CHAPTER VIII.
The Entertainment at the Shop.
THE botanical lecture passed off very well indeed, and was productive of real and permanent advantage to Harbour Green, by giving to Myra Witherington a totally new study of character. She talked so completely like Herr Hartstong for the rest of the day, that even her mother was deceived, and would not enter the drawing-room till she had changed her cap, in consideration of the totally new voice which she heard proceeding from within. Strange to say, Harry Thornleigh, who last time had been so contemptuous, had now thrown himself most cordially into Lady Mary’s plans, so cordially that he made of himself a missionary to gain new converts for her.
“I will take those books you promised to Mrs. Smith, and try to persuade her to come to the lecture. Is there anyone else I can look up for you, Aunt Mary?” said this reformed character.
“Do, Harry; go to the Red House, and to the Rectory, and tell them half-past twelve precisely. We did not quite settle upon the hour,” said Lady Mary. “And you might ask Sissy Witherington to send round to some of the other people; she knows them all. You will meet us at the schoolroom? So many thanks!”
“I shall be there,” said Harry, cheerily, marching off with his books under his arm.
If Lady Mary had not been so busy, no doubt she would have asked herself the cause of this wonderful conversion; but with a lecture to attend to in the morning, and an entertainment at night, what time had she for lesser matters? And she had to send some servants to Berkeley Square to get the rooms ready, as the family were to dine and sleep there; altogether she had a great deal upon her hands. Harry had his difficulties, too, in getting safely out of the house without Phil, who, abandoned by Edgar, and eluded by his cousin, was in a very restless state of mind, and had determined this morning, of all others, not to be left behind. Harry, however, inspired by the thoughts of Mrs. Smith, was too clever for Phil, and shot down the avenue like an arrow, with his books under his arm, happy in his legitimate and perfectly correct errand, to which no one could object. He left his message with the Witheringtons on his way, for he was too happy not to be virtuous, poor fellow. It damped his ardour dreadfully to find that no plea he could put forth would induce Margaret to go to the lecture.
“I don’t take any interest in botany,” she said, “and I have no time for it, to keep it up if I began.”
“What of that,” said Harry; “do you think I take an interest in botany?”
“But you are a great florist, Mr. Thornleigh,” she said, demurely. It was some time before he remembered his pretence about the flowers.
“I shall bring you some specimens of my skill to-morrow,” he said, laughing, with a flush of pleasure. At least, if she would not come to-day, here was an excuse for making another day happy—and as a lover lives upon the future, Harry was partially consoled for his disappointment. I don’t think he got much good of the lecture; perhaps no one got very much good. Ellen Gregory did not come, for botany was not in her list of subjects for the pupil-teachers’ examination, and Lady Mary did not take any notes, but only lent the students the encouragement of her presence; for she could not, notwithstanding what she had said, quite disabuse her own mind from the impression that this was a young-lady-like science, and not one of those which train the mind to thought. So that on the whole, as I have said, the chief result was that Myra “got up” Herr Hartstong to the great delight of all the light-minded population at Harbour Green, who found the professor much more amusing in that audacious young mimic’s rendering than in his own person.
In the afternoon the whole party went to London. “Everybody is going,” said little Molly, in huge excitement. “It is like the pantomime; and Phil is to do the cheering. Shouldn’t you like to be him, Harry? It will almost be as good as being on the stage oneself.”
“Don’t talk of things you don’t understand,” said Phil, who was too grand to be spoken to familiarly, and whose sense of responsibility was almost too heavy for perfect happiness. “I sha’n’t cheer unless they deserve it. But the rehearsal was awful fun,” he added, unbending. “You’ll say you never saw anything better, if they do half as well to-night.”
Tottenham’s was gorgeous to behold when the guests began to arrive. The huge central hall, with galleries all round it, and handsome carpeted stairs leading on every hand up to the galleries, was the scene of the festivity. On ordinary occasions the architectural splendour of this hall was lost, in consequence of the crowd of tables, and goods, and customers which filled it. It had been cleared, however, for the entertainment. Rich shawls in every tint of softened colour were hung about, coloured stuffs draped the galleries, rich carpets covered the floors; no palace could have been more lavish in its decorations, and few palaces could have employed so liberally those rich Oriental fabrics which transcend all others in combinations of colour. Upstairs, in the galleries, were the humbler servants of the establishment, porters, errand boys, and their relatives; down below were “the young ladies” and “the gentlemen” of Tottenham’s occupying the seats behind their patrons in clouds of white muslin and bright ribbons.
