Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

TWO or three weeks passed without her hearing anything of the book, and it seemed as if it had fallen, as she had at some moments hoped it would fall, like a dull stone into the depths of the sea. She heard nothing of it, and soon she perceived that her sisters felt grievously disappointed at its failure to produce any impression upon the town. Even a dull stone, if dropped into the deep, creates a little fuss on the surface before it sinks out of sight; but Fanny's book did not, so far as they could see, produce even so superficial an impression. What they expected of it they might have had some trouble explaining; but as it was, they could not conceal their disappointment from Fanny; and they showed it after a short time in a very delicate way: they never alluded to the book in her presence. She perceived that what was in their minds was that it would show very bad taste on their part to refer to it in any way. She was grateful for their consideration; and she resolved to accept their decision on this point as final; she would never allude to the horrid thing in their hearing.

It so happened, however, that she was left alone with Susy in the house one evening. Dr. Burney and his wife had gone to a concert at Esther's, and Lottie was staying for a day or two in the country. Susy was practising her part of a new duet on the piano, and Fanny was at her sewing. So far as conversation between the two sisters was concerned, the evening had been a very silent one. Indeed, during the whole week a constrained silence had marked the intercourse of the three girls.

Susy hammered away at the music for half an hour; then her playing became more fitful, and at last it ceased altogether.

There was a long silence before Fanny heard a little sound that caused her to raise her head. It was the sound of a sob, and when she looked up she saw that Susy was leaning her forehead upon the bottom of the music rest, weeping bitterly.

Fanny was by her side in a moment.

“Dearest Susy, what is the matter?” she said soothingly. “Tell me, dear; has anything happened? Has anyone been unkind to you? Have I unwittingly done or said anything that seemed to you unkind? Tell me all, Susy.”

But Susy continued crying with her face hidden, though she yielded one of her hands to Fanny.

“Come, my dear, I have helped you before now, and I may be able to help you now. Prithee, what is your trouble?” said Fanny, putting her arm round the girl's shoulders.

Still Susy remained silent, except for her sobs.

“Tell me,” said Fanny, in a whisper. “Is it that you think that I am chagrined about—about—the book?”