“These foreigners!” exclaimed young Edward Burney when Rauzzini had left
them, and Fanny was asking her cousin if her father was not looking for
her. “These foreigners! Your father is talking with another of them—an
Italian too, as I live—I have seen him in St. Martin’s Street—Signor
Piozzi. But I suppose Uncle Burney likes to keep in touch with them. The
town is swarming with them: they are even to be found about Leicester
Fields. Why do some people fancy that we must have Italians to sing
for us? There are plenty of good singers in England, without a drop of
foreign blood in their veins. A good sea song with a chorus that is easy
to get into the swing of—that’s English and honest.”
“Honest down to the hoarsest note,” said Fanny. “You and James are at one
in the matter of songs.”
“Cousin Jim hates foreigners, as is quite proper that an officer in a
King’s ship should,” said Edward stoutly.
“Not all foreigners,” said Fanny smiling. “You forget how kindly he took
to Prince Omai.”
“Oh, a South Sea Islander is different,” cried her cousin. “I expect that
the South Seas will soon become as English as ourselves if Captain Cook
goes on discovering islands.”
“Edward,” said Fanny, after a pause sufficient to allow of the
introduction of a new topic; “Edward, could you make it convenient to
call at the Orange Coffee House some day soon to inquire if there is
another letter for Mr. Grafton?”
“I’ll not omit it on any account,” he replied. “Oh, yes, Mr. Grafton,
I’ll collect your correspondence for you, never fear. You have not let
anyone else into the secret, I hope?”
“No one knows it except Susy and Lottie and Charles and Hetty; but Hetty
only knows that I wrote the book, not that it is to be printed—Charles is
still away from us, or I would not trouble you, Edward.”
“Poor Charlie grew tired of the Orange Coffee House, did he not? He told
me how you made him your messenger at first, disguising him in a cloak
and a gentleman’s hat, so that he might not seem quite the boy that he
was. But how the secret has been kept so well is a wonder to me—kept from
the powers that be, I mean—uncle and aunt. I wonder if your mother never
had a suspicion of what was going on, especially as she knew all about
your writing long ago.”
“I think that it was the copying out of the padre’s History that saved
me,” said Fanny. “Many a page of my novel I wrote when she believed that
I was copying the notes for the History—yes, that, and the letters which
Mr. Crisp insists on my sending him every week. But even with these
excuses I could sometimes not get through more than three or four pages
of my own book during a whole week.”
“How will you look when the secret is let out—it must be let out some
day, you know? If the writing a novel is thought shocking, how will Uncle
Burney receive the news, think you? He has not yet given you leave to
publish it.”
There was a troubled look on poor Fanny’s face as she replied, after a
pause:
“I have often meant to ask father’s permission, but I was not able to
summon up courage enough to face him with the whole truth. But it cannot
be delayed much longer. Perhaps I might write him a letter about it some
time when I am at Chessington.”
“I don’t envy you the duty, my dear Fanny,” said he. “But I think that
the sooner you get it over the easier you will feel. I suppose that
writing a novel is worse than writing a ‘History of Music.’ I wonder why
you took so much trouble over the business.”
“I could not help it,” she cried. “I have often wondered myself why I was
sitting up in that cold room at the top of the house, writing until my
fingers were benumbed, when I might have been at my comfortable sewing
in front of a fire downstairs; but I could not help it—I could not help
doing it, Eddy.”
Eddy never reached that point in his career as a painter when he found
the artist’s impulse to create too great to be resisted. He could not
appreciate her explanation.
“‘I couldn’t help it,’ that’s what we were used to say long ago, when we
got into mischief; I hope that Uncle Burney and Aunt Burney—don’t forget
her in this matter—I hope that they will accept your excuse. Anyhow, you
may trust me to act as your ‘Mr. Grafton’ at the Orange Coffee House some
day this week.”
He caught a glimpse of his uncle, Dr. Burney, sitting with Mr. Greville,
so that he had no trouble in placing Fanny once more in charge of her
father. He could see that the girl was a little downcast, and tried to
cheer her up a bit by whispering in a sly way into her ear:
“Good-night, Mr. Grafton; my best respects to Mrs. Grafton and the
children—especially Evelina.”
The smile that Fanny gave in acknowledgment of his pleasantry did not
quite carry conviction that his well-meant effort had been successful.
