No chance had Rauzzini of saying more than the most conventional words of farewell to Fanny. Mrs. Burney was beside her and her two sisters also. He yielded to his impulse to pronounce a malediction on Mrs. Thrale, who had so interrupted his conversation with Fanny—the last he could possibly have until his return from France after fulfilling his engagements. But this was when he had seen the Burney family out of the door of the house in Leicester Fields and to the entrance to St. Martin’s Street. He was then alone, and could give in some measure expression to his feelings in his own tongue.

His imagination was quite vivid enough to suggest to him all that the officiousness of Mrs. Thrale had interrupted—the exchange of vows—the whispered assurances of fidelity—perhaps a passionate kiss—a heaven-sent chance during a marvellous minute when the painting-room should be emptied of all but herself and him! It was distracting to think of all that had been cut out of his life by that busybody. While he had been talking alone with Fanny his eyes had taken in the splendid possibilities of the painting-room. There were three immense easels on different parts of the floor, and each carried a glorious canvas for a life-size portrait. Two of them were already finished, and the third contained a portion of the Greek altar at which a fair lady was to be depicted making her oblation to Aphrodite, or perhaps Artemis. The young man, however, did not give a thought to the glowing work of the great painter on the canvases, he thought only of the possibilities of a moment or two spent in the protecting shadow of one of them with that gentle, loving girl yielding herself to his clasp—only for a moment—he could not reasonably hope that it should be for longer than a single moment, but what raptures might not be embraced even within that brief space! A moment—one immortal moment worth years of life! That was what he saw awaiting him in the friendly shade of one of Sir Joshua’s portraits—that was all that the sublime picture meant to the ardent lover—it was not the immortal picture, but the immortal moment that was before his eyes—but just when, by a little manoeuvring on his part, the joy that should change all his life and console him for being deprived of the society of his beloved for three months, was within his reach, that foolish woman had come bustling up with her chatter and had separated them!

For which he now implored heaven and a heathen deity or two that still linger in the language of malediction in their native Italy, to send her soul to the region where Orpheus had sought his Eurydice. Down—down with her to the lowest depths of the Inferno he implored his patrons to bear her and to keep her there for ever.

His imploration was quite as lyrical as his “Waft her, Angels, to the Skies,” only its bearing was upon the fate of the lady in just the opposite direction, and he was even more fervent in its delivery. But having delivered it, he felt some of that relief which is experienced by a true artist who has a consciousness of having done some measure of justice to his theme. He felt that if beatitude had been denied to him, the one who had separated him from it would not escape scathless, if the intensity of an appeal to the high gods of his native land counted for anything in their estimation.

And then he went more or less contentedly to his lodgings to prepare for his appearance in the opera of the night.

He sang divinely as an angel, and again if any of his audience remained unmoved by the enchantment of his voice, they certainly could not but have yielded to the charm of his presence. Some women might be incapable of appreciating the exquisite character of his vocalism, but none could remain impervious to the appeal of his smile.

As for the girl who alone had appealed to his heart, she went home with her mother and sisters without a word, for she had not perceived the glorious possibilities lurking behind the grand canvases in Sir Joshua’s painting-room. She could even bring herself to believe that the coming of Mrs. Thrale had been rather opportune than otherwise; for if she had not joined her stepmother at that time she would not have heard all that Sir Joshua had said about “Evelina.”

All that she had heard had made her supremely happy, not, she thought, because she was greedy for fame, but because it meant to her that she was a step nearer to the arms of the man she loved. The fame which Sir Joshua’s words implied was dear to her because she knew that she need not now hesitate to seat herself by the side of this king of men, as his equal—no, not quite as his equal, but certainly not as a beggar maid. She knew that when it was announced that she was the writer of a great book, or, what was better still, a book that everybody was talking about, people would not shrug their shoulders when they heard that Rauzzini, the Roman singer, whose name was in everybody’s mouth, was about to marry her. The event that she scarcely dared hope for had actually happened: she was no longer the nobody which she had been, she was a woman the product of whose brain had been acclaimed by the best judges, and so the barrier that she had seen separating her lover from herself had been thrown down. The same voices that had acclaimed her Rauzzini as a singer had acclaimed her as a writer; for though she had hesitated to receive her cousin Edward’s reports from the libraries as conclusive of the mark that the book was making, she could not now have any doubt on the subject: a book that was spoken of by Sir Joshua Reynolds as he had spoken of “Evelina” must be granted a place high above the usual volumes to be found on the shelves of a circulating library. She was convinced that in a short time everyone would be talking about it in the same strain, and though people might be incredible on the subject of its authorship, the fact would remain the same—she had written the book, and the fame that attached to the writer would assuredly be hers. There would now be no sneering references to King Cophetua. Everyone within their circle would admit that there was no disparity between her position as the writer of the book that everyone was talking about and that of the singer whom people crowded to hear.

