DOCTOR BURNEY sat for a long time staring at a point high above his wife's head. The eldest daughter, Hetty, standing at the other side of the writing-table, was radiant; her eyes were dancing. The two others were standing together—huddled together, it might be said, for they suggested a pair of lambs recently frightened—doubtful of what is going to happen next and feeling that the closer they are to each other the safer they will be.
“Did you ever hear of anything so funny?” said Hetty, glancing around and still radiant.
Her father got upon his feet.
“And she was the only one that never had any attention,” said he, as if he had not heard Hetty's remark. “Fanny was left to make her own way as pleased her best—no one troubled about her education. She was left to pick up knowledge as best she could—the crumbs that fell from the others' table—that was how she picked up French when the others came back from school, and now she speaks it with the best of them... And so shy! Tell me, if you can, how she got her knowledge of things—the things in that book—the pictures red with life—the real life-blood of men and women—love—emotion—pathos—all that make up life—and don't forget the characterization—that's what seems to me all but miraculous. Hogarth—we all know that Hogarth drew his characters and fitted them into his pictures because he made it a point to walk among them and look at them with observant eyes; but tell me, if you can, what chance that child had of seeing anything; and yet she has filled her canvas, and every bit is made up of firm, true drawing. That is the chief wonder.”
He spoke evidently under the impulse of a great excitement at first, not looking at anyone in particular—just skimming them all with his eyes as he paced the room. But he seemed gradually to recover himself as he talked, and he appeared to address his last words to his wife. This assisted her to recover herself also—a minute or so in advance of him.
“You seem to be sure that Fanny wrote it,” she said, when he had done. “Is it fair to condemn her before you make sure?”
Everyone looked at Mrs. Burney; but only her husband laughed.
“Condemn her—condemn her for having written the finest novel since Fielding?” he said, with the laugh still on his face. There was no laugh on hers; on the contrary, its expression was more serious than ever.
“A novel is a novel,” she said. “I told Mr. Crisp—but that was only about the reading of novels—the cleverer they are the more mischievous—dangerous—even the reading—I never dreamt of her going so far as to write one, clever or otherwise. But a novel is still a novel—she must have neglected her duties in the house, though I failed to observe it... and sending it to a bookseller without saying a word to us! Who would have believed that a young woman with her training—”
“It flashed across me when I read the verses addressed to myself at the beginning that she had asked my permission some months ago, and that I had given it—I did so laughing at the poor child's credulousness in believing that any bookseller would print it for her and pay her for the privilege—the privilege of making a thousand pounds out of her book.”
“What! are you serious?—a thousand pounds, did you say?”
“Mr. Lowndes will make more than a thousand pounds by the sale of the book—Hetty tells me that he only paid Fanny twenty for it.”
“What is the world coming to—a fortune in a single book! And we talked about her being portionless, when all the time she was more richly endowed than all the rest of the family; for if she has written one book, she can certainly write another equally remunerative. 'Perhaps she has another ready for the printers.”
Mrs. Burney was blessed with the capacity to look at matters, however artistic they might be, from the standpoint of the practical housekeeper. The mention of so sonorous a sum as a thousand pounds caused the scales of prejudice to fall from the eyes through which she had regarded the act of authorship, and at that instant she perceived that it should not be thought of as a delinquency but as a merit.
And, after all, it appeared that the girl had obtained the permission of her father to print it—that put quite a different complexion upon the transaction, did it not?
And a thousand pounds—that appealed to the good sense of a practical person and swept away the last cobweb of prejudice that she had had respecting novels and their writers.
“Has she another book written, think you?” she inquired in a tone full of interest. “Of course we shall see that she gets a better share of Mr. Lowndes' thousand pounds than she did for her first.”
“She has not written a line since 'Evelina,'” said Esther. “To be sure, I have not been herconfidantesince I got married, but I know that she was so frightened at the thought of what she had done that she would not write another page.”
“Frightened! What had she to be frightened about?” cried Mrs. Burney in a tone of actual amazement.
“Goodness knows,” said Esther with a laugh.
The sound of the dinner-bell coming at that moment had about it also something of the quality of a long, loud, sonorous outburst of laughter with a cynical tinkle at the last.
The group in that room dissolved in all directions with exclamations of dismay at being overtaken by the dinner-hour so unprepared.
“It is all over now,” said Susy to Lottie, when they were alone in their room. “I was afraid when she ushered us so formally into the library that we would be forced to tell our secret.”
“I made up my mind that no torture of the rack or wild horses would unseal my lips,” said Susy, earnestly. “Do you know, Lottie, I feel quite lonely without our secret.”
“It is just the same with me, dear,” said Lottie. “I feel as if I were suddenly cut off from some great interest in life—as if I had gone downstairs one morning and found that someone had stolen the piano. I wonder if it was Hetty who told the padre.”
“Make haste and we shall soon learn all,” said Susy.
Before they had finished dinner they learned from their father how he had got to the bottom of the secret that they had so cherished.
