“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.