a further attempt to pursue the scheme of duplicity with which she had charged them. They could only sit tearful and silent until they were once again in St. Martin's Street. They longed to rush upstairs together to their room and mingle their tears in a sisterly embrace before determining how they should meet their stepmother's charges in the presence of their father.
But Mrs. Burney was too astute a strategist to permit them to consult together.
“Is your master within?” she inquired of William, the man-servant, who opened the door for them.
“He is in the library, madam, with Mrs. Esther,” replied the man.
“So much the better,” said Mrs. Burney to the girls. “We shall go directly to him, and your sister Esther will be present.”
She made them precede her to the room that was called the library. Dr. Burney and Hetty were laughing together across the table—the sound of their merriment had been heard by the girls before the door was opened. But at the portentous gravity of the entrance of Mrs. Burney her husband became grave.
“You have returned early,” he said, “and—good heavens! you have been weeping—you do not bring bad news—Fanny has not had a relapse?”
“Fanny is quite well; but I bring you bad news,” replied Mrs. Burney. “You will, I am sure, regard it as the worst possible news when I tell you that she, as well as her sisters here, have been guilty of the grossest disobedience—a conspiracy of disobedience, I may call it.”
“I am amazed—and grieved,” said he. “But I can scarcely believe that, brought up as they have been——”
“They do not deny it,” said she. “I only discovered by chance that, in defiance of our rule against novel reading, they been have trafficking with their cousin Edward to procure novels for their secret reading, and the latest they smuggled into the house is that one called 'Evelina'—I actually found Fanny reading the book to Mr. Crisp, and her sisters admitted——”
“But what did Fanny admit?” he cried.
“She admitted that Edward had procured the book at her request,” replied his wife. “Was not that enough?”
“Not half enough—not a quarter enough, considering that it was Fanny who wrote 'Evelina' with her own hand and under our very noses without our suspecting it,” said Dr. Burney quietly.
Mrs. Burney looked at him dumbly for more than a whole minute. There was silence in the room.
Then she sat slowly down on the nearest chair, still keeping her eyes fixed upon him.