“Very nice-looking people, indeed,” the Duchess of Middlemarch said, as she came in on Mr. Tottenham’s arm, putting up her eyeglass. Many of the young ladies curtseyed to Her Grace in sign of personal acquaintance, for she was a constant patroness of Tottenham’s. “I hope you haven’t asked any of my sons,” said the great lady, looking round her with momentary nervousness.
Mr. Tottenham himself was as pleased as if he had been exhibiting “a bold tenantry their country’s pride” to his friends. “They are nice-looking, though I say it as shouldn’t,” he said, “and many of them as good as they look.” He was so excited that he began to give the Duchess an account of their benefit societies, and saving banks, and charities, to which Her Grace replied with many benevolent signs of interest, though I am afraid she did not care any more about them than Miss Annetta Baker did about the lecture. She surveyed the company, as they arrived, through her double eyeglass, and watched “poor little Mary Horton that was, she who married the shopkeeper,” receiving her guests, with her pretty children at her side. It was very odd altogether, but then, the Hortons were always odd, she said to herself—and graciously bowed her head as Mr. Tottenham paused, and said, “How very admirable!” with every appearance of interest.
A great many other members of the aristocracy shared Her Grace’s feelings, and many of them were delighted by the novelty, and all of them gazed at the young ladies and gentlemen of the establishment as if they were animals of some unknown description. I don’t think the gentlemen and the young ladies were at all offended. They gazed too with a kindred feeling, and made notes of the dresses, and watched the manners and habits of “the swells” with equal curiosity and admiration. The young ladies in the linen and in the cloak and mantle department were naturally more excited about the appearance of the fine ladies from a book-of-fashion point of view than were the dressmakers and milliners, who sat, as it were, on the permanent committee of the “Mode,” and knew “what was to be worn.” But even they were excited to find themselves in the same room with so many dresses from Paris, with robes which Wörth had once tried on, and ribbons which Elise had touched. I fear all these influences were rather adverse to the due enjoyment of the trial scene from Pickwick, with Miss Robinson in the part of Serjeant Buzfuz. The fine people shrugged their shoulders, and lifted their eyebrows at each other, and cheered ironically now and then with twitters of laughter; and the small people were too intent upon the study of their betters to do justice to the performance. Phil, indeed, shrieked with laughter, knowing all the points, with the exactitude of a showman, and led his claque vigorously; but I think, on the whole, the employés of Tottenham’s would have enjoyed this part of the entertainment more had their attention been undisturbed. After the first part of the performances was over, there was an interval for “social enjoyment;” and it was now that the gorgeous footmen appeared with the ices, about whom Mr. Tottenham had informed his children. Lady Mary, perhaps, required a little prompting from her husband before she withdrew herself from the knot of friends who had collected round her, and addressed herself instead to the young ladies of the shop.
“Must we go and talk to them, Mr. Tottenham? Will they like it? or shall we only bore them?” asked the fine ladies.
The Duchess of Middlemarch was, as became her rank, the first to set them the example. She went up with her double eyeglass in her hand to a group of the natives who were standing timorously together—two young ladies and a gentleman.
“It has been very nice, has it not,” said Her Grace; “quite clever. Will you get me an ice, please? and tell me who was the young woman—the young lady who acted so well? I wonder if I have seen her when I have been here before.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies. “She is in the fancy department, Miss Robinson. Her father is at the head of the cloaks and mantles, Your Grace.”
“She did very nicely,” said the Duchess, condescendingly, taking the ice from the young man whom she had so honoured. “Thanks, this will do very well, I don’t want to sit down. It is very kind of Mr. Tottenham, I am sure, to provide this entertainment for you. Do you all live here now?—and how many people may there be in the establishment? He told me, but I forget.”