He had gone as usual to give a music lesson to Queenie Thrale, and when partaking of some refreshment before setting out for London, Mrs. Thrale had talked to him in terms of the highest praise of “Evelina.” She had read the book twice over, she told him, and had lent it to Dr. Johnson, who could talk of nothing else. Then Mrs. Cholmondeley had arrived on a visit to Thrale Hall, and she, too, was full of praise of the book. She, too, had lent her copy to someone else—to no less important a person than Mr. Edmund Burke, and he had declared himself as greatly captivated by it as his friend Sir Joshua Reynolds had been. Everybody was talking about it, and the question of the authorship had been as widely discussed as before; Mrs. Cholmondeley had declared that she would give twenty guineas to find out for certain who it was that had written the book.
Mrs. Thrale had thereupon suggested that Dr. Burney was in a better position than most people for solving the mystery, going about as he was from one part of the town to another and being in close touch with all manner of people.
“But I had not, as you know, so much as read the book for myself—I seemed to be the only one in town who had not done so—and on getting home I sent William post haste to Mr. Lowndes to purchase a set. This done, I sat down to peruse the first volume. The page opened on the Ode; it lay beneath my eyes, and I tell you truly that I did not seem to read it: I seemed to hear Fanny's voice reading the verses in my ear, and the truth came upon me in a flash—incredible though it appeared, I knew that it was she who had written the book. Hetty came in before my eyes were dry—she saw the volume in my hand, and she understood all. 'You know,' was all that she said. I think that the greatest marvel was the keeping of the secret of the book! To think of its being known to four girls and never becoming too great for them to bear!”
He was appealing to his wife, but she only nodded a cold acquiescence in his surprise. She remained silent, however, and this was something to be grateful for, the girls thought: they knew just what she was thinking, and they also knew that if they had some little trouble in keeping their secret, she had very much more in restraining herself from uttering some comment upon their reticence—their culpable reticence, she would think it. They could see that she was greatly displeased at having been excluded from their secret, since such an exclusion had forced her into a false position more than once—notably in the presence of Mr. Crisp, when she had become the assailant of novels and novel reading generally, and also when she had scolded them on their return in the chaise. But they were good girls, and they were ready to allow that they were in the wrong, even though they did not think so: that is what really good girls do in their desire for peace in their homes. And Lottie and Susy made up their minds that should their stepmother tax them with double-dealing and deceit, they would not try to defend themselves. The reflection that they had kept their sister's secret would more than compensate them for any possible humiliation they might suffer at Mrs. Burney's hands.
All that Mrs. Burney said at the conclusion of her husband's further rhapsody about the marvel of Fanny's achievement, considering how she had been generally thought the dunce of the family, was comprised in a few phrases uttered in a hurt tone:
“While no one is more pleased than myself to witness her success, I cannot but feel that she would have shown herself possessed of a higher sense of her duty as a daughter if she had consulted her father or his wife in the matter,” she said.
“That may be true enough,” said Dr. Burney; “but if she had done so, would she have achieved her purpose any more fully than she has, I ask you? No, my dear, I do not feel, with any measure of certainty, that I would have gone far in my encouragement of her efforts, nor do I think that you would have felt it consistent with your principles to do so.”
“I was only referring to the question of a simple girl's duty in regard to her parents,” said Mrs. Burney.
“And your judgment on that point is, I am certain, unassailable,” said he. “But here we have a girl who is no simple girl, but a genius; and I think that a good deal of latitude should be allowed to a genius—a little departure from the hard and fast line of the duties expected from a simple girl may be permitted in such a one as Fanny.”
“Well, she has succeeded in her aims—so much is plain,” said Mrs. Burney. “But I hope that should any of her sisters set about a similar enterprise——”
But the ringing laughter that came from the sisters, their father joining in with great heartiness, saved the need for her to complete her sentence. At first she felt hurt, but she quickly yielded to the exuberant spirit that pervaded the atmosphere of the room, and smiled indulgently, after the manner of a staid elderly lady who is compelled to take part in the romp of her girls and boys at Christmas time.
She continued smiling, and the others continued laughing, and this spirit of good humour was maintained until bedtime.
The girls knew that they would not be scolded for their participation in Fanny's secret; for Fanny by her success had justified any amount of double-dealing. If Fanny had made a fool of herself they would feel that they deserved to participate in her scolding; but success is easily pardoned, and so they rightly counted upon a general amnesty. What was it that their father had said about a thousand pounds?
They went to bed quite happy, in spite of being deprived of the fearful joy of having a secret to keep.
DR. BURNEY had given instructions that Fanny was not to be communicated with at Chessington until he had seen her; but that the third volume of the book was to be sent to Mr. Crisp without delay. He was to go to Streatham again in two days' time, and thence to Chessington, where he would make Mr. Crisp aware of the identity of the writer of “Evelina.”
He anticipated an interesting hour with Mr. Crisp, but a very much more interesting half-hour with Mrs. Thrale; for he meant, of course, to lose no time in letting that lady into the secret: he knew that she would make the most of the information he could impart to her; to be the first to learn what all her friends were striving to learn would at once place her above Mrs. Cholmondeley, who was willing to pay twenty guineas for the knowledge, and even Mrs. Montagu, who was inclined to patronize Mrs. Thrale and a good many other ladies, in spite of the fact that Dr. Johnson dined usually five days out of every week with Mrs. Thrale, but had only dined once with Mrs. Montagu since she had gone to her new house.
