It was an interesting experience for Miss Burney, the writer of novels
and the writer of letters. She had never sat down with such a company.
They all had their table peculiarities. One uncle took ale for his
tea, and drained a tankard before eating anything. The other claimed a
particular cup on account of its capacity, and he held it to his mouth
with one hand, while he passed a second down the table to Miss Burney,
only spilling a spoonful or two in effecting the transit. One of the
aunts refused to eat anything except cake, explaining, in order to
relieve the anxiety of the company, the details of an acute attack of
spleen from which she had recently suffered. The spleen and its humours
formed the subject of a fitful conversation at her end of the table.
But it was plain that everyone understood that the company had not come
to the table for conversation, but for food. They did not converse, but
that was not the same as saying the room was silent. There was a constant
clanging of cups, a constant clatter of platters, a loud and insistent
demand on the part of Thomas, the elder, and Thomas, the younger, for
their guests to say what they would like to eat. This was followed by the
handing of plates up and down the table, the sound of steel knives being
sharpened, and the jingle of spoons in saucers. The Alderman, who was,
of course, an authority on the etiquette of banquets, was formulating an
elaborate explanation of the mistake that had been made in the service
of the cold sirloin in advance of the venison pasty; and all the time
his neighbour was striking the haft of his knife upon the table with a
request for someone to pass him the pickles.
All the ceremonial veneer had plainly left the company the moment they
seated themselves, and they addressed themselves to the business of
feeding. They had healthy appetites—even the lady who had had a recent
attack of the spleen. She would eat nothing but cake, but she did eat
cake with confidence. There was no sort of cake that she did not try,
and her cup was kept in constant circulation from the tea-maker to
herself—four times she had it refilled, Fanny could not help noticing,
and she wondered what effect such a diet would have upon her capricious
spleen. Fanny had an inward hint or two that she had observed quite
enough of the party to serve her purpose, and she began to count the
moments until she might be able to steal away without offending the
susceptibilities of her over-hospitable host and hostess. She hoped that
her stepmother would listen to her plea of weariness and take her back to
St. Martin’s Street—to the music of St. Martin’s Street—to the quiet of
St. Martin’s Street.
The most solid hour of her life had, however, to elapse before her
fellow-guests pushed their plates (empty) away from them, and Mrs.
Barlowe said:
“I am afraid you have made a poor tea, Miss Burney; but if you cannot be
persuaded to have a slice of ham—my son’s ham, I call it, for ’tis he who
picks it out of the curer’s stock whenever we have a party—if you still
refuse it, we might go to the drawing-room.”
Fanny was on her feet in an instant. But not sooner than Alderman Kensit.
That gentleman, rapping with the haft of his knife on the table, stood
with a sheaf of notes in his hand and clearing his throat with great
deliberation, started upon a speech in eulogy of Mr. Barlowe’s merits
as a host and as a merchant, and droned away for a good half-hour in
praise of the virtue of hospitality, his text being on the possibility of
entertaining angels unawares. Of course, it was only natural that, having
got upon this track and with the word “angels” in his mind, he should go
on to say that it was quite possible for a hospitably-inclined person to
entertain an angel and be fully cognizant of the fact, and so forth: in a
speech of well-worn platitudes such a suggestion seemed inevitable; and
all eyes were directed to poor Fanny when it seemed impending. It was a
great disappointment to everybody—except Fanny and her stepmother—when
the orator skipped the expected phrases, and went on to describe a
business visit which he had once made to Spain, apropos of nothing in
particular. His account of this feat was familiar to all his relations,
but they listened to him without a murmur, only wondering when he would
come to the angel and Miss Burney.
He never came to the angel and Miss Burney, for it so happened that he
had turned over two pages of his notes when he should have only turned
over one. The omitted platitude was on the first, and he failed to notice
the absence of a platitudinal sequence in the heads of his discourse
which he had jotted down during the day.
