TOTTENHAM’S is situated in one of the great thoroughfares which lead out of the heart of London, towards one of its huge suburbs. It consists of an immense square pile of building, facing to four different streets, with frontage of plate-glass windows, and masses of costly shawls and silks appearing through. To many people, but these were mostly ladies, Tottenham’s was a kind of fairyland. It represented everything, from substantial domestic linen to fairy webs of lace, which money could buy. In the latter particular, it is true, Tottenham’s was limited; it possessed only the productions of modern fingers, the filmy fabrics of Flanders and France; but its silks, its velvets, its magnificences of shawl and drapery, its untold wealth in the homelier shape of linen and cambric, were unsurpassed anywhere, and the fame of them had spread throughout London, nay, throughout England. The name of this great establishment caused a flutter of feeling through all the Home Counties, and up even to the Northern borders. People sent their orders to Tottenham’s from every direction of the compass. The mass of its clients were, perhaps, not highly fashionable, though even the crême de la crême sometimes made a raid into the vast place, which was reported cheap, and where fashionable mothers were apt to assure each other that people, who knew what was what, might often pick up very nice things indeed at half the price which Élise would ask, not to speak of Worth. Persons who know what Worth has last invented, and how Élise works, have an immense advantage in this way over their humble neighbours. But the humble neighbours themselves were very good customers, and bought more largely, if with less discrimination. And the middle class, like one man, or rather like one woman, patronized Tottenham’s. It bought its gowns there, and its carpets and its thread and needles, everything that is wanted, in a house. It provided its daughters’ trousseaux, and furnished its sons’ houses out of this universal emporium; not the chairs and tables, it is true, but everything else. The arrangements of the interior were so vast and bewildering as to drive a stranger wild, though the habitués glided about from counter to counter with smiling readiness. There were as many departments as in the Home Office, but everybody looked after his own department, which is not generally the case in the Imperial shop; and the hum of voices, the gliding about of many feet, the rustle of many garments, the vague sound and sentiment of a multitude pervaded the alleys of counters, the crowded passages between, where group was jostled by group, and not an inch of space left unoccupied.
Edgar’s entrance into this curious unexplored world, which he had been brought here expressly to “take an interest” in, was made through a private way, through the counting-house, where many clerks sat at their desks, and where all was quiet and still as in a well-ordered merchant’s office. Mr. Tottenham had a large room, furnished with the morocco-covered chairs and writing-tables consecrated to such places, but with more luxury than usual; with Turkey carpets on the floor, and rich crimson curtains framing the great window, which looked into a small court-yard surrounded with blank walls. Here Mr. Tottenham paused to look over a bundle of business letters, and to hear some reports that were brought to him by the heads of departments. These were not entirely about business. Though the communications were made in a low voice, Edgar could not help hearing that Mr. So-and-So was in question here, and Miss Somebody there.
“If something is not done, I don’t think the other young ladies will stand it, Sir,” said a grave elderly gentleman, whom Edgar, eyeing him curiously, felt that he would have taken at least for a Member of Parliament.
“I will look into it, Robinson. You may make your mind quite easy. I will certainly look into it,” said Mr. Tottenham, with such a look as the Chancellor of the Exchequer may put on when he anticipates a failure in the revenue.
“You see, Sir,” added Mr. Robinson, “a piece of scandal about any of the young ladies is bad enough; but when it comes to be the head of a department, or at least, one of the heads—and you remember it was all our opinions that Miss Lockwood was just the fit person for the place. I had a little difficulty myself on the point, for Miss Innes had been longer in the establishment; but as for being ladylike-looking, and a good figure, and a good manner, there could, of course, be no comparison.”
“I will look into it, I will look into it,” said Mr. Tottenham, hurriedly.
The head of a State has to bear many worries, in small things as well as in great; and the head of Tottenham’s was less a constitutional than a despotic ruler. Limited Monarchies do not answer, it must be allowed, on a small scale. The respectable Mr. Robinson withdrew to one side, while other heads of departments approached the Sultan of the Shop. Edgar looked on with some amusement and a good deal of interest. Mr. Tottenham was no longer speculative and viewy. He went into all the business details with a precision which surprised his companion, and talked of the rise in silks, and the vicissitudes in shirtings, with very much more apparent perception of the seriousness of the matter than he had ever evidenced in the other Tottenham’s, the wealthy house in which the shopkeeper lived as princes live. Edgar would have retired when these business discussions, or rather reports and audiences, began; but Mr. Tottenham restrained him with a quick look and gesture, motioning him to a seat close to his own.
“I want you to see what I have to do,” he said in a rapid interjection between one conference and another.
The last of all was a young man, studiously elegant in appearance, and in reality, as Edgar found out afterwards, the fine gentleman of the establishment, who had charge of the recreations of “the assistants,” or rather the employés, which was the word Mr. Watson preferred. Mr. Tottenham’s face lighted up when this functionary approached him with a piece of paper, written in irregular lines, like a programme, in his hand—and it was the programme of the next evening entertainment, to be given in the shop and for the shop. Mr. Watson used no such vulgar phraseology.
