Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

“Mayhap it was humorous,” suggested his mother gravely.

“It would be sheer ribaldry for anyone to jest upon such a subject as the fluctuations in the price of silver,” said Thomas slowly. “Lieutenant Burney must surely know how serious a matter would be a fall of a fraction of a crown when we have bought heavily in prospect of a rise. But Miss Burney looks to be different from the others of the family. I have told you that while her father, and indeed all the rest, were talking excitedly on that ridiculous point in Mr. Handel's music, she sat in silence. She is short-sighted, but I noticed more than once that she had her eyes fixed on me, as if she had found something to study in me. She is, I think, a steady, observant young lady. When Mrs. Burney said she hoped that I would visit them again, I think I perceived a sort of interest on Miss Burney's face as she awaited my answer.”

Thomas had resolved not to frustrate the hopes that Mrs. Burney had expressed as to his paying another visit—as a matter of fact he had come three times, and on every occasion he had devoted himself to Fanny—to be more exact than Mrs. Burney, who had described his attentions in this phrase, he had passed his time subjecting her to a sort of catechism with a view to discover if she would make him the sort of wife that would suit him. It appeared that the result of his inquisition was satisfactory, and that his attentions were gradually becoming intentions; but Mrs. Burney had never gone farther than to comment favourably to Fanny upon the young man's steadiness, and to suggest that the young woman whom he might choose to be his wife would be fortunate, steady young men with good prospects in the City being far from abundant. She had never gone so far as to ask Fanny if she would accept good fortune coming to her in such a form; though Fanny knew very well that she had asked Esther to sound her on this point.

How far Esther's mission was accounted successful by their stepmother, Fanny, of course, could not guess; but at any rate Thomas was to pay a visit after dinner, and Fanny felt that it was necessary for her to be discreet. It had been very interesting for her to study Thomas, with the possibility before her of writing a second novel, in which some of his traits of character might be introduced with advantage; but she perceived how there was a likelihood of her course of study being paid for at too high a rate; so she resolved—to be discreet beyond her ordinary exercise of a virtue which she displayed at all times of her life.

So Thomas came to the house in St. Martin's Street while tea was being served in the drawingroom, to the accompaniment of a duet on the piano—Dr. Burney had quickly perceived the merits of this new instrument over that of the harpsichord—between Susan and her father. Very close to the instrument, pressing the receiver of his ear-trumpet to the woodwork of the case, sat Sir Joshua Reynolds, while his sister—a lady of middle age who was gradually relinquishing the idea that she, too, could paint portraits—was suffering Mrs. Burney to explain to her the advantages of Lynn over London as a place of residence for people anxious to economize.

Fanny was at the table where the teapot and urn were being drawn on, and close to her sat her brother James, with a volume like an account-book lying face down on the table while he drank his tea.

The progress of the duet was not arrested by the entrance of young Mr. Barlowe, but he looked in the direction of the instrument when he had shaken hands with Mrs. Burney and bowed to Miss Reynolds. It was obvious that he was mystified by seeing Sir Joshua's ear-trumpet pressed against the sound-conducting case of the piano. He was still looking at it with curious eyes while he greeted Fanny with the concentrated politeness of the Poultry.

Lieutenant Burney roused himself from his lolling attitude when he saw the puzzled look on the young man's face, and he obligingly endeavoured to explain away the mystery.

“'Tis no wonder that you are amazed, Mr. Barlowe,” he said in a whisper. “I own that when it was first brought to my notice I thought it extraordinary. A marvellous instrument, is it not, that is played by the ear instead of by the mouth? And yet you must own that some of the notes it produces are very fine—much more delicate than could be produced by any other means.”

“I do not profess to be a judge of music, sir,” said Thomas; “but I know what pleases me.” Fanny wondered how often she had heard that same boast—the attempt of complete ignorance to be accredited with the virtue of frankness. “Yes, I own that I consider the music monstrous pretty; but with the ear—that is what puzzles me: it seems a simple trumpet, such as is blown by the mouth.”