TOTTY'S LUCK
'The Little Shop with the Large Heart' had suffered a grave loss: Miss
Totty Nancarrow had withdrawn her custom from it.
Totty had patronised Mrs. Bower very steadily for some five years. It
was true that the large-hearted shop put a rather large price on
certain things, in comparison with what they _could_ be bought for in
Lambeth. If you wanted a pot of marmalade, for instance, Mrs. Bower
sold it for sixpence, whereas it was notoriously purchasable for
fivepence-halfpenny at grocers in Lambeth Walk. If you went for a
quarter of a pound of butter, you had no choice of quality, and paid
fourpence three farthings, whilst in Lambeth Walk you obtained a better
article for the even fourpence. Totty, however, had a principle that
one ought to deal rather with acquaintances than with strangers, and
another principle that it was better to pay a halfpenny more for an
article to be had by crossing the street than a halfpenny less and go a
whole street's length for it. True girl of the people was Totty, herein
as in other respects. It was a simple fact that Mrs. Bower's business
depended on the indolence and indifference to small economies of those
women who lived in her immediate neighbourhood. It is the same kind of
thing that leads working people to pay for having meat badly cooked at
the baker's instead of cooking it cheaply and well themselves; that
leads them to buy expensive, ready-prepared suppers at the pork
butcher's and the fried-fish shop, instead of tossing up an equally
good and very cheap supper for themselves.
Considering her income, Totty had spent a great deal with Mrs. Bower,
as you remember that lady once remarking. Totty had a mind to live on
luxuries; if she had not money enough for both bread and marmalade, she
chose to have the marmalade alone; if she could not buy meat and
pickles at the same time, she would have pickles and go without meat.
Marmalade and pickles she deemed the indispensables of life; if you
could not get those--well, it was no uncommon thing for poor creatures
to be driven to the workhouse. And the strange thing was that she
looked so well on such diet. Since the age of fifteen, when, in truth,
she had been a little peaked and terribly tenuous at the waist, her
personal appearance had steadily improved. Her spirits had, by degrees,
reached their present point of perpetual effervescence. But Totty could
be grave, and, if occasion were, sad.
She had been both grave and sad many a time since Thyrza had gone away.
She reproached herself in secret for her 'nastiness' to the little one
at their last meeting, nastiness for which, as it proved, there was no
justification whatever. Now she was sad for poor old Mr. Boddy's death.
She knew that it was another hard blow to Lydia, and, as you are aware,
in her heart she respected Lydia profoundly. Her sorrow led to that one
practical result--no more marmalade and pickles from Mrs. Bower. The
Bowers had behaved vilely; from every point of view, that was
demonstrable. Under the circumstances, they ought to have done without
their rent, if need were, till Doomsday when, as Totty understood, all
such arrears are made good to one with the utmost accuracy--nay, with
interest to boot. She had not seen any reason for quarrelling with the
Bowers on the score of the scandal they spread about Thyrza, since
there really seemed ground for their stories; and it was right that
'goings on' of that kind should be put a stop to. Totty would
always--that is, as often as she could--be scrupulously just. But this
last affair was beyond endurance. Not another penny went from her
pocket to 'The Little Shop with the Large Heart.'
Her income this past year had fallen short of what she usually counted
upon; not to a great extent, but the sum deducted had been wont to come
to her as a pure grace, and she felt the loss of it. Her uncle had
omitted to send his usual present on her birthday. Nor had he visited
her to renew the proposal that she should surrender her liberty in
return for being housed and dressed respectably. What did this mean?
Had he--it was probable enough--grown tired of her, and said to himself
that, as she wished to go her own way, go her own way she should? He
was a crusty old fellow. Totty had often wondered that he 'stood her
cheek' so good-humouredly. Yet somehow she did not think it likely that
he would break off intercourse with her in this abrupt way; no, it was
not like him. He would have, at all events, seen her for a last time,
and have given her a well-understood last chance. Was he dead? Possible
enough; his age must be nearer seventy than sixty. If dead, well, there
was an end of it. No more birthday presents; no more offers to 'be made
a lady of.'
