|A FEW days later Dr. Burney was at the point of setting out for
Chessington to share Mr. Crisp's hermitage until the end of the week. He
had already said good-bye to the household; but Fanny accompanied him to
the door. It was her last chance, she knew. She had long ago made up her
mind that one of her secrets must be told to him, and she had more than
once, since the printed sheets had been brought to her, tried to
screw up her courage to the point of telling him, but she had not yet
succeeded. And now he was going to Chessington for four days, and in
the meantime the book should be returned to the printer. It was the last
chance she would have of discharging the duty which was incumbent on
her. She had been hovering around him in the hall, shaking out his
gloves for him, polishing the gold knob of his cane, picking a scrap of
dust from the collar of his travelling-cloak. In another minute he would
be gone--her opportunity would be gone.
And then came the relieving thought of further procrastination:
“I shall write to him at Chessington and confess all.”
It seemed as though she had uttered her thought aloud, for he turned to
her with his hand on the latch of the hall door, saying:
“You will write to Chessington to-morrow or the day after, my dear. It
is no trouble to you to write. You enjoy it, do you not?”
“Oh, it is my chief enjoyment. That is why I have been practising it
so much, just as the others have been practising their music. I have no
music in my soul, so I--I have been writing. Of course, it is not to be
expected that I could do more than write some nonsense--my equivalent to
the strumming of the scales.”
“It pleases me greatly to hear that,” said he. “But you do yourself an
injustice; Mr. Crisp never ceases to praise your letters.”
“He is praising his own pupil then,” said she, “for 'twas he who first
taught me how to write, and now I have been putting together some
imaginary letters, and I thought that if he could see them printed in
front of him he would be amused.”
“Imaginary letters? Why not continue your real ones, my dear? It would
cost a great deal to have your imaginary ones printed.”
“My dear father,” she cried, “you surely do not think that I would ask
you for money to pay for my whim? But if I could prevail on someone--a
bookseller--to print what I write, I hope you will consent to my doing
so--not putting my name to the thing, of course?”
“And does my Fanny believe that 'tis all so easy to persuade a
bookseller to pay her printer's bill?” he said, pinching her ear.
“Booksellers are shrewd men of business.”
“But even men of business have their weak moments,” said she. “And
so if--if--you would not think it too bold of me to let James take my
parcel to a bookseller? You would not forbid me to try to realize my
ambition?”
“You may be sure that the one to frustrate your aims will not be your
father,” said he, smiling shrewdly. “I will consent if--ah, there is
the fatal if--if your bookseller consents. Now goodbye, my dear child.
I will take your love to your Daddy Crisp, and tell him to await a real
letter from you--not an imaginary one.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him--but even then he had to stoop before
his lips were on her forehead.
He was gone in another moment. She stood at the inner side of the closed
door and listened to the rattling of the wheels of the chaise over the
cobble-stones.
So the ordeal that she dreaded had been faced, and how simple a thing it
had turned out after all! Her father had treated the idea which she
had submitted to him as if it were nothing beyond the thought of a
simpleton--a foolish, simple girl who knew nothing of the world of
business and booksellers, and who fancied that a bookseller would print
everything that was sent to him.
He had delivered that contingent “if” with the shake of the head and the
shrewd smile of one who is acquainted with the seamy side of
business, in the presence of a child who fancies that printing follows
automatically upon the writing of a book and that there are thousands
of buyers eagerly awaiting the chance of securing everything that passes
through a printing-press. She had perceived just what was in his mind;
and his consent, followed by that contingent “if,” to her publishing
what she had written, was given to her with the same freedom that would
have accompanied his permission to appropriate all the gold used in
paving the streets of the City. She could see from the way he smiled
that he felt that she knew as little about the conditions under which
books are printed as a child does about the paving of the streets of the
City.
She knew that he would never again refer to the subject of those
imaginary letters of hers--he would be too considerate of her feelings
to do so; he would have no desire to humiliate her. He would not even
rally her in a playful way about her literary work, asking her how the
printing was progressing, and if she had made up her mind to start a
coach as grand as that magnificent piece of carved and gilded furniture
which Sir Joshua had just had built for himself--oh, no: her father
had always respected her sensibility. Years ago, when her brothers and
sisters were making their light jests upon her backwardness, he had
stopped them and said that he had no fears for the future of Fanny; and
she was certain that in referring to her, as he so frequently did, as
“poor Fanny,” he meant nothing but kindness to her. To be sure, at
first it grated upon her sensitiveness to be referred to in that kindly
pitying way, but she did not resent it--indeed, she usually thought of
herself as “poor Fanny.” In a household where proficiency in music was
the standard from which every member was judged, it was inevitable that
her incompetence should be impressed upon her; but no one was hard upon
her--the kindly “poor Fanny” of her father represented the attitude
of the household toward her, even when she had confided to some of the
members the fact that she was writing a novel. They had been startled;
but, then, a novel was not a musical composition, and such an
achievement could not be received with the warmth that Esther's playing
received. It was really not until the printed sheets of the book lay
before Susy that she felt that Fanny had, in one leap, brought herself
well-nigh to the level of Esther; and by the time Susy had read the
story to the end she had made up her mind that if it might be possible
to compare the interest of a literary work with that of the playing of
a piece of music, Fanny's work could claim precedence over the best that
Esther had done--she had confessed as much to Fanny in secret, and Fanny
had called her a foolish child.