When he had seated himself, Mr. Barlowe, the elder, got upon his feet,
but he had no notes, and not being a member of the Common Council, he
was not a past-master of commonplaces. He was only dull for about five
minutes instead of half an hour. He had risen with a view to repair his
relative’s omission of that obvious point about entertaining an angel by
appointment in the shape of Miss Burney, but he lost himself before he
managed to deliver it; it swam out of his ken with several other points
the moment he got upon his legs.
Fully recognizing how narrow was the escape she had had, Fanny was
resolved not to run any further chances. She was looking imploringly
toward Mrs. Burney, trying to catch that lady’s eye, but without success,
and she was about to walk round the table to her side and to beg her to
come away, when Mrs. Barlowe moved up to her.
“Miss Burney,” she said, “I am afraid you did not get anything you liked
at the table: I saw that you scarce ate more than a morsel of cake.”
“I assure you, madam, I had enough,” said Fanny. “Your cake was so tasty
I had no mind to go away from it in search of other delicacies.”
“I am glad you liked it. I made it with my own hands,” said the hostess.
“That cake was ever a favourite with Mr. Barlowe and my son. It pleases
me to know that you and my son have tastes in common. He is a good son,
is Thomas, though I say it that shouldn’t; and he is making his way to
the front by treading in his father’s footsteps. Mr. Barlowe is not a
Common Councilman, but his father, Thomas’s grandfather, was for a year
Deputy-Master of the Wyre Drawers’ Company—his certificate still hangs on
the wall of the drawing-room. You must see it. Thomas, you will show Miss
Burney your grandfather’s certificate as Deputy-Master.”
“I should like very much to see it,” said Fanny quickly, “but I fear that
mamma will wish me to accompany her home at once. My sisters are alone
to-night and they will feel lonely: we promised to return early.”
“I will get Mrs. Burney’s permission for you—so good an opportunity
should not be thrown away,” said Mrs. Barlowe, giving the latter part of
her sentence an unmistakable inflection as she looked toward her son and
smiled.
She had gone round the table before Fanny could think of another excuse
for evading the visit to the drawing-room in the company of Mr. Barlowe,
the younger.
And Mr. Barlowe, the younger, was still by her side.
“Doesn’t Uncle Kensit make a fine speech?” he inquired. “He is always
ready. I have heard it said that he speaks longer than any Alderman in
the Council.”
“I can quite believe it,” replied Fanny.
“’Tis a wonderful gift,” said he—“to be always ready to say what one is
expected to say. Though I did think that when he referred to the angels
he meant to—to—go farther—I mean nearer—nearer home.”
Thomas might himself have gone farther had his mother not returned at
that moment from her diplomatic errand.
“I have prevailed upon Mrs. Burney to let you stay to see the
certificate,” said she. “Thomas, you will conduct Miss Burney to the
drawing-room.”
“I am sure that mamma would wish to see the certificate also,” said
Fanny. “I will ask her.”
“There is no need, Miss Burney: we shall all join you later,” said Mrs.
Barlowe.
Poor Fanny saw that there was no use trying to evade the attentions of
Thomas, and as she walked toward the folding doors by his side she was
conscious of a silence in the room and of all eyes being turned upon
her—smiles—such knowing smiles—and a smirk from the young lady. Fanny was
aware of all, and what she was too short-sighted to see she was able to
imagine. She was burning at the thought of all those people gazing at her
in silence. It was the most trying moment of her life.
She passed through the door which Thomas opened for her and closed behind
her.
“I am glad to have this opportunity, Miss Burney,” said he, when they
were alone in the big half-lighted room.
“You must hold your grandfather’s certificate in high esteem, sir,” said
she. “I suppose so high a place as he reached is but rarely attained by
mortals. You will have to guide me to the document; I have very poor
eyesight, as you must have noticed.”
“It is a great drawback,” said he. “But we will not talk about
grandfather’s certificate just yet, if you please: I have something to
say to you that will, I hope, interest you even more than that.”
“You surprise me, sir,” said Fanny icily.
“Nay, I hope that you know me well enough not to be surprised by all that
I have to reveal to you now that the opportunity has been given to me.