It did not greatly matter, of course. Totty could not be expected to
nurture an affection for her crusty uncle with his shop in Tottenham
Court Road; in fact, he had behaved badly to her branch of the family,
and such behaviour cannot always be made up for. As to the offer, she
had declined it in perfect good faith. Yes, she preferred her liberty,
her innocent nights at the Canterbury Music Hall, her scampering about
the streets at all hours, her marmalade and pickles eaten off a table
covered with a newspaper in company with half a dozen friends as
harum-scarum as herself. Deliberately, she preferred these joys to
anything she could imagine as entering into the life of a 'lady.'
However, it was a fact that Christmas was very near, also a fact that
she stood pledged to marry Luke Ackroyd any day after Christmas that he
chose to claim her. She was a little sorry that she could not inform
her uncle in Tottenham Court Road of the change she was about to make
in her life; there was no knowing how he might have behaved on such an
occasion. Luke had been saving a little money of late, but it was
naturally a very little; he, foolish fellow, had a way of buying her
things which she did not in the least want, but which she could not
refuse since it gave him such enormous pleasure to offer them. Luke was
very generous, whatever his faults might be. Certain presents of his
she had returned to him, in wrath, probably once a fortnight, and when,
in the course of things, she had to take them back again, some object
was always added. The presents cost little, it is true; Totty did not
ask the price of them, but liked the kindness which suggested their
purchase. She liked many things about Luke Ackroyd; whether she really
liked him himself, liked him in 'the proper way'--well, that was a
question she asked herself often enough without any very definite
answer.
No matter, she had promised to marry him, and she was not the girl to
break her word. Now, if her uncle had still been in communication with
her, was it not a very likely thing that he would have felt a desire
to--in fact, to do something for them? It was not nice to begin married
life in furnished lodgings, especially if prudence dictated the living
in a single room, as such numbers of her acquaintances did. Totty had
discovered that couples who wedded and went to live in one furnished
room seldom got along well together. It was well if the wife did not
shortly go about with ugly-looking bruises on her face, or with her arm
in a sling. No, to be sure, Luke Ackroyd was not a man of that kind; it
was inconceivable that he should ever be harsh to her, let alone
brutal. Still, it was _not_ nice to begin in furnished lodgings. And
perhaps her uncle in Tottenham Court Road--he was, in fact, a furniture
dealer--would have seen his way to garnish for them a modest couple of
rooms, by way of wedding present. But, he having drawn back from
communication, Totty could not bring herself to his notice again, not
she.
She was thinking over all these things a week before Christmas. It was
Sunday afternoon, and, for a wonder, she was sitting alone in her room.
Mr. Bunce was at home, or she would have had little Nelly to keep her
company. Still, she said to herself that she was not sorry to have a
minute or two to put certain things straight in her mind. What a mind
it was, Totty Nancarrow's!
The landlady looked in at the door.
'Here's a gemman wants to see you, Miss Nancarrow.'
'Oh? What sort of a gentleman?'
'Why, oldish--five-an'-forty, I dessay. Greyish beard and a big nose.
Speaks very loud and important like.'
Not her uncle; he had no beard and a very small nose, and could not
thus have altered since she last saw him.
'All right. I'll go and ask him what he wants.'
Totty gave a glance at her six square inches of looking-glass, made a
movement with her hand which was like a box on each ear, then went
downstairs in her usual way, swinging by the banisters down three steps
at a time. At the door she found a person answering very fairly to the
landlady's graphic description. The experienced eye would have
perceived that he was not, in the restricted sense of the word, a
gentleman; still, he wore good clothing, and had of a truth an
important air.
'You want me, sir?' Totty asked, coming to a sudden stand in front of
him, and examining him with steady eye.