Dr. Burney was well aware how valuable the Thrale connection was to him; a teacher of music is apt to look with sparkling eyes at a houseful of girls whose father possesses the possibilities of such wealth as was defined by Dr. Johnson in this particular case as beyond the dreams of avarice. Dr. Burney had a very nice judgment on the subject of an influential connection, and so was delighted to have a chance of doing a signal good turn to so deserving a patroness as Mrs. Thrale. Yes, he felt sure that his half-hour at Streatham Hall would be the most interesting of the many half-hours he had spent under the same hospitable roof.
And he was not mistaken in his surmise.
Mrs. Thrale had, as usual, several friends coming to partake of an early repast with her; and Dr. Burney had pictured to himself the effect of his announcement to the company that his daughter had written the book upon which he was pretty sure the conversation would turn—indeed, he felt that he would be greatly surprised if the conversation did not immediately rush to the question of “Evelina” and remain there for the rest of the afternoon; for the enterprising ladies would doubtless bring with them some fresh suggestions or new cues to its authorship. He pictured himself allowing them to go on for some time until perhaps a statement would be made which he should have to contradict point-blank. They would all look at him in surprise. What did he know about the matter? Was he interested in the question? Had he found out anything?
How he would smile while saying quietly:
“Well, I am more or less interested in the matter, the fact being that 'Evelina' is the work of my daughter, Fanny Burney!”
That would be, he thought, a fitting moment in which to divulge the secret; he saw the whole scene clearly before him.
But before he had reached his destination that intuition of what would commend itself to a patron which had been so important an auxiliary to his ability in placing him above his rivals in his profession, overcame his desire to play the most important part in a dramatic scene; he perceived that such a rôle should be taken by an influential patroness, and not by himself. Thus it was that when Mrs. Thrale was giving him a cup of chocolate after his journey he smiled, saying:
“I was greatly interested in the conversation between Mrs. Cholmondeley and the other ladies when I was last here.”
“About 'Evelina'?” she inquired. “Ah, I wonder if Mrs. Cholmondeley has yet paid over her twenty guineas to the discoverer of the author. It seems that he has as arduous a task in regard to 'Evelina' as Raleigh had in regard to his El Dorado.”
“So it would appear,” said Dr. Burney. “Let us hope that his efforts will be more highly valued than those of poor Sir Walter. Have you yourself no suspicions on the subject, madam?”
“Oh, suspicions? There have been as many suspicions set going on this subject within the month as would be entertained only by the most imaginative Bow Street runner. For my own part, I maintain that the book could only have been writ by our friend Horace Walpole. He found that his 'Otranto' excited so much curiosity when published without a name, he came to the conclusion that he would produce another novel with the same amount of mystery attached to it. The only point against this assumption is that——”
“That the book was assuredly written by another person,” said Burney, smiling in a way that he designed to be somewhat enigmatical.
Mrs. Thrale tried to interpret his smile.
“What!” she exclaimed, “you have formed another theory—you—you have heard something since you were last here?”
“Not something, madam—not a mere something, but everything—everything that is to be known regarding the writer of that book.”
“Is't possible? Who is your informant?—the value of all that you have heard is dependent upon the accuracy of your informant.”
“The book was written by the person whom I fancied I knew best of all the people in the world, and yet the last person whom I would believe capable of such a feat. The author of the book—I am the author of her being—she is none other than my daughter Fanny.”
Mrs. Thrale sat staring at him, one arm resting upon the table, her lips parted as if about to utter an exclamation of surprise, but unable to do so by reason of her surprise.
More than a minute had passed before she was able to speak, and then she could do no more than repeat his words.
“Your daughter Fanny—your daughter—but is not Fanny the little shy one that goes into a corner when you have company?” she asked, in a tone that suggested that she had heard something too ridiculous to be believed.
“She is that one, madam,” he replied. “It would seem as if the corner of a room has its advantages in enabling one to observe life from a true standpoint. Two eyes looking out from a corner with a brain behind them—there you have the true writer of a novel of life and character. Poor Fanny! How often have not I talked of her as 'poor Fanny'? She had no education except what she contrived to pick up haphazard—a sweet child—a lovable daughter, but the last person in the world to be suspected of such a book as 'Evelina.'”
“You are sure, sir—you have seen—heard—you know?”
“Beyond any doubt. Her sisters were let into the secret, but neither of her parents. I know now why that was—no want of duty—no lack of respect—she began the book for her own amusement, and it grew under her hand; she sent it to a bookseller, more as a jest than in the belief that anything would come of it, and up to the last it was treated by her and her sisters as a schoolroom mystery—a nursery secret—and Mrs. Burney and I were kept out of it solely because we were not of the nursery or the schoolroom. And when it became a serious matter we were excluded because they were afraid to reveal it to us—Fanny herself, dear child!—feared that we would be concerned if it were stillborn. It was only when it was at the point of being published by Mr. Lowndes that she came to me saying that she had been writing something and wanted my leave to send it forth, promising that no name would appear upon the title page. I gave my leave with a smile, and when I had my laugh at the innocence of the girl in fancying that any bookseller would pay for the printing of what she might scribble, I forgot all about the matter. It was only when I sent for the book and read the Ode addressed to myself that I seemed to hear Fanny's voice speaking the words in my ear—I told the others so when they returned from visiting her at Chessington. But meantime Esther had come to me, and she told me all that was known to her about the book and its secret.”