Have you no inkling of what I am about to say, Miss Burney?”
“Not the least, sir. I expected only to see that relic of your
grandfather’s honourable career.”
“What, after meeting Uncle Kensit and Aunt Jelicoe, you do not feel
interested in their families?” said he, in a tone of genuine surprise.
Fanny looked at him before she spoke, and there certainly was more than a
note of casual interest in her voice as she said:
“Their families? Oh, I should like above all things to hear about their
families.”
“I knew that you would,” said he, apparently much relieved. (She wondered
if the relief that she felt was as apparent as his.) “Yes, I felt
certain that you would welcome this opportunity of learning something
about the Kensits and the Jelicoes. They are remarkable people, as you
cannot have failed to perceive.”
He made a pause—a pause that somehow had an interrogative tendency. She
felt that he meant it to be filled up by her.
“They are remarkable people—very remarkable,” said she.
“We are very fortunate in all our relations, Miss Burney,” said he with
great solemnity. “But, of course, Uncle Kensit stands high above them all
in force of character. A great man indeed is Alderman Kensit—a member of
the Haberdashers’ and Grocers’ Companies as well as the City Council,
and yet quite ready to meet ordinary persons as fellow-men. He had heard
the name of your friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds, though not the name of Dr.
Burney, and he was kind enough to say that he would have no objection in
the world to meet either of these gentlemen. That shows you what sort of
man he is—his fine, simple nature. ‘If Dr. Burney or Sir Joshua Reynolds
were duly presented to me, I should feel it my duty to be civil to
him’—those were his exact words.”
Once more there was an interrogative pause.
“Perhaps they may be fortunate enough to meet him some day,” was all
Fanny could trust herself to say.
“I would not say so much to them—he is very busy just now,” said Thomas
hastily. “It would have to be arranged with care and thought—I would not
like them to be disappointed. But if it would please you, I daresay a
meeting could be brought about; meantime, I would not raise up any false
hopes on the matter, if I were you.”
“You may depend on my preserving the strictest secrecy, Mr. Barlowe,”
said Fanny. “I should think that I might even discipline myself to forget
that such a person as Alderman Kensit existed.”
“That would perhaps be the safest course to pursue,” said he
thoughtfully, and with an air of prudence that made him for the moment
the subject of a description after Fanny’s own heart. She felt that she
could fool this young man as easily as her brother had fooled him. Surely
he was made to be fooled, with his solemn airs and his incapacity to
distinguish what is worthy from what is pompous.
“Yes,” she continued, “Dr. Burney has had it intimated to him since the
publication of his ‘History’ that the King was desirous of talking to
him at Windsor, and I know that Sir Joshua is being visited daily by
the Duchess of Devonshire and the Duchess of Ancaster, and it would be
a great pity if my father were forced to write excusing himself to His
Majesty on account of having to meet Alderman—Alderman—I protest that I
have already forgotten the gentleman’s name—nay, do not tell it to me;
I might be tempted to boast of having met him, and if I did so in Sir
Joshua’s presence, his beautiful Duchesses would be forlorn when they
found that he had hurried away on the chance of meeting the Alderman. And
now, sir, I think that I shall return to Mrs. Burney.”
“But I have not told you half of what I can tell about our family,” he
cried. “I have said nothing about my aunts—I have four aunts and eleven
cousins. You would surely like to hear of my cousins. They do not all
live in London. I have three as far away as Lewes; their name is Johnson.
My mother’s youngest sister married a Johnson, as you may have heard. I
believe that some objection was raised to the match at first, but it
turned out quite satisfactory.”
“It is pleasant to know that; and so, sir, as we have come to this point,
don’t you think that we had better adjourn our conference?” said Fanny.
“It would be doing the Johnson family a grave injustice were you to
attempt to describe their virtues within the time that is left to us, and
that would be the greatest catastrophe of all. Besides, I came hither
all unprepared for these revelations. If you had hinted at what was in
store for me I would, of course, have disciplined myself—forewarned is
forearmed, you know.”
Miss Burney had received many a lesson from Mr. Garrick, from the days
when he had come to entertain her in the nursery, in the art of fooling,
and she was now quite capable of holding her own when she found herself
in the presence of so foolable a person as this egregious young man. But
the game was apt to become wearisome at the close of an evening when she
had suffered much, and when the subject of her raillery had shown himself
to be incapable even of suspecting her of practising on him.
“But there is Aunt Jelicoe; I should like to tell you something of Aunt
Jelicoe,” pleaded Thomas. “Without any of the advantages of her parents,
Aunt Jelicoe—and—oh, I have something more to say to you—not about
them—about ourselves—you and me—I was nearly forgetting—you will stay—”
“One cannot remember everything, Mr. Barlowe,” said Fanny, with her
hand on the knob of the door. “You have done very well, I think, in
remembering so much as you have told me. As for ourselves—you have quite
convinced me of my own insignificance—and yours also, sir. You would be
doing us a grave injustice were you to speak of us so soon after your
estimable relations.”
“Perhaps you are right,” said he, after a few moments of frowning
thought. “Yes. I see now that it might have been wiser if I had begun
with ourselves and then—”
Fanny had turned the handle. She re-entered the dining-room, and the
moment that she appeared silence fell upon the company, and once again
she was conscious of many eyes gazing at her and of horrid smiles and a
smirk. That was another ordeal for the shy little Miss Burney—it was an
evening of ordeals.
She walked straight across the room to her stepmother.
“I am ready to go away now,” she said. “We have never stayed at any house
so long when we only came for tea. I am tired to death.”
She took care, of course, that Mrs. Burney only should hear her; and Mrs.
Burney, being well aware that Fanny was not one to complain unless with
ample cause, charitably interposed between her and Mrs. Barlowe, whom she
saw bearing down upon her from the other side of the room.
“Fanny and I will say our good-night to you now, my dear Martha,” she
said. “You have treated us far too kindly. That must be our excuse for
staying so long. When people drop in to tea they do not, as a rule, stop
longer than an hour, as you know. But you overwhelmed us.”
“I was hoping—” began Mrs. Barlowe, trying to get on to Fanny, but by the
adroitness of Mrs. Burney, not succeeding. “I was hoping—you know what
I was hoping—we were all hoping—expecting—they were in the drawing-room
long enough.”
Mrs. Burney gave her a confidential look, which she seemed to interpret
easily enough. She replied by a confidential nod—the nod of one who
understands a signal.
“Mum it shall be, then,” she whispered. “Not a word will come from me,
simply good-night; but we could all have wished—never mind, Thomas will
tell us all.”
Mrs. Burney allowed her to pass on to Fanny, having obtained her promise
not to bother the girl—that was how Mrs. Burney framed the promise in
her own mind—and Mrs. Barlowe kept faith with her, and even persuaded
Alderman Kensit, who was approaching them slowly with a sheaf of notes in
his hand, to defer their delivery in the form of a speech until the young
woman had gone.
And thus the visitors from St. Martin’s Street were able to escape going
through the formality of taking leave of all the party. They shook hands
only with their host and hostess and their son, curtseying very politely
to the company of relations.
“They are warm-hearted people, but their weakness for ceremony and the
like is foolish enough,” said Mrs. Burney to Fanny, when they were safe
within the hackney carriage.
Fanny laughed.
“Oh, indeed, there is no harm in any of them,” she said. “They may be
a little foolish in thinking that the Poultry is St. James’s Palace or
Buckingham House. The only one among them who is an arrant fool is the
son. You saw how his mother made it up that he should lead me into the
other room?”
“It was maladroitly done indeed. What had he to say to you when he got
you there, I wonder?”
“He had nothing to say to me except that his uncles were second in all
the virtues and all the talents to no man in town, and that his aunts and
cousins—but he did not get so far in his praise of his aunts and cousins;
I fled. Oh, did you see him cut slices off the ham?”
Fanny laughed quite pleasantly, with a consciousness of having at her
command the material on which to found a scene that would set her sisters
shrieking.