He returned the gaze with equal steadiness. Both hands rested on the
top of his umbrella, and his attitude was very much that of a man who
views a horse he has thoughts of purchasing.
'You are Miss Nancarrow, I think?' he said, clearing his throat.
'Christian name, Totty.'
'That's me, I believe.'
'Jusso! I should like to have a word with you, Miss Nancarrow, if you
will allow me.'
'You can't say it here, sir?'
'Why, no, I can't. If you could----'
Totty did not wait for him to finish, but ran away to get permission to
use the landlady's parlour. To this she introduced her visitor, who
seated himself without invitation, and, after gazing about the room,
said:
'Pray sit down, Miss Nancarrow. I've come to see you on a matter of
some importance. I am Mr. Barlow, an old friend of your uncle's. You
have possibly heard of me?'
'No, I haven't,' Totty replied.
As she spoke, it struck her that there was a broad black band round Mr.
Barlow's shiny hat.
'Ah, you haven't; jusso!'
Mr. Barlow again cleared his throat, looking about the floor as if he
were in the habit of living near a spittoon. And then he paused a
little, elevating and sinking his bushy eyebrows. Totty, who had taken
the edge of a chair, moved her feet impatiently.
'Well, Miss Totty Nancarrow,' resumed her visitor, using his umbrella
to prop his chin, and rolling out his words with evident enjoyment of
his task, 'I have the unpleasant duty of informing you that your late
uncle is dead.'
The phrase might have excited a smile. Totty kept an even countenance
and said she was sorry to hear it.
'Jusso! He has been dead nearly a month, and he was ill nearly six. I
am appointed one of the executors by his will--me and a friend of mine,
Mr. Higgins. I dare say you haven't heard of him. We've been putting
your late uncle's affairs in order.'
'Have you?' said Totty, because she had nothing else to say.
'We have. I have come to see you, Miss Nancarrow, because you are
interested in the will.'
'Oh, am I?'
It was said with a kind of disinterested curiosity. Mr. Barlow, having
regarded her fixedly for a moment, bent his head till his forehead
rested upon the umbrella, and seemed to brood.
'Don't you feel well, sir?' Totty asked, with a _naivete_ which
betrayed her impatience.
'Quite well, quite well.'
'You was saying something about my uncle's will.'
'Jusso! Your name is in the will, Miss Nancarrow. Your uncle has
bequeathed to you the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds.'
'Have you brought it with you, sir?'
'The will?'
'No, the money.'
'My dear Miss Nancarrow, things are not done in that way,' remarked Mr.
Barlow, smiling at her ingenuousness.
'How then, sir?'
'There are conditions attached to this bequest. It is my duty to
explain them to you. I shall avoid the terms of the law, out of
consideration to you, Miss Nancarrow, and try to express myself very
simply. I hope you'll be able to follow me.'
Totty regarded him with wide eyes and smiled.
'I'll do my best, sir.'
'Now please listen.' He rested one elbow on his umbrella, and with the
other hand made demonstrations in the air as he proceeded. Throughout
he spoke as one who addresses a person partly imbecile.
'This sum of two hundred and fifty pounds, Miss Nancarrow, is not--you
follow me?--is not to be given to you at once--you grasp that?--I am
trustee for the money; that means--attend, please--it lies in my hands
until the time and the occasion comes for--mind--for giving it to you.
You understand so far?'
'I shouldn't mind a harder word now and then, sir, if it makes it
easier for you.'
Mr. Barlow examined her, but Totty's face was very placid. She cast
down her eyes, and watched her toes tapping together.
'Well, well; I think you follow me. Now the conditions are these. The
money is payable to you--payable, you see--on your marriage.'
'Oh!'
'I beg you not to interrupt me. Is payable to you on your marriage, and
then--now pray attend--_not_ unless you obtain the approval of myself
and of Mr. Higgins--unless you obtain _our_ approval of the man you
propose to marry.'
'Oh!'
'You have understood, I hope?'
