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?”

In an instant Susy had whirled round on her seat and flung her arms round her sister’s neck, laying her head on her shoulder.

“Oh, Fanny, Fanny, ’tis too cruel!” she sobbed. “We were sure that so much would come of it—it seemed so splendid to read, even before it was printed—so much better than any other story that ever came into our hands—and you worked so hard at it—every spare moment when you might have been enjoying yourself—in the cold of last winter up in that room—and at Lynn too—and Chessington—and now, when we think that your cleverness, your patience, your genius, is to be rewarded, nothing comes of it—all your trouble has gone for nothing—all our secrecy! Oh, it is too cruel!”

“You dear child,” said Fanny. “It is only cruel if it sets you crying in this way. What does it matter to anyone if the book has gone and nothing has come of it? I have been thinking that writing a book and publishing it is like throwing a stone into the sea. It may fall so that it sinks down plumb, or it may fall so that it makes a splash for a while, but it sinks to the bottom all the same. Success or failure is only the difference between a splash and a ripple. We were fools to fancy that our little stone would float.”

“But it was not a stone, it was full of life and it should have—it should have—swum! Oh, the people who buy books are so stupid!”

“They are—that was the hope that I builded on. They are stupid, but not stupid enough to buy my book.”

“Oh, Fanny!”

“That is really the frame of mind that I find myself in to-day. I tell you truly, Susy, that after the first week, I schooled myself to think of the business in this way; and I am certain that in another month I shall even feel delighted that my little pebble made no splash. Look at the matter philosophically, Susy.”

“Oh, philosophically!”

“Well, reasonably. Are we in a different position to-day from that we were in before the book was published? We are not. We are just the same as we were before. It has not injured us in any way. Nay, if you think of it, we are—I, at least, am—all the better for having failed, for I have learned my lesson. I was beginning to feel cleverer than I had any right to think myself, and this has come as a chastening—to make me know my right place. These rebukes do not come by chance, Susy. I know now that I was inclined to hold my head too high. I don’t think that I will do so again.”

“You never held your head too high—just the opposite. And I think it very cruel that you should be rebuked for nothing. But I do not blame anyone except the wretched people who refused to buy your nice book, but spent their seven and sixpence at Vauxhall or Ranelagh—perhaps watching Mr. Foote and his puppets at the Haymarket. Oh, I have no patience with them! Why, it only needed a thousand people to buy the book and it would have been accounted a success!”

“Then we shall put the blame on the shoulders of that thousand, wheresoever they may be found, and for my part I shall not hold a second thousand altogether blameless—my indignation may even extend to a third. Now, that’s the last word I mean to speak about the book. It has by this time reached the bottom of the sea on which I threw it; and there let it lie!”

“You are an angel—I see that plainly now.”

“Ah, there you see, what I said was true: I am much better for the rebuke I talked about; you never perceived before that I was an angel. Now let that be the last word between us on the subject of my poor little ‘Evelina.’ Her entrance into the world has proved fatal. Oh, Susy, she was stillborn, but her parent is making a rapid recovery.”

“That may be; but cannot you join with me in—”

“I will join with you in maintaining silence on the subject of the little one. I cannot bear to hear her name mentioned. I refuse to say another word about her or her fate. She must have been greatly beloved of the gods to die so young. Let that be ‘Evelina’s’ epitaph. I will say nothing more about her.”

It so happened, however, that she was compelled to say a good deal more on the subject, for within half an hour Cousin Edward had called, and he began to talk of “Evelina” at once.

“I went to Hill’s library in the Strand yesterday, to get a book for mother, and there, sure enough, I saw your ‘Evelina,’” said he. “I asked the man in charge what it was about, and he replied that he didn’t know; it was bad enough, he thought, to be compelled to hand out books all day to readers without being forced to read them for himself; but he supposed that ‘Evelina’ was a novel of the usual sort.”

“That was not extravagant praise,” remarked Susy.

“He didn’t mean to praise it,” said Edward. “But when I asked him if anyone who had read it had recommended it, he admitted that every one of the five ladies who had read it was ready to speak well of it—one of them had taken it away a second time; and—would you believe it?—while I was standing at the counter a footman entered the shop with a demand for ‘Evelina,’ as he called it; and he carried off the copy that was already on the desk.”

“For the delectation of the servants’ hall?” suggested Fanny.

“Not at all—it had been recommended to her ladyship, he said, and he had been commanded on no account to return without it; her ladyship was liberal; she would not mind paying sixpence for it, instead of the ordinary fourpence.”

“That was more than liberal, it was generous to a degree,” said Fanny.

“Don’t interrupt him,” cried Susy. “Continue your narrative, Eddy. I am dying to hear the rest.”

“I asked the library man if he knew who wrote the book, and he replied that he had heard the name, but had forgotten it; so far as he remembered the author was a peer of high rank but eccentric habits,” said Edward.

“The book represented his eccentric habits, I suppose,” remarked Fanny.

“I ran out of the place roaring,” said Edward. “‘A peer of high rank but eccentric habits’—describes you to a T, doesn’t it, Cousin Fanny? Pray what is your lordship’s next work to be, and when will it be given to an eager world?”

“Is that all you have to tell?” asked Susy.