She felt supremely happy. Though Mrs. Burney had not shown any particular wish to repeat what Reynolds had said to her about the book, she knew perfectly well that this was only because of her general distrust of anything in the form of a novel, and her fear lest something unreadable should get into the hands of the girls. But Fanny also knew that the fact of Mrs. Burney’s shunning the novels of the circulating libraries would not interfere with the reputation that must accrue to the author of “Evelina”; so she was not affected by the indifference shown by her stepmother to all that Reynolds had said. She awaited without impatience the day when her father should take up the book and read the Ode at the beginning. She felt that, although his name was not at the head, he would know that the verses were addressed to him, and that it was his daughter Fanny who had written them. She knew that however firmly he might assert himself on the side of his wife in preventing the entrance to the house of all novels excepting those of Richardson—Fanny herself had never had a chance of reading even “The Vicar of Wakefield”—he would be proud of her as the writer of “Evelina.” She was not quite sure if he would be as proud of her as if she had developed a wonderful musical capacity; but she never doubted that his affection for her—assisted by his knowledge of the impression the book had made upon the most important of his own associates—would cause him to take her into his arms with delight and to forgive her for running the chance of being classed among the Miss Minifies of the period—the female writers whose ridiculous productions were hidden beneath the sofa cushions in so many households. Fanny Burney was a dutiful daughter and she had nothing of the cynic about her, but she was well aware of the fact that success would be regarded by her father as justifying an experiment that failure would have made discreditable.

Once more, then, the three sisters met that night in Fanny’s bedroom. The two younger could now look on her without their feeling of awe. They were on the verge of being indignant with Mrs. Burney for having made no reference whatever since returning from the Reynoldses to the subject of Sir Joshua’s eulogy.

“Not once did she mention the name of ‘Evelina’ to the padre; Sir Joshua might just as well have talked of Miss Hersehel’s comet to her,” said Susy.

“And after our schooling ourselves so rigidly to give no sign that we were in any measure connected with the book too—it was cruel!” said Lottie.

“It was not as if the padre did not give her a good chance more than once,” continued Susy. “Did he not ask if anyone had given her any news? And what did she answer?—Why, only that someone had said that Mr. Fox had lost a fortune a few nights ago at faro! As if anybody cares about Mr. Fox! I was prepared for her opening out at once to him about the book—maybe begging him to send Williams to buy it at Mr. Lowndes’.”

“What, at seven-and-sixpence!” cried Fanny. “My dear child, do you know mamma no better than to fancy that?”

“What I don’t know is how she resisted it,” said Lottie. “Oh, you heard how Sir Joshua talked about it; and Miss Reynolds too—she praised it up to the skies.”

“Other people in the painting-room as well as in the drawing-room were talking of it,” said Susy. “I heard the beautiful Miss Horneck speak of it to the lady with the big muff and the rose taffeta with the forget-me-not embroidery.”

“I am sure that everybody was speaking of it—I could hear the name ‘Evelina’ buzzing round the rooms,” cried Lottie.

“Yes; everyone was talking about it, and only mamma was silent—is silent. I don’t think that at all fair,” continued Susy.

Fanny laughed.

“You are silly little geese,” she cried. “Could you not see that she would not mention it lest it should reach our ears and we should be filled with an irresistible desire to possess it—it—a modern novel! Think of it! Oh, my dears, you are too unreasonable. Mamma knows her duty too well to allow even the name of a novel to pass her lips and maybe reach the ears of such a group of fly-away young things as ourselves! She understands the extent of her responsibilities. Go to your beds and be thankful that you have so excellent a guardian.”

“But when we were prepared—” began one of them, when Fanny interrupted her.

“You may conserve your preparations—you will hear her say the name soon enough—you may depend upon that,” she said. “You may prepare to hear yourselves summoned into her presence to give a full and true account of your complicity in the thing which was perpetrated under this sacred roof—nay, in the very room where the great philosopher Newton wrote his thesis! A novel written in the room in which the divine ‘Principia’ was produced! Why, ’twere as bad in mamma’s eyes as acting one of Mr. Foote’s farces in St. Paul’s Cathedral. Oh, yes, you’ll have to face her soon enough, and after that you’ll never wish to hear the name Evelina again. Now, good-night and thank heaven for your respite.”

They left her, glum and dissatisfied. It was plain to her that they were disappointed at not being given the opportunity of showing how admirably they had themselves under control in regard to the secret—of showing Fanny how they could hear Mrs. Burney talk at length about “Evelina,” while neither of them gave the least sign of ever having heard the name before. It was indeed disappointing that all their studied immobility should go for nothing.

But Fanny knew that their secret could not possibly remain hidden for many more days. If the book was going into everybody’s hands, her father would be certain to have it, and then—would he not know? Would not she be summoned into his presence and that of his wife—the lady of many responsibilities—and required to defend herself?...

She fell asleep before she had come to any conclusion as to the line of defence that she should adopt.

And in spite of the readiness of her sisters for any inquisition to which they might be summoned, they were startled—as was also Fanny herself—when, immediately after a rather silent and portentous breakfast, Mrs. Burney said:

“Susy and Lottie, you may go to your duties. You, Fanny, will remain, as your father wishes to speak to you on a matter of some gravity.”

So the long-expected hour had come, the three girls thought. By some accident unknown to them their secret was exposed, and Fanny was about to be called upon to explain, if she could, to the satisfaction of her father and her stepmother, how it came that she so far forgot the precepts of her upbringing as to write a novel quite in the modern spirit, though adopting a form which the master-touch of Mr. Samuel Richardson had hallowed.