'I shall marry who I like, sir,' observed Totty, quietly.
Mr. Barlow looked at her with surprise.
'My dear Miss Nancarrow, nobody ever said you shouldn't. It isn't a
question of your marrying, but of two hundred and fifty pounds.'
'I don't see what it's got to do with anybody who I choose to marry.'
'Jusso, jusso! nothing could be truer. It's only a question of two
hundred and fifty pounds.'
Totty was about to make another indignant remark, but she checked
herself. Her toes were tapping together very rapidly; she watched them
for half a minute, then asked:
'And suppose I don't choose to marry anybody at all?'
'I see you are capable of following these things,' said Mr. Barlow,
smiling. 'If you reach the age of five-and-twenty without marrying, the
money goes to another purpose, of which it is not necessary to speak.'
'Oh! I don't see why my uncle bothered himself so much about me
marrying.'
'No doubt your late uncle had some good reason for these provisions,
Miss Nancarrow,' said the other, gravely. 'We should speak respectfully
of those who are no more. It seems to me your late uncle took very kind
thought for you.'
Totty considered that, but neither assented nor differed.
'Will you tell me,' she asked after a silence, speaking with a good
deal of hauteur, 'what sort of a man you'd approve of?'
'With pleasure, Miss Nancarrow; with very great pleasure. Mr. Higgins
and me have thought over the subject, have given it our best attention.
We think that by laying down three conditions we shall meet the case.'
He stared at the ceiling, till Totty asked:
'Well, and what are they, sir?'
'Pray do not interrupt me; I was about to tell you. First, then, this
man's age must be at least three-and-twenty. You understand?'
'I think I do.'
'Secondly, he must have a recognised profession, business, trade, or
handicraft, and must satisfy me and Mr. Higgins that he is able to
support a wife.'
'And then?'
'And then, as you say, Miss Nancarrow, he must be able to prove to me
and Mr. Higgins that he has lived in one and the same house for a year
previous to his marriage with you.'
Mr. Barlow delivered this with slow emphasis, as if such a test of
respectability were the finest fruit of administrative wisdom.
Totty laughed. She had expected something quite different.
'You smile, Miss Nancarrow?' remarked Mr. Barlow, with a slightly
offended air.
'No, I was laughing.'
'And at what, pray?'
'Nothing.'
'H'm. Well, I hope I have made everything clear to you.'
'All the same, sir, I shall marry whoever I like.'
'I've no doubt whatever you will. I shall leave you my address, Miss
Nancarrow, so that you can communicate with me at any moment.'
'Thank you, sir.' She took the offered card and thrust it into her
pocket. 'And if I don't want to marry at all, I shan't.'
'It is at your option, Miss Nancarrow. Now I'll say good-morning to
you. Perhaps you'll allow me to shake hands with you and congratulate
you upon this--this little fortune.'
'Oh, yes.'
Totty gave Mr. Barlow's fat hand a jerk. He drew himself up, cleared
his throat, and stalked to the door, regarding with lofty patronage the
signs of poverty about him. At the door he took off his hat, bowed,
departed.
Totty returned to her room. She resumed her former seat, and began to
hum a slow air. Then she tilted her chair back against the wall, and
turned her face upwards musing.
It was not easy for her to realise the meaning of two hundred and fifty
pounds. Reckon it up, for instance, in marmalade and pickles; it became
confusing very soon. Reckon it up in tables and chairs; ah, that was
more to the point. But even then, what a stupendous margin! For twenty
pounds you could furnish a couple of rooms in a way to make all your
neighbours envious. It was like attempting to comprehend infinity by
making clear to one's mind the distance to the moon.
The three conditions; Luke Ackroyd could satisfy them all. How often he
had said that what he wanted was a little capital to establish a
comfortable home of his own, when he would feel settled for life. No
thought now of furnished lodgings. Fancy making one's husband a present
of two hundred and fifty pounds! Much better that than receiving
presents oneself.
