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 good-bye, 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 wellnigh 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.