“The most wonderful story ever known—more wonderful than the story of Evelina herself!” cried Mrs. Thrale. “How people—Mrs. Cholmondeley and the rest—will lift up their hands! Who among them will believe it all possible? List, my dear doctor, you must bring her to me in the first instance—all the others will be clamouring for her to visit them—I know them! You must bring her to me without delay—why not to-day? I can easily send a chaise for her—a coach if necessary. Well, if not to-day, to-morrow. I must have her here. We will understand each other—she and I; and Dr. Johnson will be with us—quite a little company—for dinner. You will promise me?”
“Be assured, dear madam, that there is no house apart from her home where I feel she would be happier than in this,” said Dr. Burney. “She has often expressed the warmest admiration for you, and I know that her dearest wish is to be on terms of intimacy with you.”
“The sweet girl! she shall have her dearest wish gratified to the fullest extent, sir. You will bring her as early to-morrow as it suits you. Good heavens! to think of that dear retiring child taking the town by storm! Dr. Johnson wrote to me no later than last evening, expressing once more his delight in reading the book, and Mr. Burke, too—but you heard about Mr. Burke. I will never forget your courtesy in telling me first of all your friends that she was the author, dear doctor.”
“If not you, madam, whom would I have told?”
“I shall be ever grateful. You will give me leave to make the revelation to my friends who will be here to-day?”
“It is open for you to tell them all that I have told you, my dear madam; and you may truthfully add that if the writing of the book will bring her into closer intimacy with Mrs. Thrale, the author will feel that it has not been written in vain.”
He made his lowest bow on rising from the table to receive his pupil, who entered the room at that moment.
He had confidence that he was right in his intuition that his patroness would act with good effect the rôle which he had relinquished in her favour, when her friends would arrive in another hour for their “collation;” and he was ready to allow that none could have played the part more neatly than she did when the time came to prove how much better-informed she was than the rest of the world. She might have been possessed of the knowledge that Miss Burney was the writer of “Evelina” from the first, from the easy and natural way in which she said:
“Pray do not trouble yourselves telling me what Mrs. Cholmondeley said to Mr. Lowndes, or what Mr. Lowndes said to someone else about the writer of the novel; for it happens that I know, and have known for—for some time the name of the author.”
There were a few little exclamations of surprise, and a very pretty uplifting of several pairs of jewelled hands at this calm announcement.
“Oh, yes,” she continued, “the writer is a friend of my own, and the daughter of one of my most valued friends, and if any people talk to you in future of 'Evelina' being the work of Mr. Walpole or Mr. Anstey or any man of letters, pay no attention to these astute investigators, but tell them that I said the book is the work of Miss Fanny Burney, one of the daughters of the celebrated Dr. Charles Burney, himself the author of a 'History of Music' that will live so long as the English language has a literature of its own.”
Mrs. Thrale did it all with amazing neatness, Dr. Burney thought; and the attempt that she made to conceal the expression of triumph in the glance that she gave to her guests let him know that his tact had been exercised in the right direction. Mrs. Thrale was not the woman to forget that he had given her such a chance of proving to her friends how intimate was her association with the literary history of the day. She had been for several years the patroness of Dr. Johnson, who had written the best dictionary, and now she was about to take under her protection Miss Burney, who had written the best novel. He knew that Mrs. Thrale was almost as glad to be able to reveal the secret of “Evelina” as if she had written the book herself.
And everyone else at the table felt that Mrs. Thrale was indeed an amazingly clever woman; and wondered how Mrs. Cholmondeley would feel when she had learned that she had been forestalled in her quest after the information on which she had placed a value of twenty guineas.
IT had all come to her now. She had had her dreams from time to time when working at her novel—dreams of recognition—of being received on terms of equality by some of the lesser literary people who had visited the house in St. Martin's Street, and had gone away praising the musical talents of her sisters, but leaving her unnoticed. Her aspirations had been humble, but it seemed to her so stupid to be stupid in the midst of a brilliant household, that she longed to be able to do something that would, at least, cause their visitors of distinction to glance into her corner and recognize her name when it was spoken in their hearing. That was all she longed for at first—to be recognized as “the one who writes,” as people recognized “the one who plays.” But since Signor Rauzzini had come upon the scene her ambitions had widened. She dreamt not merely of recognition, but of distinction, so that he might be proud of her, and that she might not merely be spoken of as the wife of the Roman singer. That dream of hers had invariably been followed by a feeling of depression as she reflected upon the improbability of its ever being realized, and if it should not be realized, all hope of happiness would pass from her life. Thus it was that for some months she had lived with the cold finger of despair constantly pressing upon her heart. She was so practical—so reasonable—that she could never yield herself up to the fascination of the Fool's Paradise of dreams; she was ready to estimate her chances of literary success, and the result of the operation was depressing. How could any young woman who had seen so little of life, and who had been so imperfectly educated, have any hope to be received as a writer of distinction? What claim to distinction could such a girl as she advance in the face of the competition that was going on around her in every branch of distinctive work?
For some months her good sense and her clear head were her greatest enemies; evermore bringing her back to the logic of a life in which everything is represented by figures, from a great artistic success to a butcher's bill—a life in which dreams play a part of no greater significance than the splendid colours clinging about the West in the unalterable routine of the setting sun.