She was to meet Luke to-night, and it was time that a definite
arrangement was made as to their marriage. Somehow, Totty did not feel
quite so joyous as she ought to have done; she could not fix her mind
on the two hundred and fifty pounds, but it wandered off to other
things which had nothing to do with money. 'Come now,' she said to
herself at length, 'do I care for anybody more than for him? No; it's
quite certain I don't. Do I care much for him himself? Do I care for
him properly?' Suddenly she thought of Thyrza; she remembered Thyrza's
question: 'Do you love him, Totty?'
No, she did not love him. She had known it for a good many weeks. And,
what was more, she had known perfectly well that he did not love her.
There it was, no doubt. 'If he loved me, I should love him. I could; I
think I could. Not like Thyrza loved Mr. Egremont, to go mad about him;
that isn't my style; I wouldn't be so foolish about _any_ man, not I!
But I could be very fond of him. And--there's no hiding it--I'm not--I
shouldn't grieve a bit if we said good-bye to-night and never saw each
other again.'
How did she know he didn't love her? 'As if I couldn't tell! Just
listen when he speaks about Thyrza; he'd never speak about me like
that, if I ran away from him. And how he speaks about Lydia; why, even
about Lydia he thinks a good deal more than he does about me. He often
talks to me as if I was a man; he wouldn't if he--if he loved me.'
Totty found it difficult to say that word even to herself. 'The fact of
the matter is, I don't think as I shall ever care proper for anybody.
I've a good mind not to marry at all, as I always said I wouldn't. I
was right enough as long as I kept to that. The girls 'll only make fun
of me.'
Yes, but her promise?--She began to feel gloomy. Perhaps nightfall had
something to do with it. Should she make tea? No, she didn't care for
it. She would go out--somewhere.
She walked from Newport Street to Lambeth Road, passed Bethlehem
Hospital (Bedlam), and came to St. George's Cathedral. It is a long,
vast, ugly building, unfinished, for it still lacks towers; in the dark
it looked very cold and forbidding, but Totty had a sense that there
was warmth within, warmth and shelter of a kind that she needed just
now.
She entered, and, at the proper place, dropped to her knees and crossed
herself. Then she stood looking about. Near her, hanging against a
pillar, was a box with the superscription: 'For the Souls in
Purgatory.' She always put a penny into this box, and did so now.
Then she walked softly to an image of the Virgin, at whose feet someone
had laid hothouse flowers. A poor woman was kneeling there, a woman in
rags; her head was bent in prayer, her hands clasped against her
breast. Totty knelt beside her, bent her own head and clasped her hands.
Yes, it was good to be here. All was very still; but few lights were
burning. When Totty needed a mother's counsel, a mother's love, she was
wont to come here and whisper humble thoughts to the image which looked
down so soothingly upon all who made appeal. To Totty her religion was
a purely private interest. It would never, for instance, have occurred
to her to demand that her husband should be a Catholic, not even that
he should view her faith with sympathetic tolerance. No word on this
subject would ever pass her lips. What was it to any one else if she
had in secret a mother to whom she breathed her troubles and her
difficulties? Could any one grudge her that? The consolation was too
sacred to speak of. Her thoughts did not rise to a Deity; she thought
but seldom of the story which told her that Deity had taken man's form.
The Madonna was enough, the mother whose gentle heart was full of
sorrows and who had power to aid the sorrowful.
The poor ragged woman sighed deeply, rose and went forth with humble
step--went forth to who knows what miseries, what cruelties and
despairs. But in her sigh there had been consolation.'
Even so with Totty. When at length she left the church, her way was by
no means clear of all obstacles, but the trouble which had come upon
her with unwonted force was much simplified. It was plain to her that
she _could_ give herself to Ackroyd, and that to give him the two
hundred and fifty pounds would be a very substantial pleasure. Growing
accustomed to the thought of her wealth, she derived from it a quiet
pride, which made her walk homewards more staidly than usual. Luke
could never forget that she had been a great help to him.
