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 she 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 still born. 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.