Many times she had awakened in the night to weep as she felt the bitterness of defeat; for her book had been given to the world and the world had received it as the sea receives a stone that is flung upon its surface. That simile of the stone and the sea was constantly recurring to her, and every time she saw that it was weak—that it fell short of meeting her case, for her book had made no stir whatsoever in the world, whereas a stone, however small it might be, could not be given to the sea without creating some stir on the surface of the waters.
And then, quite unexpectedly, had come a whisper from the world to tell her that her book had not been submerged: the whisper had increased in volume until it had sounded in her ears like a shout of acclamation, telling her that the reality had far surpassed her most sanguine dreams, and that common-sense reasoning is sometimes farther astray in its operation than are the promptings of the most unreasonable ambition.
These were her rose-tinted reflections while driving with her father from Chessington to Streatham, a journey which represented to her the passing from obscurity to distinction, the crossing of the Jordan and the entering into the Land of Promise.
Fanny Burney has herself told the story of her father's coming to her at Chessington, and of her dear old friend's reception of the marvellous news that Dr. Burney brought to him—of the phrases which she overheard while the two men were in a room together—the incredulous exclamations—“Wonderful—it's wonderful!”—“Why, she has had very little education but what she has given herself—less than any of the others”—“The variety of characters—the variety of scenes, and the language”—“Wonderful!” And then Mr. Crisp's meeting her, catching her by the hands as she was going in to supper, and crying, “Why, you little hussy, ain't you ashamed to look me in the face you—you 'Evelina,' you! Why, what a dance you have led me about it!” Miss Burney has brought the scene vividly before our eyes in her Diary.
It was one of the happiest days of her life; she saw the pride with which her father regarded her, for Dr. Burney was a practical man who valued achievement as it deserved, and was, besides, the best of fathers, and the most anxious to advance the interests of his children. He looked with pride upon his daughter, and talked of her having made Mr. Lowndes a wealthy man. His estimate of her earning powers had increased: he now declared that even if Lowndes had paid a thousand pounds for the book, his profits off it would enable him to buy an estate!
It was the happiest evening of her life; and now she was in the chaise with her beloved father, driving to Streatham, where they were to dine, and Dr. Johnson was to be of the party. This meant more than recognition, it meant the Land of Promise of her ambitious dreams.
She had many matters to reflect upon at this time, but all her reflections led to the one point—her next meeting with Rauzzini. The truth that had been revealed to her among Sir Joshua Reynolds' superb canvases, that love was more than all else that the world could give her, remained before her, as a luminous fixed star, to be a guide to her life; and the happiness that she now felt was due to the thought that she could go to the man whom she loved, without a misgiving, without fearing that he would hear those dreaded voices of the world saying that he had been a fool to ally himself with a nonentity, or that she would hear the whispers of those who might suggest that she had done very well for herself. She had long before made her resolution only to go to him when she could do so on terms of equality. At that time her resolution seemed to shut her out from all chances of happiness; she knew this, but at the same time she believed that it would shut both of them out from every chance of unhappiness; and so she had allowed it to dominate her life.
That was where her common-sense and her reasonableness had their way, prevailing over that blind impulse which she now and again had, to trust to chance—and love—to overcome every other consideration, and to give her lover and herself happiness solely by being together. It was such impulses as this that caused love to be referred to as blind. But she was now ready to thank heaven for having given her strength to overcome it and so to give the victory to reason and good sense.
She made up her mind to write to him before she slept that very night, telling him what her resolution had been—he had called it a mystery, not knowing anything about it—and asking him to rejoice with her that she had been able to maintain it, so that the barrier which she had seen between them was now swept away.
“Come to me—come to me”—that would be the burden of her letter to him; she would send it to him and he would come.
The thought made her lean back among the cushions of the chaise and shut her eyes, the better to enclose the vision of happiness that came from her heart. He would come to her and her happiness would be complete.
So she arrived with her father at Thrale Hall and was welcomed by Mrs. Thrale in the porch. When she had made her toilet for dinner she was shown into the drawing-room. As she entered, she was conscious of the presence of several men, and the one nearest to her was, she saw, Signor Rauzzini.
All the men in the room were looking toward her except Rauzzini. He was standing by the side of a small table, presenting his profile to her, and his eyes were gazing across the room at a picture that hung between the windows, a frown on his face.
She was startled, and the blood rushed to her cheeks. It would have done so on her entering the room, even if she had not been surprised to see her lover there when she believed him to be still in France.
She had stopped before reaching the middle of the room, and then she was hidden from the view of everybody by a huge mass of manhood in the person of Dr. Johnson. He seemed inclined to embrace her; and as he swung himself close to her, there was no one in the room that had not a moment of trepidation lest he should fall over her and crush her flat.
Mrs. Thrale tripped alongside Fanny, as if ready to die with her.
“Oh, come, Dr. Johnson,” she cried. “I have no intention of allowing you to monopolize Miss Burney, for that I perceive is your desire. The gentlemen must be presented to her in proper form.”
“Madam,” said he, “I understood clearly that Miss Burney was coming hither for myself alone, and I have no mind to share so precious a morsel with others. Miss Burney and I are old friends, give me leave to say; I have more than once been interested in a book in the room where she was sitting in her father's house. Come to my arms, Miss Burney, and we shall laugh together at the jealous glances the others cast at me.”
