“Oh, mother, that is quite impossible!” cried Fanny. “How could I ever get accustomed to such a thought?”
“I do not know why you should not,” replied Mrs. Burney. “He is a most worthy young man, and Mr. Barlowe's business is one of the best in the City. You must remember, my dear Fanny, that in these days a girl, unless she has a portion, runs a very great chance of becoming an old maid, so that no opportunity of settling down in a comfortable home should be neglected.”
“That is perfectly true,” said Dr. Burney. “You will understand that we have no desire to force this or any match upon you, my dear child: so long as I have a house over my head you shall share it. But I am sure that you must know that I am a poor man to-day, although I have worked as hard at my profession as any living man, and I cannot provide you or your sisters with any portion. Heaven knows that if I had a fortune I would gladly divide it among you; but as it is, I think it right to tell you that you need expect nothing.”
“Dearest father,” said Fanny, dissolving into tears, as she took his hand and kissed it, “I have never expected a fortune from you—not a penny piece. I know that I shall be portionless, and I daresay that Mr. Barlowe thinks himself generous in his proposal; but I could never bring myself to accept him—to look on him as a suitor. It would be quite impossible. If I thought it possible that I should ever have any affection for him, I might feel myself justified in encouraging him; but I know that it would be out of the question. I would prefer to go forth and beg my bread—nay, to starve.”
“Then we shall pursue the matter no farther for the present,” said her father, kissing her on the forehead as she nestled close to him.
“Yes, that is best—for the present,” acquiesced his wife. “Still, if you will be advised by me, my dear Fanny, you will remember that Mr. Barlowe is ready to address you knowing that you will be portionless, and if you bear that in mind, perhaps you will be surprised to find some' day, not so far distant, that the thought of him is not so repugnant to you. You are no longer a girl, and when one is midway between twenty and thirty every extra year counts in reducing one's chances of being settled in life. I could cite dozens of instances that I have known of young women being glad to accept at twenty-eight the suitors they scorned at twenty or even twenty-five. Oh, yes, the years come upon one and bring with them a clearer vision of life and love; frequently they bring regret for opportunities neglected. But we will not press the matter any farther—just now. I dare say the young man will submit to be put off—for a time.”
“Nay, for ever,” said Fanny resolutely.
“Oh, well,” said her stepmother.
After a pause, during which Fanny seemed to be debating some matter in her mind, a little line showing itself along her forehead, she said slowly: “I do not think that I shall be a burden on you, dear father; I believe that one day I may be able to do something.”
“Do not fancy that I would ever think of you as a burden, my dear child,” said her father. “But what do you mean by saying that you may one day do something?—some work, do you suggest?”