“Oh, if Mr. Garrick had but seen him carve that ham!” she cried.
“I wish that Mr. Garrick would give all his attention to his own affairs
and leave us to manage ours in our own way,” said Mrs. Burney.
“What? Why, what had Mr. Garrick to do with our visit to—”
“’Twas Mr. Garrick who continued his fooling of Mr. Kendal, sending him
all over the town trying to make matches. He believes that he is under
a debt of gratitude to Mr. Garrick and your father for the happiness he
enjoys with his bride.”
“And he suggested that a match might be made between someone in St.
Martin’s Street and someone in the Poultry? But how does Mr. Kendal come
to be acquainted with the Barlowes?”
“His wife was a Johnson before she married her first husband, and the
Johnsons are closely connected with the Barlowes.”
“Young Mr. Barlowe was just coming to the family history of the Johnsons
when I interrupted him.”
“Was he coming to any other matter that concerned you more closely, think
you?”
Fanny laughed again, only much longer this time than before. She had to
wipe her eyes before she could answer.
“Dear mamma,” she said, “you would laugh as heartily if you had seen him
when he suddenly recollected that in his eagerness to make me acquainted
with the glories of the Kensits and the abilities of the Johnsons, he had
neglected the object of his excursion to that room with my poor self,
until it was too late.”
“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Burney. “I do not laugh at incidents of that
sort. I lose patience when I hear of a young man neglecting his chances
when they are offered to him. But had he ever a chance with you, Fanny?”
“Not the remotest, dear mamma. If he had remembered to speak in time,
and if he had spoken with all the eloquence of his admirable uncle, the
Alderman, he would not have succeeded. If Thomas Barlowe were the last
man in the world I should e’en die an old maid.”
“That is a foolish thing for you to say. You may die an old maid for
that. But indeed when I saw young Mr. Barlowe in his home, I perceived
that he was not for you. I could not see you a member of that family,
worthy though they may be.”
“I think if a girl loves a young man with all her heart she will agree to
marry him, however worthy may be his family,” said Fanny. “But I am not
that girl, and young Mr. Barlowe is not that man.”
“I daresay that is how you feel,” said the elder lady. “But you must not
forget, Fanny, that you are no longer a girl; it is quite time that you
had a house of your own.”
“That is true, dear mamma, but for the present I am happy in living in
your house, and I ask for nothing better than to be allowed to stay in
your service.”
“That is all very well, but—”
“Ah, do not introduce that ‘but’—life would be thoroughly happy if it
were not for its ‘buts.’ Here we are in Leicester Fields. I feel as if I
should like a roast apple for supper, to put a pleasant taste in my mouth
at the close of the longest day I can remember.”
They entered the parlour on the ground floor, and found Lottie and Susy
roasting apples on the hearth, while Dr. Burney sat in his chair reading.
“I did not expect you back so soon,” said Mrs. Burney to her husband.
“I did not mean to return for another hour,” said he, “but Sir Joshua
left early and brought me with him in his coach. He cut his evening short
in order to get back to a book which he affirms is the best he has read
since Fielding.”
“It would have to be a good book to take the attention of Sir Joshua,”
said Mrs. Burney. “Did you hear what was its name?”
“It is called ‘Evelina,’ I believe,” replied Dr. Burney.
“A novel, of course. I remember hearing the name some time ago,” said his
wife. “‘Evelina’; yes, it has a familiar sound. I cannot recollect at
this moment who it was that mentioned it to me. I believe I told you of
it at the time, Fanny.”
“I do not remember your telling me that anyone had mentioned it to you;
but I am nearly sure that that was the name of the novel advertised in
the _Chronicle_—you read out all about it after breakfast one morning,”
said Fanny.
“You are quite right—that was how I got the name in my mind. Now you
can have your roasted apple, child. But if you are hungry you have only
yourself to thank for it. Don’t bend so over the fire, Susy; your face is
frightfully red—so, for that matter, is Lottie’s. No, thanks, you need
not roast one for me.”