“Perhaps, Sir, you will kindly look over this, and favour us with any hint you may think necessary?” he said. “Music is always popular, and as we have at present a good deal of vocal talent among us, I thought it best to utilize it. The part-songs please the young ladies, Sir. It is the only portion of the entertainment in which they can take any active share.”
“Then by all means let us please the ladies,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Look, Earnshaw; this is an entertainment which we have once a month. Ah, Watson, you are down, I see, for a solo on your instrument?”
“I find it popular, Sir,” said Mr. Watson, with a smirk. “The taste for music is spreading. The young ladies, Sir, are anxious to know whether, as you once were good enough to promise, her Ladyship is likely this time to do us the honour—”
“Oh, yes, Watson; you may consider that settled; my wife is coming,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Trial Scene in Pickwick? Yes; very well, very well. Duet, Mr. Watson and Miss Lockwood. Ah! I have been just hearing something about Miss Lockwood—”
“She has enemies, Sir,” said Mr. Watson, flushing all over. He was a fair young man, and the colour showed at once in his somewhat pallid complexion. “In an establishment like this, Sir—a little world—where there are so many employés, of course, she has her enemies.”
“That may be,” said Mr. Tottenham, musing. “I have not inquired into it yet; but in the meantime, if there is any latent scandal, wouldn’t it be better that she took no public part?”
“Oh, of course, Sir!” cried Watson, bundling up his papers; “if she is to be condemned unheard—”
Robinson, the respectable Member of Parliament, approached anxiously at this.
“I assure you, Mr. Tottenham,” he cried, with a warmth of sincerity which appeared to come from the bottom of his heart, “I don’t want to judge Miss Lockwood, or any other young lady in the establishment; but when things come to my ears, I can’t but take notice of them. The other young ladies have a right to be considered.”
“It is jealousy, Sir; nothing but jealousy!” cried Watson; “because she’s a deal more attractive than any of ’em, and gets more attention—”
“Softly, softly,” said Mr. Tottenham. “This grows serious. I don’t think I am apt to be moved by jealousy of Miss Lockwood, eh, Watson? You may go now, and if you know anything about the subject, I’ll see you afterwards.”
“I know as she’s the best saleswoman, and the most ladylike-looking young lady in the house,” cried Watson; and then he perceived his slip of grammar, and blushed hotter than ever; for he was an ambitious young man, and had been instructed up to the point of knowing that his native English stood in need of improvement, and that bad grammar was against his rising in life.
“That will do then; you can go,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Opinion is not evidence. Come, Robinson, if it’s making a feud in the house, I had better, I suppose, go into it at once.”
“And I, perhaps, had better withdraw too,” said Edgar, whom this strange and sudden revelation of human tumults going on in the great house of business had interested in spite of himself.
“Stay; you are impartial, and have an unbiassed judgment,” said Mr. Tottenham. “Now, Robinson, let us hear what you have got to say.”
Robinson approached with a world of care upon his face. Edgar having allowed his fancy to be taken possession of by the Member-of-Parliament theory, could not help the notion that this good worried man had risen to call for a Committee upon some subject involving peril to the nation, some mysterious eruption of Jesuits or Internationalists, or Foreign Office squabble. He was only the head of the shawl and cloak department in Tottenham’s; but it is quite marvellous how much humanity resembles itself, though the circumstances were so unlike.
Mr. Robinson had not much more than begun his story. He was in the preamble, discoursing, as his prototype in the House of Commons would have done, upon the general danger to society which was involved in carelessness and negligence of one such matter as that he was about to bring before the House—when a tap was heard at the door, a little sharp tap, half defiant, half coquettish, sounding as if the applicant, while impatient for admittance, might turn away capriciously, when the door was opened. Both the judge and the prosecutor evidently divined at once who it was.
“Come in,” said Mr. Tottenham; “Come in!” for the summons was not immediately obeyed.
Then there entered a—person, to use the safe yet not very respectful word which Mr. J. S. Mill rescued from the hands of flunkeys and policemen—a female figure, to speak more romantically, clad in elegant black silken robes, very well made, with dark hair elaborately dressed; tall, slight, graceful, one of those beings to be met with everywhere in the inner recesses of great shops like Tottenham’s, bearing all the outward aspect of ladies, moving about all day long upon rich carpets, in a warm luxurious atmosphere, “trying on” one beautiful garment after another, and surveying themselves in great mirrors as they pass and repass. The best of feminine society ebbs and flows around these soft-voiced and elegant creatures—duchesses, princesses, who look like washerwomen beside them, and young girls often not more pretty or graceful. They are the Helots of the female fashionable world, and, at the same time, to some degree, its despots; for does not many a dumpy woman appear ridiculous in the elegant garb which was proved before her eyes so beautiful and becoming upon the slim straight form of the “young person” who exhibited and sold if?