He went away feeling as much sympathy for her as was possible for him
to have in common with the reflection that if she was in a difficult
position, it was wholly one of her own seeking. What could have induced
a girl who had been carefully brought up, and provided with an excellent
stepmother, to write a novel, placing herself thereby on a level with
those dreadful ladies whose productions were prohibited in every
self-respecting household and only read by stealth when obtained at a
cost of twopence—more than the best of them were worth—at the circulating
library?
Yes, poor Fanny was undoubtedly to be pitied; but she had really only
herself to blame for the trouble that was looming in front of her when
the secret of her authorship should be revealed to her father and her
excellent stepmother—one of the best judges to be found anywhere of all
sorts of needlework—not merely plain sewing and button-holing, but satin
stitch, herring-boning and running and felling.
The very next day Cousin Edward called at St. Martin’s Street, carrying
with him a small parcel neatly done up in white paper. He was lucky
enough to find Fanny and Susan alone in the work-room; and after asking
mysteriously if there was any chance of his uncle or aunt coming upon
them, and being assured that they were both away for the day, he
carefully locked the door of the room, saying in the whisper of a man of
plots and mysteries:
“’Tis better to be sure than sorry. In matters of this nature ’tis
impossible to be too cautious.”
He then handed the parcel to Fanny, who gave an exclamation when she saw
that it was addressed:
“_To Mr. Grafton, at the Orange Coffee House, Orange Street._”
She opened the parcel, and found it to contain a printer’s unbound copy
of a book, the title page of which stared up at her: “_Evelina; or, A
Young Lady’s Entrance into the World_,” and with it was a letter from Mr.
Lowndes, the bookseller, presenting his compliments to Mr. Grafton, with
the request that Mr. Grafton would read the book and prove it as soon
as possible, returning the list of errata to Mr. Lowndes, so that the
edition might go to press for early publication.
There it lay on the table in front of her. She read the letter standing,
and remained on her feet, looking down at the unbound book. It had a
queer, half-dressed appearance, lacking covers; and when, after some
minutes of silence, Susy took a step or two closer to it, and, with her
hand on Fanny’s arm, looked down on it also, the picture that they made
suggested two sisters looking into the cradle where the first baby of
one of them lay. The expression on Susy’s face—a mingling of wonder and
curiosity, with delight not far off—was exactly that which the younger
sister of the picture might be expected to wear, catching a glimpse of
the undressed morsel of humanity in its first cot.
Susy put her hand down to it, and moved the printed sheets about. She
read the title page down to the last name on the imprint, and then she
flung up her hands, crying:
“How lovely! how lovely! But it seems wonderful! How did it come into
being? It looks like a real thing now that we see it printed. The copy
that you wrote out in that disguised hand seemed somehow quite different
from this. There is life in this. It feels warm, actually warm, Fanny.
Oh, don’t you love it, dear?”
Fanny, the young mother, shook her head, but with no significance, so far
as Susy could see.
“’Tis too late now,” said Edward gloomily, taking on himself the burden
of interpreting that head-shake. “You are bound down to go on with it
now. You should have thought of all this before.”
“What nonsense is this you are talking?” cried Susy, turning upon
him almost indignantly; for his tone suggested an aspersion upon the
offspring. “What do you say is too late now? Do you mean to say that
there’s anything to be ashamed of in this? Cannot you see that she did
not put her name to it? Who is there to know that it came from this
house? The name of Burney nowhere appears on it.”
“That’s so much, at any rate,” said he.
“Do you mean to say that you don’t think it quite wonderful, Eddy?”
cried Susy. “And getting twenty pounds for it—twenty pounds! And you say
something about it being too late!”
“I only judged from the way Fanny shook her head,” said he.
“Oh, that was not what Fanny was thinking at all—now was it, Fanny?” said
Susy encouragingly to her sister.
“I don’t know quite what I meant or what I mean even now,” replied Fanny.
“It made me feel for the moment somehow as if I had appeared in a street
full of people before I had quite finished dressing!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Edward.
“But that is nonsense, dear,” said Susy, still consolatory. “The book is
not yourself.”
“Not all myself, but part of myself—that is what I feel,” said Fanny.
“I cannot see that that is so. You are you—you yourself quite apart from
the book. Whatever the book may be, you will still remain Fanny Burney,
the best daughter and the best sister in the world. What does it matter
if people—foolish people who know nothing about it—laugh at it or say
nasty things about it? Do you think that that will make any of us like
you the less?”