She would let him settle everything to-night, then would tell him.
These winter nights were troublesome to an unfortunate pair who wished
to talk in a leisurely way together, yet had no shelter save that of a
place of public entertainment, or an archway under the line. And
to-night it was particularly cold; there had even fallen a little snow.
Totty and Ackroyd met, as usual, at the end of Paradise Street. It
being Sunday, they could not go to the music-hall, and it was really
impossible to stand about in the open air.
'Look here, Totty,' said Ackroyd, 'you _must_ come into the house. You
needn't see any one, unless you like. We can have the sitting-room to
ourselves. The others always sit downstairs.'
Totty hesitated, but at length assented. If the truth were known, her
two hundred and fifty pounds had probably something to do with her
yielding on this point. At present she could face Mrs. Poole on equal
terms.
So they entered the house, and Luke, having left his companion in the
parlour, went down to apprise his sister. Jane came up, and gave the
girl a civil greeting. It was not cordial, nor did Totty affect warmth
of feeling. Mrs. Poole speedily left the two to themselves.
Totty sat in her chair rather stiffly. She was not accustomed to take
her ease in rooms even as well appointed as this. Luke tried to be
merry, to show that he was delighted, to be affectionate; he did not
succeed very well. Presently they were sitting at a little distance
from each other, each waiting for the other to speak.
'When is it to be?' Ackroyd said at length, bending forward.
'I don't know. Is it _really_ to be?'
'Why not? Of course it is.'
Totty had felt colder to him than ever before, since she had entered
this room. The strangeness of the surroundings affected her
disagreeably. She wished they had walked about in the snowy streets.
'Of course you know we shall always be quarrelling,' she said, with a
laugh.
'No, we shan't. It'll be different then. At all event, it'll be your
fault if we do.'
Silence came again.
'What day?' Luke asked.
'When you like, If you really mean it.'
'Now what's the use of talking in that way? Why _shouldn't_ I mean it?'
'If I ask you a question will you answer me honest?'
She was leaning forward, with a touch of colour on her cheeks, and a
sudden curious light in her eyes; she seemed ashamed at something, and
both eager and reluctant.
'What is it? Yes, I'll answer you the truth.'
'The very truth? No, I shan't ask you. What day do you want it to be?'
'Nonsense! What was the question? I won't listen to anything till
you've told me.'
'It was a silly question. I don't really want to ask you. I forget what
it was.'
Totty was strangely unlike herself, hesitating, diffident, ashamed. He
insisted; she refused to speak. He got vexed, turned mute.
'Well then, I _will_ ask you,' Totty exclaimed of a sudden. 'And mind,
I shall know if you're honest or not. Suppose both Thyrza Trent and me
was in this room, and you had your choice between us, which would it
be?'
Ackroyd flushed, then looked seriously offended.
'Won't you answer?'
'I don't like to joke about such things.'
'And I don't either, that's the truth; that's why such a thing came
into my head. You needn't answer; I'd rather you didn't. Of course I
know what you'd have to say.'
'You are talking nonsense. There couldn't be a choice, because I've
_made_ my choice. Will you marry me or not?'
'Yes, I will. Any day you like.'
'Yes, and afterwards keep asking me questions like this.'
'It wasn't right, I know. But you're wrong when you say I should ever
speak of it again.'
'I don't know what to think, Totty. It looks very much as if _you_
didn't want to have _me_. Now look, here's a question for _you_.
Suppose I'd never asked you before to-night, and now I came and asked
you to marry me, what would you say? Now, honest.'
'You've not answered me.'
'I have.'
He spoke it significantly, and she understood him.
'Now, what _would_ you say, Totty?'
'I should say, that I couldn't say neither yes nor no for certain, and
I wanted to wait.'
'You're an honest girl. Shake hands, and let us wait another six
months.'
Totty reddened, and inwardly reproached herself with complete meanness.
But she was glad--and Luke Ackroyd was glad.