It was the gentleman who supplied the statistics, while the Duchess put up her eyeglass, and once more surveyed the assembly. “You must make up quite a charming society,” she said; “like a party in a country-house. And you have nice sitting-rooms for the evening, and little musical parties, eh? as so many can sing, I perceive; and little dances, perhaps?”
“Oh no, Your Grace,” said one of the young ladies, mournfully. “We have practisings sometimes, when anything is coming off.”
“And we have an excellent library, Your Grace,” said the gentleman, “and all the new books. There is a piano in the ladies’ sitting-room, and we gentlemen have chess and so forth, and everything extremely nice.”
“And a great deal of gossip, I suppose,” said Her Grace; “and I hope you have chaperons to see that there is not too much flirting.”
“Oh, flirting!” said all three, in a chorus. “There is a sitting-room for the ladies, and another for the gentlemen,” the male member of the party said, somewhat primly, for he was one of the class of superintendents, vulgarly called shopwalkers, and he knew his place.
“Oh—h!” said the Duchess, putting down her eyeglass; “then it must be a great deal less amusing than I thought!”
“It was quite necessary, I assure you, Your Grace,” said the gentleman; and the two young ladies who had been tittering behind their fans, gave him each a private glance of hatred. They composed their faces, however, as Mr. Tottenham came up, called by the Duchess from another group.
“You want me, Duchess?” how fine all Tottenham’s who were within hearing, felt at this—especially the privileged trio, to whom she had been talking, “Duchess!” that sublime familiarity elevated them all in the social scale.
“Nothing is perfect in this world,” said Her Grace, with a sigh. “I thought I had found Utopia; but even your establishment is not all it might be. Why aren’t they all allowed to meet, and sing, and flirt, and bore each other every evening, as people do in a country house?”
“Come, Duchess, and look at my shawls,” said Mr. Tottenham, with a twinkle out of his grey eyes. Her Grace accepted the bait, and sailed away, leaving the young ladies in a great flutter. A whole knot of them collected together to hear what had happened, and whisper over it in high excitement.
“I quite agree with the Duchess,” said Miss Lockwood, loud enough to be heard among the fashionables, as she sat apart and fanned herself, like any fine lady. Her handsome face was almost as pale as ivory, her cheeks hollow. Charitable persons said, in the house, that she was in a consumption, and that it was cruel to stop her duet with Mr. Watson, and to inquire into her past life, when, poor soul, it was clear to see that she would soon be beyond the reach of all inquiries. It was the Robinsons who had insisted upon it chiefly—Mr. Robinson, who was at the head of the department, and who had daughters of his own, about whom he was very particular. His youngest was under Miss Lockwood, in the shawls and mantles, and that was why he was so inexorable pursuing the matter; though why he should make objections to Miss Lockwood’s propriety, and yet allow Jemima to act in public, as she had just done, was more than the shop could make out. Miss Lockwood sat by herself, having thus been breathed upon by suspicion; but no one in the place was more conspicuous. She had an opera cloak of red, braided with gold, which the young ladies knew to be quite a valuable article, and her glossy dark hair was beautifully dressed, and her great paleness called attention to her beauty. She kept her seat, not moving when the others did, calling to her anyone she wanted, and indeed, generally taking upon herself the rôle of fine lady. And partly from sympathy for her illness, partly from disapproval of what was called the other side, the young ladies and gentlemen of Tottenham’s stood by her. When she said, “I agree with the Duchess,” everybody looked round to see who it was that spoke.
When the pause for refreshments was over, Mr. Tottenham led Her Grace back to her place, and the entertainment recommenced. The second part was simply music. Mr. Watson gave his solo on the cornet, and another gentleman of the establishment accompanied one of the young ladies on the violin, and then they sang a number of part songs, which was the best part of the programme. The excitement being partially over, the music was much better attended to than the Trial Scene from Pickwick; and all the fine people, used to hear Joachim play, or Patti sing, listened with much gracious restraint of their feelings. It had been intended at first that the guests and the employés should sup together, Mr. Robinson offering his arm to Lady Mary, and so on. But at the last moment this arrangement had been altered, and the visitors had wine and cake, and sandwiches and jellies in one room, while the establishment sat down to a splendid table in another, and ate and drank, and made speeches and gave toasts to their hearts’ content, undisturbed by any inspection. What a place it was! The customers went all over it, conducted by Mr. Tottenham and his assistants through the endless warehouses, and through the domestic portion of the huge house, while the young ladies and gentlemen of Tottenham’s were at supper. The visitors went to the library, and to the sitting-rooms, and even to the room which was used as a chapel, and which was full of rough wooden chairs, like those in a French country church, and decorated with flowers. This curious adjunct to the shop stood open, with faint lights burning, and the spring flowers shedding faint odours.