“By no means. When I heard that the book was thought well of in the Strand, I thought I would try to get at the opinion of Stanhope Street—you know Masterman’s circulating library there? Well, I boldly entered, and there, sure enough, was a well-thumbed ‘Evelina’ in front of the librarian. I asked for some book that no one had ever heard of, and when the librarian had told me that he had never been asked for that book before, I pointed to ‘Evelina,’ inquiring if it was any good. ‘I’m dead tired on account of its goodness, for I was fool enough to take it to bed with me last night, and I never closed my eyes in sleep,’ he replied. ‘I had it praised to me by a lady of quality, and so too hastily concluded that it would either send me asleep with its dullness, or shock me with its ribaldry; but it did neither, unhappily.’ Just then a chariot stopped at the door and another footman entered with the name ‘Evelina’ written on a sheet of paper, and off he popped with the full three volumes under his arm. I waited no longer; but hurried hither to give you my news. I did not get so far, however, for I was unlucky enough to be overtaken by that vile downpour of rain, and it did not blow over until your dinner hour was at hand.”

“You are my good angel!” cried Fanny, her cheeks glowing. “We have heard nothing of all this respecting the book, and, hearing nothing, we took it for granted that it was dead—dead before it was ever alive. Oh, this is good news you have brought us, Eddy!”

“The best news that has come to us for months!” said Susy. She had turned her head away and was furtively wiping her eyes. The good news affected the sympathetic Susy almost as deeply as her disappointment had done.

“But I have only told you of my adventures of yesterday,” said Edward. “To-day I tried the booksellers, beginning with Mr. Davies and working round to the Dillys in the Poultry—it cost me three shillings, for I had to buy something that I did not particularly want in every shop to excuse my inquiries—and I found ‘Evelina’ on every counter. I cannot say that any customer came in to buy it while I was in any shop, but you may be sure that the book would not be on the counter unless it was highly thought of. Of course I had need to be very discreet among the booksellers; I dared not ask who was the author, but I longed to do so, if only to hear what new story had been made up about it.”

“You heard quite enough to make us glad,” cried Susy. “Oh, how foolish we were to take it for granted that because we had no news of the book, it was dead! It is alive—greatly alive, it would appear! How could any news of it have come to us here? We should have gone forth in search of it.”

“I knew that we could depend on your discretion,” said Fanny, laying a hand on each of his shoulders. “I do not think that I ever thanked you as I should for the wise way in which you managed the business with Mr. Lowndes, and now I must not neglect to do so for having acted the part of a benevolent agent in bringing us such good news about the book.”

“Psha! there should be no talk of gratitude and the like between us,” said he. “There are family ties—I think of the honour of our family. People already talk of the clever Burneys, but they left you out of the question, Cousin Fanny, since they only thought of music. But now that you have shown what you can do in another direction, you must be reckoned with alongside the others.”

“And what about the other branch of the clever Burneys?” said Fanny. “Don’t you think that people will some of these days begin to ask if Edward Burney, the great painter, is really a brother of the musical Burneys? I hope they will, dear Edward; I hope that the fame of Edward Burney, the painter, will go far beyond that of the musical Burneys, as well as poor Fanny Burney, who once wrote a novel.”

The young man blushed as Fanny herself would certainly have done if confronted with the least little compliment. But there was no false shame about his acceptance of her suggestion.

“I mean to become as good a painter as I can, in order to be worthy of the name of Burney,” said he. “I feel proud of being a Burney—more so to-day than ever before, and I hope that the rest of the Burneys will some day look on me as doing credit to our name.”

“I am sure that they will have every reason to do so,” said Fanny.

When he had gone, Susy gave way to her delight at the news which he had brought. She was a good deal taller than Fanny, and catching her round the waist after the manner of the Elizabethan dancer with his partner, she danced round the table with her, lilting a somewhat breathless pÆan. Fanny herself needed no coaxing to be her partner in this revel. In her jubilant moments she got rid of the primness which most people associated with her. She had a wild jig known as “Nancy Dawson,” and she had more than once found it necessary to get rid of her superfluous spirits through this medium. She joined in her sister’s little whoop at the completion of the third “lap” of the table, and they both threw themselves breathless on the sofa.

“I knew it,” said Susy between her gasps. “I knew that I could not be mistaken in believing ‘Evelina’ to be good—I knew that she would make her way in the affections of her readers, and I was right—you see I was right.”

“You were right, dear Susy—quite right,” said Fanny. “I do not like to be too sanguine, but I do believe, from the reports Eddy brought us, that the book will find plenty of readers. Now that we can think over the matter in a reasonable way, we must see how foolish we were to expect that the very day after the book was published people would crowd to buy it; but now, after six weeks, when Eddy goes in search of news about it, he brings back a report which is—we had best say for the present no more than ‘quite satisfactory’—that was the bookseller’s report about the sales of the first volume of the padre’s ‘History’—‘quite satisfactory’—that should be quite satisfactory for the author of ‘Evelina’ and her sisters. There is nothing in the book to stir people as it would if written by Mr. Wilkes, but in its humble way it will, I am now persuaded, be pronounced ‘quite satisfactory.’ At any rate, there goes my sewing for the evening.”

She rolled up the strip of linen into a ball and used her hand, after two false starts, as a battledore, to send it flying across the room within reach of Susy, who, being more adroit, was able at the first attempt to return it with both force and precision. Once more Fanny struck it, and her sister sent it back, but by this time the unequal ball had opened out, so that it was only by her foot that Fanny could deal with it effectively. Then, daintily holding up their petticoats, the author of ‘Evelina’ and Susy Burney played with the thing until once more they were panting and laughing joyously.

Perhaps Fanny had a faint inkling of the symbolism implied by this treatment of the discarded needlework.