“I have often meant to ask father's permission, but I was not able to summon up courage enough to face him with the whole truth. But it cannot be delayed much longer. Perhaps I might write him a letter about it some time when I am at Chessington.”
“I don't envy you the duty, my dear Fanny,” said lie. “But I think that the sooner you get it over the easier you will feel. I suppose that writing a novel is worse than writing a 'History of Music.' I wonder why you took so much trouble over the business.”
“I could not help it,” she cried. “I have often wondered myself why I was sitting up in that cold room at the top of the house, writing until my fingers were benumbed, when I might have been at my comfortable sewing in front of a fire downstairs; but I could not help it—I could not help doing it, Eddy.”
Eddy never reached that point in his career as a painter when he found the artist's impulse to create too great to be resisted. He could not appreciate her explanation.
“'I couldn't help it,' that's what we were used to say long ago, when we got into mischief; I hope that Uncle Burney and Aunt Burney—don't forget her in this matter—I hope that they will accept your excuse. Anyhow, you may trust me to act as your 'Mr. Grafton' at the Orange Coffee House some day this week.”
He caught a glimpse of his uncle, Dr. Burney, sitting with Mr. Greville, so that he had no trouble in placing Fanny once more in charge of her father. He could see that the girl was a little downcast, and tried to cheer her up a bit by whispering in a sly way into her ear:
“Good-night, Mr. Grafton; my best respects to Mrs. Grafton and the children—especially Evelina.”
The smile that Fanny gave in acknowledgment of his pleasantry did not quite carry conviction that his well-meant effort had been successful. He went away feeling as much sympathy for her as was possible for him to have in common with the reflection that if she was in a difficult position, it was wholly one of her own seeking. What could have induced a girl who had been carefully brought up, and provided with an excellent stepmother, to write a novel, placing herself thereby on a level with those dreadful ladies whose productions were prohibited in every self-respecting household and only read by stealth when obtained at a cost of twopence—more than the best of them were worth—at the circulating library?
Yes, poor Fanny was undoubtedly to be pitied; but she had really only herself to blame for the trouble that was looming in front of her when the secret of her authorship should be revealed to her father and her excellent stepmother—one of the best judges to be found anywhere of all sorts of needlework—not merely plain sewing and buttonholing, but satin stitch, herring-boning and running and felling.
The very next day Cousin Edward called at St. Martin's Street, carrying with him a small parcel neatly done up in white paper. He was lucky enough to find Fanny and Susan alone in the work-room; and after asking mysteriously if there was any chance of his uncle or aunt coming upon them, and being assured that they were both away for the day, he carefully locked the door of the room, saying in the whisper of a man of plots and mysteries: