Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

But now they were face to face with the six figures sitting in a row, and as his conversation was only designed as an accompaniment to the march of Fanny to this position, there was no reason to continue it.

The figures were of two men and four ladies. The former were middle-aged and bore an expression of gravity that a judge might have envied. Their dress was sombre, but of the finest material possible to buy, and each of them was painfully conscious of being in unusual garments. Of course, Fanny saw in a moment that they were merchants wearing the garments in which they attended church.

Of the four ladies, three were elderly and the fourth much younger. They wore their hair built up in a way that suggested that they desired to follow the fashion but had not the courage to complete the scheme with which they had started. The long and thin and highly-coloured feathers which crowned the stunted structures on their heads gave them the appearance of a picture of unfamiliar birds. Their dresses were extremely glossy and of an expensive material, but there was an eccentric note about all that made them seem not impressive as they should have been, but almost ludicrous. The youngest lady in the row showed unmistakable signs of being given to simpering. She had gone much further than the others of the party in the architecture of her hair, but that was possibly because the material at her command was more abundant. The dressing of her hair, however, was by no means in sympathy with the style of her garments, the latter being simple and indeed rather too girlish for the wearer, who looked between twenty-five and thirty.

It was an extraordinary ordeal that confronted Miss Burney, for young Mr. Barlowe began presenting her to the group, starting from his left and working slowly to the last of the row on the right. There was she with the young man standing close to her, but sideways, doing the formalities of presenting her, while his father and mother stood behind to see that he omitted nothing. Mrs. Burney, a little way apart, was alternately smiling and frowning at the ceremonial. She could see, from observing the effect that the whole business was producing upon Fanny, that the Barlowes were defeating their own ends, assuming that they desired Fanny to become a member of their family. These absurd formalities were, Mrs. Burney knew, quite out of place in a private house. But what could she do to cut them short? She had made an attempt before, and it was received in anything but a friendly spirit by their hostess, so that she did not feel inclined to interfere again: the thing must run its course, she felt, reflecting upon it as though it were a malady. There was no means of curtailing it.

And its course was a slow one for the unhappy victim.

“Miss Burney, I have the honour to present my aunt on my mother's side—Mrs. Alderman Kensit,” droned Thomas, and the lady on the extreme left rose at the mention of her name and made a carefully prepared curtsey, while the sky-blue feather in her hair jerked awkwardly forward until the end almost touched her nose.

“Proud to meet Miss Burney, I vow,” said she as she rose; and anyone could see from the expression on her face that she was satisfied that she had gone far in proving her claim to be looked on as a lady of fashion. She had never said “I vow” before, and she knew that it had startled her relations. She felt that she could not help that. Miss Burney would understand that she was face to face with someone who had mingled with the best.

“And this is Aunt Maria, father's sister, Mrs. Hutchings,” came the voice of Thomas, and the second lady bobbed up with quivering feathers and made a well-practised curtsey. She did not trust herself to speak. Having heard her neighbour's “I vow,” she knew that she could not go farther. She would not compete with such an exponent of the mysteries of haut ton.

“And this is Alderman Kensit of the Common Council; he is my uncle on my mother's side—mother is a Kensit, you know,” resumed Thomas. “And this is Aunt Jelicoe. My mother's sister married Mr. Jelicoe, of Tooley Street. And this is my cousin, Miss Jelicoe. I am sure that you will like Miss Jelicoe, Miss Burney, she is so young.”

The youngest lady of the group simpered with great shyness, concealing half her face with her fan and holding her head to one side, and then pretending to be terribly fluttered. Her curtsey was made in a flurry, and with a little exclamation of “Oh, la!”