“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: