FLAT REBELLION.
For the next fortnight Ernest remained at the Red Lion, though
painfully conscious that he was sadly wasting his little reserve of
funds from his late tutorship, in order to find out exactly what
the Oswalds' position would be after the loss of poor Harry. Towards
the end of that time he took Edie, pale and pretty in her simple
new mourning, out once more into the Bourne Close for half an hour's
quiet conversation. Very delicate and sweet and refined that tiny
girlish face and figure looked in the plain unostentatious black
and white of her great sorrow, and Ernest felt as he walked along
by her side that she seemed to lean upon him naturally now; the
loss of her main support and chief advisor in life seemed to draw
her closer and closer every day to her one remaining prop and future
husband.
'Edie,' he said to her, as they rested once more beside the
old wooden bridge across the little river, 'I think it's time now
we should begin to talk definitely over our common plans for the
future. I know you'd naturally rather wait a little longer before
discussing them; I wish for both our sakes we could have deferred
it; but time presses, and I'm afraid from what I hear in the village
that things won't go on henceforth exactly as they used to do with
your dear father and mother.'
Edie coloured slightly as she answered, 'Then you've heard of all
that already, Ernest'--she was learning to call him 'Ernest' now
quite naturally. 'The Calcombe tattle has got round to you so soon!
I'm glad of it, though, for it saves me the pain of having to tell
you. Yes, it's quite true, and I'm afraid it will be a terrible,
dreadful struggle for poor darling father and mother.' And the
tears came up afresh, as she spoke, into her big black eyes--too
familiar with them of late to make her even try to brush them away
hastily from Ernest's sight with her little handkerchief.
'I'm sorry to know it's true,' Ernest said, taking her hand gently;
'very, very sorry. We must do what we can to lighten the trouble
for them.'
'Yes,' Edie replied, looking at him through her tears; 'I mean to
try. At any rate, I won't be a burden to them myself any longer.
I've written already up to an agency in London to see whether they
can manage to get me a place as a nursery-governess.'
'You a governess, Edie!' Ernest exclaimed hastily, with a gesture
of deprecation. 'You a governess! Why, my own precious darling,
you would never do for it!'
'Oh yes, indeed,' Edie answered quickly, 'I really think I could,
Ernest. Of course I don't know very much--not judged by a standard
like yours or our dear Harry's. Harry used to say all a woman
could ever know was to find out how ignorant she was. Dear fellow!
he was so very learned himself he couldn't understand the complacency
of little perky, half-educated schoolmistresses. But still, I know
quite as much, I think, in my little way, as a great many girls
who get good places in London as governesses. I can speak French
fairly well, you know, and read German decently; and then dear
Harry took such a lot of pains to make me get up books that he
thought were good for me--history and so forth--and even to teach
me a little, a very little, Latin. Of course I know I'm dreadfully
ignorant; but not more so, I really believe, than a great many
girls whom people consider quite well-educated enough to teach
their daughters. After all, the daughters themselves are only women,
too, you see, Ernest, and don't expect more than a smattering of
book-knowledge, and a few showy fashionable accomplishments.'
'My dear Edie,' Ernest answered, smiling at her gently in spite
of her tearful earnestness; 'you quite misunderstand me. It wasn't
THAT I was thinking of at all. There are very few governesses and
very few women anywhere who have half the knowledge and accomplishments
and literary taste and artistic culture that you have; very few
who have had the advantage of associating daily with such a man as
poor Harry; and if you really wanted to get a place of the sort,
the mere fact that you're Harry's sister, and that he interested
himself in superintending your education, ought, by itself, to
ensure your getting a very good one. But what I meant was rather
this--I couldn't endure to think that you should be put to all the
petty slights and small humiliations that a governess has always
to endure in rich families. You don't know what it is, Edie; you
can't imagine the endless devices for making her feel her dependence
and her artificial inferiority that these great people have devised
in their cleverness and their Christian condescension. You don't
know what it is, Edie, and I pray heaven you may never know; but
_I_ do, for I've seen it--and, darling, I CAN'T let you expose
yourself to it.'
To say the truth, at that moment there rose very vividly before
Ernest's eyes the picture of poor shy Miss Merivale, the governess
at Dunbude to little Lady Sybil, Lynmouth's younger sister. Miss
Merivale was a rector's daughter--an orphan, and a very nice girl
in her way; and Ernest had often thought to himself while he lived
at the Exmoors', 'With just the slightest turn of Fortune's wheel
that might be my own Edie.' Now, for himself he had never felt any
sense of social inferiority at all at Dunbude; he was an Oxford
man, and by the ordinary courtesy of English society he was always
treated accordingly in every way as an equal. But there were
galling distinctions made in Miss Merivale's case which he could
not think of even at the time without a blush of ingenuous shame,
and which he did not like now even to mention to pretty, shrinking,
eager little Edie. One thing alone was enough to make his cheeks burn
whenever he thought of it--a little thing, and yet how unendurable!
Miss Merivale lunched with the family and with her pupil in the
middle of the day, but she did not dine with them in the evening.
She had tea by herself instead in Lady Sybil's little school-room.
Many a time when Ernest had been out walking with her on the
terrace just before dinner, and the dressing-gong sounded, he had
felt almost too ashamed to go in at the summons and leave the poor
little governess out there alone with her social disabilities.
The gong seemed to raise such a hideous artificial barrier between
himself and that delicately-bred, sensitive, cultivated English
lady. That Edie should be subjected to such a life of affronts as
that was simply unendurable. True, there are social distinctions
of the sort which even Ernest Le Breton, communist as he was,
could not practically get over; but then they were distinctions
familiarised to the sufferers from childhood upward, and so perhaps
a little less insupportable. But that Harry Oswald's sister--that
Edie, his own precious delicate little Edie, a dainty English
wild-flower of the tenderest, should be transplanted from her own
appreciative home to such a chilly and ungenial soil as that--the
very idea of it was horribly unspeakable.
'But, Ernest,' Edie answered, breaking in upon his bitter meditation,
'I assure you I wouldn't mind it a bit. I know--it's very dreadful,
but then,'--and here she blushed one of her pretty apologetic little
blushes--'you know I'm used to it. People in business always are.
They expect to be treated just like servant--now THAT, I know you'll
say, is itself a piece of hubris, the expression of a horrid class
prejudice. And so it is, no doubt. But they do, for all that. As
dear Harry used to say, even the polypes in aristocratic useless
sponges at the sea-bottom won't have anything to say to the sponges
of commerce. I'm sure nobody I could meet in a governess's place
could possibly be worse in that respect than poor old Miss Catherine
Luttrell.'
'That may be true, Edie darling,' Ernest answered, not caring
to let her know that he had overheard a specimen of the Calcombe
squirearchy, 'but in any case I don't want you to be troubled now,
either with old Miss Luttrell or any other bitter old busybodies.
I want to speak seriously to you about a very different project.
Just look at this advertisement.'
He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Edie. It
ran thus:--
'WANTED at Pilbury Regis Grammar School, Dorset, a
Third Classical Master. Must be a Graduate of Oxford or
Cambridge; University Prizeman preferred. If unmarried,
to take house duty. Commence September 20th. Salary,
200L a year. Apply, as above, to the Rev. J. Greatrex,
D.D., Head Master.'
Edie read it through slowly. 'Well, Ernest?' she said, looking up
from it into his face. 'Do you think of taking this mastership?'
'If I can get it,' Ernest answered. 'You see, I'm not a University
Prizeman, and that may be a difficulty in the way; but otherwise
I'm not unlikely to suit the requirements. Herbert knows something
of the school--he's been down there to examine; and Mrs. Greatrex
had a sort of distant bowing acquaintance with my mother; so I hope
their influence might help me into it.'
'Well, Ernest?' Edie cried again, feeling pretty certain in her
own heart what was coming next, and reddening accordingly.
'Well, Edie, in that case, would you care to marry at once, and try
the experiment of beginning life with me upon two hundred a year?
I know it's very little, darling, for our wants and necessities,
brought up as you and I have been: but Herr Max says, you know,
it's as much as any one family ought ever to spend upon its own
gratifications; and at any rate I dare say you and I could manage
to be very happy upon it, at least for the present. In any case it
would be better than being a governess. Will you risk it, Edie?'
'To me, Ernest,' Edie answered with her unaffected simplicity,
'it really seems quite a magnificent income. I don't suppose any
of our friends or neighbours in Calcombe spend nearly as much as
two hundred a year upon their own families.'
'Ah, yes, they do, darling. But that isn't the only thing. Two
hundred a year is a very different matter in quiet, old-world,
little Calcombe and in a fashionable modern watering-place like
Pilbury Regis. We shall have to live in lodgings, Edie, and live
very quietly indeed; but even so I think it will be better than for
you to go out and endure the humiliation of becoming a governess.
Then I may understand that, if I can get this mastership, you'll
consent to be married, Edie, before the end of September?'
'Oh, Ernest, that's dreadfully soon!'
'Yes, it is, darling; but you must have a very quiet wedding; and
I can't bear to leave you here now any longer without Harry to
cheer and protect you. Shall we look upon it as settled?'
Edie blushed and looked down as she answered almost inaudibly,
'As you think best, dear Ernest.'
So that very evening Ernest sent off an application to Pilbury
Regis, together with such testimonials as he had by him, mentioning
at the same time his intention to marry, and his recent engagement
at Lord Exmoor's. 'I hope they won't make a point about the
University Prize, Edie,' he said timidly; 'but I rather think they
don't mean to insist upon it. I'm afraid it may be put in to some
extent mainly as a bait to attract parents. Advertisements are often
so very dishonest. At any rate, we can only try; and if I get it,
I shall be able to call you my little wife in September.'
So soon after poor Harry's death he hardly liked to say much about
how happy that consciousness would make him; but he sent off the
letter with a beating heart, and waited anxiously for the head
master's answer.
'Maria,' said Dr. Greatrex to his wife next morning, turning over
the pile of letters at the breakfast table, 'who do you think has
applied for the third mastership? Very lucky, really, isn't it?'
'Considering that there are some thirty millions of people
in England, I believe, Dr. Greatrex,' said his wife with dignity,
'that some seventy of those have answered your advertisement, and
that you haven't yet given me an opportunity even of guessing which
it is of them all, I'm sure I can't say so far whether it's lucky
or otherwise.'
'You're pleased to be satirical, my dear,' the doctor answered
blandly; he was in too good a humour to pursue the opening further.
'But no matter. Well, I'll tell you, then; it's young Le Breton.'
'Not Lady Le Breton's son!' cried Mrs. Greatrex, forgetting her
dignity in her surprise. 'Well, that certainly is very lucky. Now,
if we could only get her to come down and stay with us for a week
sometimes, after he's been here a little while, what a splendid
advertisement it would be for the place, to be sure, Joseph!'
'Capital!' the head master said, eyeing the letter complacently
as he sipped his coffee. 'A perfect jewel of a master, I should
say, from every possible point of view. Just the sort of person
to attract parents and pupils. "Allow me to introduce you to our
third master, Mr. Le Breton; I hope Lady Le Breton was quite well
when you heard from her last, Le Breton?" and all that sort of
thing. Depend upon it, Maria, there's nothing in the world that
makes a middle-class parent--and our parents are unfortunately
all middle-class--prick up his ears like the faintest suspicion or
echo of a title. "Very good school," he goes back and says to his
wife immediately; "we'll send Tommy there; they have a master who's
an honourable or something of the sort; sure to give the boys a
thoroughly high gentlemanly tone." It's snobbery, I admit, sheer
snobbery: but between ourselves, Maria, most people are snobs,
and we have to live, professionally, by accommodating ourselves
to their foolish prejudices.'
