Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

Fanny tripped away, and was behind the door of the larder before she allowed the laughter which was pent up very close to her eyes to have its freedom. It was a very hearty laugh that she had, for there was a constant buzzing in her ears of the question:

“What will he say when he learns the truth?”

She was ready to dance her Nancy Dawson in delight at seeing the effect of the book upon the old man whom she loved—the man who was directly responsible for its existence. If Mr. Crisp had not taken trouble with her, encouraging her to write her letters to him in a natural style, the correspondence in “Evelina” would, she knew, be very different from what it was. So, after all, she reflected, he was right in pronouncing the book the work of a man; but he had no idea that he was the man who was responsible for it. That reflection of hers was as fully imbued with the true spirit of comedy as her anticipation of the effect that would be produced upon him by the revelation of the authorship.

And that was why this young student of the human comedy was able to restrain herself from making the revelation to him at once: she had, as it were, a delicate palate for comedy, and it was a delight to her—the gratification of her natural vanity had nothing to do with it—to lead him on to commit himself more deeply every moment on the question of the sex of the writer. Oh, no; she had no idea of making any confession to him for the present. She would have many another chat with him before the moment for that dénouement in the comedy should arrive.

So she got the candles and the housekeeper laid the cold chicken and the plates on the supper-table, and Mr. Crisp set about mixing the salad in the manner he had acquired in Italy. And all the time they were engaged over the simple meal he was criticising what she had read, and he had scarcely a word to say about it that was not favourable. But he took care to protect himself in case he should be forced to retire from the position he had taken up.

“A man is a fool to pronounce an opinion on a book before he has had the last page read to him,” he said. “I have only been touching upon the part that I have heard, and I say that it seems to me to be as good as anything I have read for years; but that is not saying that the remainder, or some portions of the remainder, may not be so greatly inferior as to compel me to pronounce unfavourably of the book as a whole. I have had instances of such inequality shown by many writers, and it may be that the writer of 'Evelina' will be added to the list, although he shows no sign of falling off up to your last page. Do not be hurried by me, my dear, but if you have indeed made up your mind to eat no cheese, Mrs. Hamilton can remove the débris, and unless you are tired, you will read me a few pages more.”

She read until midnight. The only pauses that she made were when he trimmed the wicks of the candles. He commended her fluency. She had never read better in his hearing, he said. She showed that she understood what she was reading; and that, after all, was the greatest praise that could be given to anyone. He did not suggest the likelihood that she was tired.

There was the sound of the bleating of lambs occasionally borne from the meadows beyond the little stream—the sound of an owl that came nightly about the house from the barn of the farm a few hundred yards away—the sound of a large moth bumping against the glass of the casement through which the candle-light shone. There was nothing to interrupt her in her delightful task until the church clock struck the hour of midnight.

“Not another line,” she cried, jumping from her chair. “Poor Evelina! she will be the better for a sleep. When she awakens she may be able to see more clearly who are her true friends and who are not to be trusted. Good-night, dear Daddy; and receive my thanks for your attention.”

“Give me the volume,” he said. “I usually awake before six, and so shall have a couple of hours of it before rising.”