“Miss Burney will sit beside you at dinner, sir, and that must suffice you for the present,” said Mrs. Thrale, taking Fanny by the hand.
But Johnson had succeeded, after more than one ineffectual attempt, in grasping Miss Burney's left hand, and in his ponderous playfulness, he refused to relinquish it, so that she had to make her curtsies to the gentlemen with Mrs. Thrale on one side of her and Johnson on the other. There was Mr. Seward and Sir Joshua Reynolds, and two others besides Signor Rauzzini. Each of them had a compliment to offer her, and did so very pleasantly and with great tact.
“Now that is done, Miss Burney and I can sit together on the sofa, and she will tell me why she loves the Scotch and I will scold her for it,” said Johnson complacently.
“Nay, sir, Miss Burney has not yet greeted Signor Rauzzini,” said Mrs. Thrale. “You and Miss Burney are already acquainted, I know, Signor Rauzzini, though you did fancy that she was one of the musical girls of St. Martin's Street.”
Rauzzini took a single step away from the table at which he had remained immovable, and bowed low, without speaking a word.
Fanny responded. They were separated by at least three yards.
“Dinner is on the table, sir,” announced a servant from the door.
“I am not sorry,” said Johnson. “Mrs. Thrale gave me a solemn promise that Miss Burney should sit next to me. That was why I kept my eye on Miss Burney.”
“And hand too, sir,” remarked Mr. Seward.
“Why, yes, sir, and hand too, if you insist,” said Johnson. “And let me tell you, sir, that a Lichfield man will keep his hand on anything he wishes to retain when another Lichfield man is in the same room.”
His laughter set the ornaments on the mantelpiece a-jingling.
And they went in to dinner before the echoes had died away.
Mrs. Thrale kept her promise, and Fanny was placed next to Johnson. But even then he did not let go her hand. He held it in one of his own and patted it gently with the other. Fanny glanced down the table and saw that the eyes of the young Roman were looking in her direction, and that they were flaming. What could he mean, she wondered. She had been at first amazed at his bearing toward her in the drawing-room; but after a moment's thought, she had supposed that he had assumed that distant manner to prevent anyone from suspecting the intimacy there was between them. But what could that angry look in his eyes portend? Was it possible that he could be jealous of Dr. Johnson's awkward attention to her?
She was greatly troubled.
But if he had, indeed, resented Johnson's attention to her, such a plea was no longer valid after the first dish had been served, for in an instant Johnson's attention was transferred, with increased force, to the plate before him, and during the solid part of the meal, at least, it was never turned in any other direction. Poor Fanny had never seen him eat, nor had she the same privilege in respect of Mr. Thrale. But she needed all the encouragement that her hostess could afford her to enable her to make even the most moderate meal while such distractions were in her immediate neighbourhood; and she came to the conclusion that she had been ridiculously fastidious over the prodigious tea and its service at Mr. Barlowe's in the Poultry.
But Mrs. Thrale was as tactful and as chatty as ever, and Mr. Seward made pleasant conversation for her, sitting, as he did, on the other side from Johnson. When Johnson was eating, his fellow guests understood that their chance was come to express their views without a dread of being contradicted by him.
But from the feebleness of her contribution to the chat of the table, Mrs. Thrale as well as Mr. Seward perceived that all they had been told about the timidity of little Miss Burney was even less than the truth.
But for that matter, Signor Rauzzini, who had been placed between Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Burney, was found by both of them to be also singularly averse from joining in the conversation, whether in reply to Burney, who addressed him in Italian, or to his hostess, who spoke French to him.
As Mrs. Thrale talked a good deal herself, however, she rose with an impression that there had been no especial lack of brilliancy at the table.
She took Fanny away with her, her determination being that if she should fail to draw this shy young creature out of her shell, she would at any rate convince her that her hostess was deserving of the reputation which she enjoyed for learning, combined with vivacity, so that their companionship could not be otherwise than profitable after all.
IT was not yet six o'clock and the sun was not due to set for more than another hour. The evening was a lovely one. From the shrubberies around the house came the liquid notes of countless blackbirds and thrushes, and above the trees of the park the cawing of the rooks as they wheeled above their nests and settled upon the branches.
“We shall sit on the terrace for half an hour, if you have a mind to,” said Mrs. Thrale, taking Fanny through the drawing-room into a smaller room that opened upon a long terrace above the beds of the flower-garden. Here were several seats and a small table bearing writing materials.
“Here I do most of my correspondence in the summer,” said Mrs. Thrale. “Sitting at that table in the open air, I have few distractions, unless I choose to accept the birds as such; and here I hope you will begin a new novel, or better still, a comedy that Mr. Sheridan will produce, with Mrs. Abington in her most charming gowns—you must give your namesake a chance of wearing a whole trunkful of gowns.” They seated themselves, and Mrs. Thrale continued:
“Now I have confided in you how I do my simple work, and I wish to hear from you by what means you found time to write your novel. That is the greatest secret of all associated with 'Evelina'—so your father thinks. Mrs. Burney I always knew as a model housekeeper—a model manager of a family, and how you could contrive to write a single page without her knowledge is what baffles me as well as your father.”
“To tell you all would, I fear, be to confess to a lifetime of duplicity,” said Fanny. “I am sometimes shocked now when I reflect upon my double-dealing.”