Fanny had seated herself in the parlour opening off the little hall, on
the departure of her father, and her memory took her back to the days
she had passed in the house at Poland Street, when she had written her
story of Caroline Evelyn, and had been induced by her stepmother to burn
it, with sundry dramas and literary moralizings after the manner of the
_Tatler_--all the work of her early youth. She recalled her resolution
never again to engage in any such unprofitable practices as were
represented by the smoke which was ascending from the funeral pyre of
her “Caroline Evelyn” and the rest.
How long had she kept to her resolution? She could not remember. She
could not recall having any sense of guilt when she had begun her
“Evelina”--it seemed to have sprung from the ashes of “Caroline
Evelyn”--nor could she recollect what had been on her mind when she was
spending those long chilly hours of her restricted leisure toiling over
the book. All that she could remember now was her feeling that it had
to be written--that it seemed as if someone in authority had laid on her
the injunction to write it, and she had no choice but to obey.
Well, she had obeyed--the book had been written and printed and she
meant to send the corrected sheets back to Mr. Lowndes in the course of
the day. Her father's consent to its publication had been obtained and
it would be advertised for sale within some months, and then----
Her imagination was not equal to the pursuit of the question of its
future. Sometimes she felt that she never wished to hear of the book
again. She could almost hope that sending the sheets back to Mr. Lowndes
would be the same as dropping them, with a heavy stone in the parcel,
into the deep sea.
But that was when the trouble of getting her father's permission
to publish it was looming before her. Now that this cloud had been
dispelled she felt less gloomy. She had a roseate dream of hearing
people talk about the book and even wishing to know the name of the
author. She had a dream of Fame herself carrying her away to sublime
heights--to such heights as she had been borne by the singing of “Waft
her, Angels.” Her dream was of sitting on these heights of Fame by the
side of the singer--on the same level--not inferior in the eyes of the
world--not as the beggar maid uplifted in her rags to the side of the
King.
That had been her dream when listening to the singing, and it returned
to her now, as she sat alone in the little parlour, having just taken
the last step that was necessary before giving to the world the book
which was to do so much for her. Her visions of success showed her no
more entrancing a prospect than that of being by his side with her fame
as a dowry worthy of his acceptance at her hands; so that people might
not say that he had chosen unworthily--he, who had all the world to
choose from.
And quite naturally there came to her in due sequence the marvellous
thought that he had already chosen her out of all the world--he
had chosen her, believing her to be the dowerless daughter of a
music-teacher--the one uninteresting member of a popular family!
This was the most delightful thought of the whole train that came
to her. It was worth cherishing above all the rest--close to her
heart--close to her heart. She hugged that thought so close to her that
it became warm with the warmth of her heart. Even though her book should
never be heard of again, even though the world might treat it with
contempt, she would still be consoled by the reflection that he had
chosen her.
*****
“Why on earth should you be sitting here in the cold, Fanny?” came the
voice from the opened door--the voice of firm domestic virtue.
“Cold? cold? Surely 'Tis not cold, mamma,” she said.
“Not so very cold; but when there is a fire in the work-room it should
not be wasted,” said Mrs. Burney. “But to say the truth you do not look
as if you were cold; your face is quite flushed, child. I hope you do
not feel that you are on the brink of a sickness, my dear.”
“Dear mamma, I never felt stronger in my life,” cried Fanny with a
laugh.
“I am glad to hear that. I was saying to Lottie just now that for some
days past you have had alternately a worried look and the look of one
whose brain is over-excited. Is anything the matter, my child?”
“Nothing--nothing--indeed nothing! I never felt more at ease in all my
life.”
“Well, well, a little exercise will do you no harm, I am sure; so put on
your hat and accompany me to the fishmonger's. He has not been treating
us at all fairly of late. It is not that I mind the remark made quite
respectfully by James at dinner yesterday--it would be ridiculous to
expect to find fish as fresh in the centre of London as he and his
shipmates were accustomed to in the middle of the Pacific Ocean; but it
would not be unreasonable for us to look for turbot with less of a taint
than that we had yesterday. You will hear the man excuse himself
by asserting that I chose the fish at his stall; but my answer to
that--well, come with me and you shall hear what is my answer.”
Fanny went with her and heard.