“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.