“Tell me how you first came to stray from the paths of virtue—such a story is invariably interesting,” said Mrs. Thrale.
“My story is like all the others,” replied Fanny. “I only meant to turn aside a little way, but soon I lost myself and I knew that there was no retracing my steps.”
“Alas, alas, the old story!” said Mrs. Thrale, with a long-drawn sigh. “Well, happily, you were not able to retrace your steps.”
“I had no idea that the story would grow upon me as it did,” said Fanny. “I really only meant it to be a diversion for our dear friend, Mr. Crisp, and an exercise for myself. I wrote a scrap now and again at odd moments—when I was supposed to be writing to Mr. Crisp, or copying out my father's notes for his History, at home as well as at Ches-sington, and when I was staying at Lynn; and so the thing grew and grew until I was afraid to look at what I had perpetrated.”
“You are paraphrasingMacbeth, my dear: 'I am afeared to think what I have done: Look on't again I dare not,'” said the elder lady. “But with all you were able to prepare your father's great work for the press—he told me as much; so that what your double-dealing comes to is that you did his writing as well as your own, and at the same time neglected none of your ordinary household duties—if you had done so Mrs. Burney would have informed you of it, I have no doubt. An excellent housewife, Mrs. Burney! And now you shall tell me how you contrived to bring together so marvellous a group of characters—you who have lived so short a time in the world, and had so small an amount of experience.”
“I should like someone to answer that question for me,” said Fanny. “It was not until I read the book in print that I began to be surprised at it, and to wonder how it came to be written and how those characters had found their way into it.”
But this question was too interesting a one not to be pursued by Mrs. Thrale; and for half an hour she put inquiry after inquiry to Fanny respecting the characters, the incidents and the language of “Evelina.” Mrs. Thrale was certainly determined to place herself in a position to prove to her friends that Miss Burney had made aconfidanteof her in all matters, down to the smallest detail of the book.
In ordinary circumstances Fanny would have been delighted to give her her confidence in regard to these particulars—she had always a childlike pleasure in talking about her books—but at this time she only did so with a great effort. For while Mrs. Thrale was plying her with questions about “Evelina,” there was ever before Fanny the unanswered question as to what Rauzzini meant by his coldness and formality both before dinner and during that meal. What did he mean by looking at her with that reproachful frown upon his face? What did he mean by averting his eyes from her when he had a chance of exchanging confidences with her, as he had often done before? What did he mean by sitting at the table without addressing a single word to her?
These were the questions which she was struggling in vain to answer to her own satisfaction all the time that Mrs. Thrale was putting inquiry after inquiry to her upon a matter that Fanny now regarded as insignificant compared with the one that she was trying to answer for herself.
Mrs. Thrale was just beginning a series of questions on the subject of the comedy which she meant Miss Burney to write, when a servant appeared with a message for the former.
“Tiresome!” exclaimed Fanny's hostess, rising. “Here is some insignificant household matter that can only be dealt with by the mistress—summer frocks for two girls: the carrier has brought some boxes—the summer has come upon us before spring has prepared us for its arrival, and there has been a despairing cry heard in the nursery. I need not excuse myself to you, Miss Burney. You will spare me for ten minutes.”
Miss Burney hoped that the feeling of relief of which she was conscious did not show itself on her face, when she expressed the hope that Mrs. Thrale would not think of her; she would be quite happy with the birds.
“And the comedy—do not forget the comedy.”
Miss Burney laughed, but before her hostess had reached the door leading off the terrace, she was once more immersed in that question:
“What does he mean by his change of attitude in regard to me?”
It was serious—so much she knew. He had heard something that had caused him to change. But what could he have heard? What manner of man was he that would allow himself to be so influenced by anything that he might hear against her, without first coming to her for an explanation?
Her mind went back to the evening when they had first met. It was in St. Martin's Street. He was there on the invitation of Dr. Burney: but it seemed that he had become conscious of a sympathy existing between her and himself, for he had remained by her side for a full hour while the others in the room were singing and playing on the piano, and he had held her hand at parting, expressing the hope, which his eyes confirmed, that they would soon meet again.
And they had met again and again until one evening they found themselves alone in an anteroom to the apartment where a musical programme was being performed at a great house. Then he had told her that his happiness depended on her returning the love which he bore her; and startled though she had been, yet when he took her hand all her shyness seemed to vanish and she confessed....
A sound behind her only served to make her memory seem more vivid, for it was his voice that reached her ear and it was singing the same aria that he had come from singing on that evening—the passionate “Lascia ch'io pianga” of Handel. Once more she was listening to the strains—they came from one of the rooms that opened upon the terrace—and now the chords of the accompaniment were struck with a vehemence that had been absent from her father's playing to Rauzzini's singing upon that occasion.
She listened as if in a dream while the noble, despairing strain went on to its close, and the melody sobbed itself into silence—a silence that the birds among the roses seemed unwilling to break, for only an occasional note of a thrush was in the air....
She heard the sound of the door opening a little way down the terrace—of a foot upon the flagged path. She did not raise her head, but she knew that he was there—only a few yards away from her.
Through the silence there came the cawing of rooks far away among the trees of the park.
Then all at once she heard his sudden exclamation of surprise. He had not seen her at first; he saw her now.
“Dio mio! ella è qui!”
