More than a minute had passed before she was able to speak, and then she could do no more than repeat his words.
“Your daughter Fanny—your daughter—but is not Fanny the little shy one that goes into a corner when you have company?” she asked, in a tone that suggested that she had heard something too ridiculous to be believed.
“She is that one, madam,” he replied. “It would seem as if the corner of a room has its advantages in enabling one to observe life from a true standpoint. Two eyes looking out from a corner with a brain behind them—there you have the true writer of a novel of life and character. Poor Fanny! How often have not I talked of her as 'poor Fanny'? She had no education except what she contrived to pick up haphazard—a sweet child—a lovable daughter, but the last person in the world to be suspected of such a book as 'Evelina.'”
“You are sure, sir—you have seen—heard—you know?”
“Beyond any doubt. Her sisters were let into the secret, but neither of her parents. I know now why that was—no want of duty—no lack of respect—she began the book for her own amusement, and it grew under her hand; she sent it to a bookseller, more as a jest than in the belief that anything would come of it, and up to the last it was treated by her and her sisters as a schoolroom mystery—a nursery secret—and Mrs. Burney and I were kept out of it solely because we were not of the nursery or the schoolroom. And when it became a serious matter we were excluded because they were afraid to reveal it to us—Fanny herself, dear child!—feared that we would be concerned if it were stillborn. It was only when it was at the point of being published by Mr. Lowndes that she came to me saying that she had been writing something and wanted my leave to send it forth, promising that no name would appear upon the title page. I gave my leave with a smile, and when I had my laugh at the innocence of the girl in fancying that any bookseller would pay for the printing of what she might scribble, I forgot all about the matter. It was only when I sent for the book and read the Ode addressed to myself that I seemed to hear Fanny's voice speaking the words in my ear—I told the others so when they returned from visiting her at Chessington. But meantime Esther had come to me, and she told me all that was known to her about the book and its secret.”
“The most wonderful story ever known—more wonderful than the story of Evelina herself!” cried Mrs. Thrale. “How people—Mrs. Cholmondeley and the rest—will lift up their hands! Who among them will believe it all possible? List, my dear doctor, you must bring her to me in the first instance—all the others will be clamouring for her to visit them—I know them! You must bring her to me without delay—why not to-day? I can easily send a chaise for her—a coach if necessary. Well, if not to-day, to-morrow. I must have her here. We will understand each other—she and I; and Dr. Johnson will be with us—quite a little company—for dinner. You will promise me?”
“Be assured, dear madam, that there is no house apart from her home where I feel she would be happier than in this,” said Dr. Burney. “She has often expressed the warmest admiration for you, and I know that her dearest wish is to be on terms of intimacy with you.”
“The sweet girl! she shall have her dearest wish gratified to the fullest extent, sir. You will bring her as early to-morrow as it suits you. Good heavens! to think of that dear retiring child taking the town by storm! Dr. Johnson wrote to me no later than last evening, expressing once more his delight in reading the book, and Mr. Burke, too—but you heard about Mr. Burke. I will never forget your courtesy in telling me first of all your friends that she was the author, dear doctor.”
“If not you, madam, whom would I have told?”
“I shall be ever grateful. You will give me leave to make the revelation to my friends who will be here to-day?”