'At the same time, doctor,' said his wife severely, 'I don't think
we ought to allow it too freely, at least with the door open.'
'You're quite right, my dear,' the head master answered submissively,
rising at the same time to shut the door. 'But what makes this
particular application all the better is that young Le Breton would
come here straight from the Earl of Exmoor's where he has been
acting as tutor to the son and heir, Viscount Lynmouth. That's
really admirable, now, isn't it? Just consider the advantages of
the situation. A doubtful parent comes to inspect the arrangements;
sniffs at the dormitories, takes the gauge of the studies, snorts
over the playground, condescends to approve of the fives courts.
Then, after doing the usual Christian principles business and
working in the high moral tone a little, we invite him to lunch,
and young Le Breton to meet him. You remark casually in the most
unconscious and natural fashion--I admit, my dear, that you do these
little things much better than I do--"Oh, talking of cricket, Mr.
Le Breton, your old pupil, Lord Lynmouth, made a splendid score the
other day at the Eton and Harrow." Fixes the wavering parent like
a shot. "Third master something or other in the peerage, and has
been tutor to a son of Lord Exmoor's. Place to send your boys to
if you want to make perfect gentlemen of them." I think we'd better
close at once with this young man's offer, Maria. He's got a very
decent degree, too; a first in Mods and Greats; really very decent.'
'But will he take a house-mastership do you think, doctor?' asked
the careful lady.
'No, he won't; he's married or soon going to be. We must let him
off the house duty.'
'Married!' said Mrs. Greatrex, turning it over cautiously. 'Who's
he going to marry, I wonder? I hope somebody presentable.'
'Why, of course!' Dr. Greatrex answered, as who should feel shocked
at the bare suggestion that a young man of Ernest Le Breton's
antecedents could conceivably marry otherwise.
'His wife, or rather his wife that is to be, is a sister, he tells
me, of that poor Mr. Oswald--the famous mathematician, you know,
of Oriel--who got killed, you remember, by falling off the Matterhorn
or somewhere, just the other day. You must have seen about it in
the "Times."'
'I remember,' Mrs. Greatrex answered, in placid contentment; 'and
I should say you can't do better than take him immediately. It'd
be an excellent thing for the school, certainly. As the third
mastership's worth only two hundred a year, of course he can't
intend to marry upon THAT; so he must have means of his own, which
is always a good thing to encourage in an under-master: or if his
wife has money, that comes in the end to the same thing. They'll take
a house of their own, no doubt; and she'll probably entertain--very
quietly, I daresay; still, a small dinner now and then gives a very
excellent tone to the school in its own way. Social considerations,
as I always say, Joseph, are all-important in school management;
and I think we may take it for granted that Mr. Le Breton would be
socially a real acquisition.'
So it was shortly settled that Dr. Greatrex should write back
accepting Ernest Le Breton as third master; and Mrs. Greatrex
began immediately dropping stray allusions to 'Lady Le Breton, our
new master's mother, you know,' among her various acquaintance,
especially those with rising young families. The doctor and she
thought a good deal of this catch they were making in the person of
Ernest Le Breton. Poor souls, they little knew what sort of social
qualities they were letting themselves in for. A firebrand or a
bombshell would really have been a less remarkable guest to drop
down straight into the prim and proper orthodox society of Pilbury
Regis.
When Ernest received the letter in which Dr. Greatrex informed him
that he might have the third mastership, he hardly knew how to contain
his joy. He kissed Edie a dozen times over in his excitement, and
sat up late making plans with her which would have been delightful
but for poor Edie's lasting sorrow. In a short time it was all duly
arranged, and Ernest began to think that he must go back to London
for a day or two, to let Lady Le Breton hear of his change of plans,
and got everything in order for their quiet wedding. He grudged the
journey sadly, for he was beginning to understand now that he must
take care of the pence for Edie's sake as well as for humanity's--his
abstraction was individualising itself in concrete form--but
he felt so much at least was demanded of him by filial duty, and,
besides, he had one or two little matters to settle at Epsilon
Terrace which could not so well be managed in his absence even
by his trusty deputy, Ronald. So he ran up to town once more in a
hurry, and dropped in as if nothing had happened, at his mother's
house. It was no unusual matter for him to pass a fortnight at
Wilton Place without finding time to call round at Epsilon Terrace
to see Ronald, and his mother had not heard at all as yet of his
recent change of engagement.