She put her arm about Fanny and kissed her on the cheek, and Fanny’s
tears began to fall. The young man standing by felt more uneasy than he
had ever felt in his life. He crossed the room and looked out of the
window, turning his back upon the scene of the sisters. He did not know
what to say to a girl when once she allowed herself to weep. He wished
with all his heart that he had not been dragged into this business. But
Fanny’s tears convinced him that his first impression of her reception of
her book was the correct one: she was, like other young mothers he had
heard of, bitterly repentant when it was too late.
The next sound of which he became aware was of the crinkling of the
stiff paper of the wrapper. One of the girls was folding up the
parcel. He glanced round and saw that it was Fanny herself who was so
engaged. She had dried her tears; the expression on her face was one of
resignation—one of determination to make the best of a bad matter.
“Ah, that’s better,” said he, going to her and picking up the string from
the floor. “There’s no use crying over spilt milk, is there, Fanny? We
have all kept your secret loyally, and no one need ever know that you
so far forgot yourself. Certainly the revelation will never come from my
lips.”
Fanny burst out laughing.
“Oh, dear Eddy, you are the best cousin that any poor girl could have,”
she said. “Your words have helped me greatly. They have helped to make me
feel what is the aspect of the world in regard to my poor little story.
It has been my constant companion night and day for three years and more.
I worked at it in the cold and I tried how I could improve pages of it,
copying it and recopying it; I practised a duplicity which was foreign
to my nature in writing it—I have deceived my father and my mother about
it—I wasted my eyesight over it—I robbed myself of sleep so that I might
complete it, and when it was completed I lay awake in anxiety lest no
bookseller would look at it, all this trouble I had with it, so that the
world might have of my best, and what is the verdict of the world after
all this? You have pronounced it, dear Eddy—you said thoughtfully and
consolingly—‘There’s no use crying over spilt milk.’ You are quite right.
Not another tear will I shed over this poor little bantling of mine. ‘_A
Young Lady’s Entrance into the World_’? Nay, call it rather a rickety
brat that should never have made its entrance into the world at all.”
“I should be ashamed of myself if I ever spoke of it in such terms,”
cried Susy, looking indignantly at her cousin as though he had abused
it in that phrase. “‘Rickety brat,’ indeed! Oh, I should be ashamed. It
looked so much alive—more alive, I think, than if it was in its covers.
Let us sit down and read it together, Fanny.”
Cousin Edward felt that he was being badly treated between these
sisters. That last remark of Susy was rather more than a suggestion that
he might go as soon as it pleased him. He had not any previous experience
of young women and their offspring. He could not know that their attitude
in such circumstances is one of hostility to the male—that they resent
his appearance as an intrusion.
“I am glad that you are so pleased,” said he, with only a trace of
irritability in his voice. “And I am glad that I have been of any use to
you, Cousin Fanny. After all, the thing is yours, not Susy’s.”
“That is true, indeed,” cried Fanny. “And it is I who offer you my
gratitude for your help. Believe me, Eddy, I am sensible of the
adroitness you have shown in this matter ever since we let you into our
secret; and if any trouble comes from what we have done you may be quite
sure that I will accept the entire responsibility for it.”
“Oh, so far as that goes, I do not shrink from taking my share,” said he
magnanimously. “I do not feel quite without blame—I am a man and I should
have warned you at the outset. But you had nearly finished it before I
heard anything of it—you must not forget that.”
“That is true indeed,” said Fanny. “I was self-willed. I wonder was it
vanity that impelled me. Never mind! It cannot be helped now. It may
never be heard of again.”
“There’s always that to remember,” said he, with the eagerness of a
drowning man grasping at a straw.
“And I believe that the chances are greatly in favour of that hope being
realized. Thank you again for your encouragement, dear Eddy,” said she.
“Oh, that’s nothing—nothing worth talking about,” said he, picking up
his gloves. “You can command me always, Cousin Fanny. And you have seen
that I can keep a secret. Now mind you don’t leave that lying about”—he
pointed to the parcel, the string of which Susy was knotting—“and, be
advised by me, turn the key in the lock when you are working at it.”
“Yes,” said Susy, “we’ll be sure to do our best to prevent anyone from
suspecting that we have a secret, by locking ourselves in.”
“Caution—nothing like caution,” said he in a whisper, unfastening the
door and putting his head out to glance to right and left of the short
corridor. He held up his finger. “All safe so far,” he whispered; “no one
is in sight.”