Still she did not turn her head toward him. More than a minute had passed before she heard his slow steps as he approached her. He was beside her for quite as long before he spoke.
“I did not know that you were here,” he said in a low voice. “But I am glad. It is but right that I should say good-bye to you alone.”
Then she looked up.
“Why—why—why?” she cried almost piteously. “Why should you say good-bye? What has made the change in you?”
“It is not I who have changed: it is you,” said he. “I loved the sweet, modest, untarnished jewel of a girl—a pearl hidden away from the sight of men in a dim sea-cave—a violet—ah, I told you how I loved the violet that hides itself from every eye—that was what you were when I loved you, and I hoped to return to your side and find you the same. Well, I return and—ah, where is the exquisite shrinking one that I looked for? Gone—gone—gone for ever, and in her place I find one whose name is in every mouth—not a soft, gentle girl, but a woman who has put her heart into a book—Dio mio!A woman who puts her heart into a book is like a woman who disrobes in a public place—worse—worse—she exposes a heart that should be sacred—feelings that it would be a gross indelicacy to exhibit to the eyes of man!”
“And that is how you think of me on account of what I have done?” said she.
“How can I think anything else?” he cried. “I told you that I loved you because you were so unlike others—because you were like a child for timidity and innocence of the world. I told you on that last evening we were together how greatly I admired the act of Miss Linley in turning her back upon the platform where she had sung and vowing never to return to it—that was what I told you I loved—I who have seen how the nature—the womanly charm of every woman suffers by reason of her appealing to the public for money—for applause. That beautiful creature forsook the platform before it was too late—before the evil influence could work her ruin. But you—what do I hear the day I return to England?—you have put your heart—your soul, into a book that causes your name to be tossed about from mouth to mouth—Fanny Burney—Fanny Burney—Fanny Burney—I hear that name, which I regarded as sacred, spoken as freely as men speak the name of their Kitty Fisher—their Polly Kennedy—their Fanny Abington! These are public characters—so are you—oh, my God! so are you. You should have heard how you were discussed in that room behind us before you arrived to-day—that gross man Johnson—he called you by a dozen pet names as if he had a right—'Fan'—'Fannikin'—I know not what—' a shy rogue '—that was another! They laughed! They did not see the degradation of it. You were a toy of the public—the vulgar crowd! Ah, you saw how that gross man, who fed himself as a wolf, tucked you under his arm and the others only smiled! Oh, I was shocked—shocked!”
“And I felt proud—prouder than I have felt in my life,” said she. “But now I see what I have lost—forfeited. Listen to me and I will tell you what my dream was. I had written that book, but I had no hope of printing it until I met you and heard from your lips—all that I heard.”
“It was the truth—then: I loved you—then.”
“I knew that it was the truth. But who was I that I should be beloved by you? I felt that it would be unendurable to me to hear people refer to us—as I knew they would—the great singer who had stooped to a nonentity.”
“Ah! that was the charm!”
“Who except you would have said so? I knew what they would say, and I made up my mind that I would not go to you except as an equal. I wanted you to marry someone of whom you would feel proud, and I thought that I had a little gift which I would lay at your feet. I did my best to perfect it for your sake; but even when the book was printed I would not give you my promise until I had assured myself that the gift would be pronounced worthy of your acceptance. That was why I put you off for so many months.”
“Ah, that was your mystery—you called it a mystery.”
“That was my secret—my mystery. Never mind; I thought that my hope was realized when everyone about me was talking of the book and when people whose opinion was valuable had said it was good—my one thought, God knows, was that I could go to you—that I could make you happy, since I should be thought by the world to be in some measure at least, worthy of you.”
“My poor child! you have not made me happy, but miserable. No one can make me happy now. I do not love you now—you are a different person now, and you can never return to be what you were. That is the worst of all: you can never return to your former innocence.”
“I can bear to hear you say even that; for now I perceive the mistake I made. I should not have thought of the difference between us: I should only have had one thought—that you had offered me your love and that I was ready to offer you my love. That should have been enough for me. You were right, I was wrong. Good-bye.”
He looked at her for a few moments—tears were in his eyes and on his cheeks—then he turned away with a passionate gesture, crying in his native tongue:
“Mother—mother in heaven! I loved her because she was of a nature the same as yours—saint-like as a lily—shrinking from the world—in the world but having nothing in common with the world. I loved her because I thought that she was as you were. I will not be a traitor to your ideal—to your memory.”
He returned to her.
“I am alone in the world; but I know that the spirit of that saint, my mother, looks down upon me from her heaven, and will comfort me. My heart is broken.Addio! Addio!I do not mean to be cruel—tell me that you do not accuse me of being cruel!”
“I do not accuse you. I think I understand you—that is all.”
“Addio—addio—addio!”
The sound of his voice grew less with every word.
She was alone in the silence of the twilight.
Not for long, however. She heard the voice of Mrs. Thrale in the room behind her, followed by the protests of Dr. Johnson.
“Miss Burney and I want to have an undisturbed talk together about writing books,” Mrs. Thrale was saying as she came out upon the terrace.
“Books, madam; any fool can talk of books, and a good many fools avail themselves of the licence,” cried Johnson. “Miss Burney and I are going to talk about life. Books are not life, Miss Burney.”
“No, sir,” said Miss Burney slowly; “books are not life—books are not life.”