Lady Le Breton listened with severe displeasure to Ernest's account of
his quarrel with Lord Exmoor. It was quite unnecessary and wrong,
she said, to prevent Lynmouth from his innocent boyish amusements.
Pigeon-shooting was practised by the very best people, and she was
quite sure, therefore, there could be no harm of any sort in it.
She believed the sport was countenanced, not only by bishops, but
even by princes. Pigeons, she supposed, had been specially created
by Providence for our use and enjoyment--'their final cause
being apparently the manufacture of pigeon-pie,' Ronald suggested
parenthetically: but we couldn't use them without killing them,
unfortunately; and shooting was probably as painless a form of
killing as any other. Peter or somebody, she distinctly remembered,
had been specially commanded to arise, kill, and eat. To object to
pigeon-shooting indeed, in Lady Le Breton's opinion, was clearly
flying in the face of Providence. Of Ronald's muttered reference
to five sparrows being sold for two farthings, and yet not one of
them being forgotten, she would not condescend to take any notice.
However, thank goodness, the fault was none of hers; she could
wash her hands entirely of all responsibility in the matter. She
had done her best to secure Ernest a good place in a thoroughly
nice family, and if he chose to throw it up at a moment's notice
for one of his own absurd communistical fads, it was happily none
of her business. She was glad, at any rate, that he'd got another
berth, with a conscientious, earnest, Christian man like Dr.
Greatrex. 'And indeed, Ernest,' she said, returning once more to
the pigeon-shooting question, 'even your poor dear papa, who was
full of such absurd religious fancies, didn't think that sport
was unchristian, I'm certain; for I remember once, when we were
quartered at Moozuffernugger in the North-West Provinces, he went
out into a nullah near our compound one day, and with his own hand
shot a man-eating tiger, which had carried off three little native
children from the thanah; so that shows that he couldn't really
object to sport; and I hope you don't mean to cast disrespect upon
the memory of your own poor father!'. All of which profound moral
and religious observations Ernest, as in duty bound, received with
the most respectful and acquiescent silence.
And now he had to approach the more difficult task of breaking
to his mother his approaching marriage with Edie Oswald. He began
the subject as delicately as he could, dwelling strongly upon poor
Harry Oswald's excellent position as an Oxford tutor, and upon
Herbert's visit with him to Switzerland--he knew his mother too
well to suppose that the real merits of the Oswald family would
impress her in any way, as compared with their accidental social
status; and then he went on to speak as gently as possible about
his engagement with little Edie. At this point, to his exceeding
discomfiture, Lady Le Breton adopted the unusual tactics of bursting
suddenly into a flood of tears.
'Oh, Ernest,' she sobbed out inarticulately through her scented
cambric handkerchief, 'for heaven's sake don't tell me that you've
gone and engaged yourself to that designing girl! Oh, my poor,
poor, misguided boy! Is there really no way to save you?'
'No way to save me!' exclaimed Ernest, astonished and disconcerted
by this unexpected outburst.
'Yes, yes!' Lady Le Breton went on, almost passionately. 'Can't
you manage somehow to get yourself out of it? I hope you haven't
utterly compromised yourself! Couldn't dear Herbert go down
to What's-his-name Pomeroy, and induce the father--a grocer, if
I remember right--induce him, somehow or other, to compromise the
matter?'
'Compromise!' cried Ernest, uncertain whether to laugh or be angry.
'Yes, compromise it!' Lady Le Breton answered, endeavouring to
calm herself. 'Of course that Machiavellian girl has tried to drag
you into it; and the family have aided and abetted her; and you've
been weak and foolish--though not, I trust, wicked--and allowed them
to get their net closed almost imperceptibly around you. But it
isn't too late to withdraw even now, my poor, dear, deluded Ernest.