Miss Lockwood entered, with her head well up, in one of the attitudes which are considered most elegant in those pretty coloured pictures of the “Modes,” which, to her class of young ladies, are as the Louvre and the National Gallery thrown into one. She was no longer, except from a professional point of view, to be considered absolutely as a “young lady.” Her face, which was a handsome face, was slightly worn, and her age must have been a year or two over thirty; but, as her accuser admitted, and as her defender asserted, a more “ladylike-looking” person, or a better figure for showing off shawl or mantle had never been seen in Tottenham’s or any other house of business. This was her great quality. She came in with a little sweep and rustle of her long black silken train; her dress, like her figure, was her stock-in-trade.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said in an abrupt yet airy tone, angry yet sensible withal of those personal advantages which made it something of a joke that anyone should presume to find fault with her. “I hear my character is being taken away behind my back, and I have come, please, to defend myself.”
Edgar looked at this kind of being, which was new to him, with a mixture of feelings. She had the dress and appearance of a lady, and she was unquestionably a woman, though she would have scorned so common a name. He rose from his seat when she came in with the intention of getting a chair for her, as he would have done to any other lady, but was deterred, he could scarcely tell why, by her own air and that of the other two men who looked at her without budging.
“Sit down, sit down,” said Mr. Tottenham hastily, aside to him, “of course I know what you mean, but that sort of thing does not do. It makes them uncomfortable; sit down; she will give us trouble enough, you will see.”
Edgar, however, could not go so far as to obey. He kept standing, and he saw the new-comer look at him, and look again with a lighting up of her face as though she recognised him. So far as he was aware he had never seen her before in his life.
“Miss Lockwood, I do not think this is how you should speak,” said her employer, “you know whether I am in the habit of permitting anybody’s character to be taken away, without giving the accused full opportunity to defend themselves.”
“Oh yes, Sir, to defend themselves,” she said with a toss of her head, “after all the harm’s done, and things has been said that can’t be unsaid. You know as well as I do, Sir, it’s all up with a young lady the moment things has been spoke of publicly against her.”
“I hope not so bad as that,” said Mr. Tottenham mildly. He was a little afraid of the young lady, and so was the worthy parliamentary Robinson, who had withdrawn a step behind backs, when interrupted in his speech.
“Well, Mr. Tottenham! and what does it mean, Sir, when you put a stop to my duet, me and Mr. Watson’s duet, and say it’s best I shouldn’t take part publicly? Isn’t that judging me, Sir, before ever hearing me—and taking all the stories as is told against me for true?”
“I know none of the stories yet,” said Mr. Tottenham, “pray compose yourself. Mr. Robinson was going to explain to me; but as you are here, if it will at all save your feelings, I am quite ready to hear your story first.”
“Mr. Tottenham, Sir!” said Mr. Robinson, roused to speech.
“Well! you can have no motive, and I can have no motive, but to come to the truth. Take a seat, Miss Lockwood, I will not keep you standing; and begin—
“Begin what?” the young woman faltered. “Oh, I am not going to be the one to begin,” she said saucily, “nobody’s obliged to criminate himself. And how can I tell what my enemies are saying against me? They must speak first.”
“Then, Robinson, do you begin,” said the master; but it was easier in this case to command than to obey. Robinson shifted from one foot to the other, he cleared his throat, he rubbed his hands. “I don’t know that I can, before her,” he said hoarsely, “I have daughters of my own.”
“I knew,” said the culprit in triumphant scorn, “that you daren’t make up any of your stories before my face!”
Robinson restrained himself with an effort. He was a good man, though the fuss of the incipient scandal was not disagreeable to him. “It’s—it’s about what is past, Sir,” he said hurriedly, “there is no reflection on Miss Lockwood’s conduct now. I’d rather not bring it all up here, not before strangers.”
“You may speak before as many strangers as you please, I sha’n’t mind,” said the accused, giving Edgar a glance which bewildered him, not so much for the recognition which was in it, as for a certain confidence and support which his appearance seemed to give her. Mr. Tottenham drew him aside for a moment, whispering in his ear.
“She seems to know you, Earnshaw?”
“Yes; but I don’t know how. I never saw her before.”
“I wonder—perhaps, if I were to take Robinson away and hear his story—while you might hear what she has to say?”
“I? But indeed I don’t know her, I assure you I have never seen her before,” said Edgar in dismay.
“Never mind, she knows you. She is just the sort of person to prefer to confide in one whom she does not see every day. I’ll leave you with her, Earnshaw. Perhaps it will be best if you step this way, Robinson; I shall hear what you have to say here.”
Robinson followed his superior promptly into a smaller room. Edgar was left with the culprit; and it is scarcely possible to realize a less comfortable position. What was he to do with her? He was not acquainted either with her or her class; he did not know how to address her. She looked like a lady, but yet was not a lady, and for the present moment she was on her trial. Was he to laugh, as he felt inclined to do, at the shabby trick his friend had played him, or was he to proceed gravely with his mission? Miss Lockwood solved this question for herself.