“I did not know you had been so High Church, Mr. Tottenham,” said the Duchess. “I was not prepared for this.”
“Oh, this is Saint Gussy’s chapel,” cried Phil, who was too much excited to be kept silent. “We all call it Saint Gussy’s. There is service every day, and it is she who puts up the flowers. Ah, ah!”
Phil stopped suddenly, persuaded thereto by a pressure on the arm, and saw Edgar standing by him in the crowd. There were so many, and they were all crowding so close upon each other, that his exclamation was not noticed. Edgar had been conjoining to the other business which detained him in town a great deal of work about the entertainment, and he had appeared with the other guests in the evening, but had been met by Lady Augusta with such a face of terror, and hurried anxious greeting, that he had withdrawn himself from the assembly, feeling his own heart beat rather thick and fast at the thought, perhaps, of meeting Gussy without warning in the midst of this crowd. He had kept himself in the background all the evening, and now he stopped Phil, to send a message to his father.
“Say that he will find me in his room when he wants me; and don’t use a lady’s name so freely, or tell family jokes out of the family,” he said to the boy, who was ashamed of himself. Edgar’s mind was full of new anxieties of which the reader shall hear presently. The Entertainment was a weariness to him, and everything connected with it. He turned away when he had given the message, glad to escape from the riot—the groups trooping up and down the passages, and examining the rooms as if they were a settlement of savages—the Duchess sweeping on in advance on Mr. Tottenham’s arm, with her double eye-glass held up. He turned away through an unfrequented passage, dimly lighted and silent, where there was nothing to see, and where nobody came. In the distance the joyful clatter of the supper-table, where all the young ladies and gentlemen of the establishment were enjoying themselves came to his ears on one side—while the soft laughter and hum of voices on the other, told of the better bred crowd who were finding their way again round other staircases and corridors to the central hall. It is impossible, I suppose, to hear the sounds of festive enjoyment with which one has nothing to do, and from which one has withdrawn thus sounding from the distance without some symptoms of a gentle misanthropy, and that sense of superiority to common pursuits and enjoyments which affords compensation to those who are left out in the cold, whether in great things or small things. Edgar’s heart was heavy, and he felt it more heavy in consequence of the merry-making. Among all these people, so many of whom he had known, was there one that retained any kind thought of him—one that would not, like Lady Augusta, the kindest of them all, have felt a certain fright at his re-appearance, as of one come from the dead? Alas, he ought to have remained dead, when socially he was so. Edgar felt, at least, his resurrection ought not to have been here.
With this thought in his mind, he turned a dim corner of the white passage, where a naked gaslight burned dimly. He was close to Mr. Tottenham’s room, where he meant to remain until he was wanted. With a start of surprise, he saw that some one else was in the passage coming the other way, one of the ladies apparently of the fashionable party. The passage was narrow, and Edgar stood aside to let her pass. She was wrapped in a great white cloak, the hood half over her head, and came forward rapidly, but uncertain, as if she had lost herself. Just before they met, she stopped short, and uttered a low cry.
Had not his heart told him who it was? Edgar stood stock still, scarcely breathing, gazing at her. He had wondered how this meeting would come about, for come it must, he knew—and whether he would be calm and she calm, as if they had met yesterday? Yet when the real emergency arrived he was quite unprepared for it. He did not seem able to move, but gazed at her as if all his heart had gone into his eyes, incapable of more than the mere politeness of standing by to let her pass, which he had meant to do when he thought her a stranger. The difficulty was all thrown upon her. She too had made a pause. She looked up at him with a tremulous smile and a quivering lip. She put out her hands half timidly, half eagerly; her colour changed from red to pale, and from pale to red. “Have you forgotten me, then?” she said.