It isn't too late to withdraw even now. Think of the disgrace and
shame to the family! Think of your dear brothers and their blighted
prospects! Don't allow this designing girl to draw you helplessly
into such an ill-assorted marriage! Reflect upon your own future
happiness! Consider what it will be to drag on years of your life
with a woman, no longer perhaps externally attractive, whom you
could never possibly respect or love for her own internal qualities!
Don't go and wreck your own life, and your brothers' lives, for any
mistaken and Quixotic notions of false honour! You mayn't like to
throw her over, after you've once been inveigled into saying "Yes"
(and the feeling, though foolish, does your heart credit); but
reflect, my dear boy, such a promise, so obtained, can hardly be
considered binding upon your conscience! I've no doubt dear Herbert,
who's a capital man of business, would get them readily enough to
agree to a compromise or a compensation.'
'My dear mother,'said Ernest white with indignation, but speaking
very quietly, as soon as he could edge in a word, 'you quite
misunderstand the whole question. Edie Oswald is a lady by nature,
with all a lady's best feelings--I hate the word because of its
false implications, but I can't use any other that will convey to
you my meaning--and I love and admire and respect and worship her
with all my heart and with all my soul. She hasn't inveigled me or
set her cap at me, as you call it, in any way; she's the sweetest,
timidest, most shrinking little thing that ever existed; on the contrary,
it is I who have humbly asked her to accept me, because I know no
other woman to whom I could give my whole heart so unreservedly.
To tell you the truth, mother, with my ideas and opinions, I could
hardly be happy with any girl of the class that you would call
distinctively ladies: their class prejudices and their social
predilections would jar and grate upon me at every turn. But Edie
Oswald's a girl whom I could worship and love without any reserve--whom
I can reverence for her beautiful character, her goodness, and her
delicacy of feeling. She has honoured me by accepting me, and I'm
going to marry her at the end of this month, and I want, if possible,
to get your consent to the marriage before I do so. She's a wife
of whom I shall be proud in every way; I wish I could think she
would have equal cause to be proud of her husband.'
Lady Le Breton threw herself once more into a paroxysm of tears.
'Oh, Ernest,' she cried, 'do spare me! do spare me! This is too
wicked, too unfeeling, too cruel of you altogether! I knew already
you were very selfish and heartless and headstrong, but I didn't
know you were quite so unmanageable and so unkind as this. I appeal
to your better nature--for you HAVE a better nature--I'm sure you
have a better nature: you're MY son, and you can't be utterly devoid
of good impulses. I appeal confidently to your better nature to
throw off this unhappy, designing, wicked girl before it is too
late! She has made you forget your duty to your mother, but not,
I hope, irrevocably. Oh, my poor, dear, wandering boy, won't you
listen to the voice of reason? won't you return once more like the
prodigal son, to your neglected mother and your forgotten duty?'
'My dear mother,' Ernest said, hardly knowing how to answer, 'you
WILL persist in completely misunderstanding me. I love Edie Oswald
with all my heart; I have promised to marry her, because she has
done me the great and undeserved honour of accepting me as her
future husband; and even if I wanted to break off the engagement
(which it would break my own heart to do), I certainly couldn't
break it off now without the most disgraceful and dishonourable
wickedness. That is quite fixed and certain, and I can't go back
upon it in any way.'
'Then you insist, you unnatural boy,' said Lady Le Breton, wiping
her eyes, and assuming the air of an injured parent, 'you insist,
against my express wish, in marrying this girl Osborne, or whatever
you call her?'
'Yes, I do, mother,' Ernest answered quietly.
'In that case,' said Lady Le Breton, coldly, 'I must beg of you
that you won't bring this lady, whether as your wife or otherwise,
under my roof. I haven't been accustomed to associate with the
daughters of tradesmen, and I don't wish to associate with them
now in any way.'
'If so,' Ernest said, very softly, 'I can't remain under your roof
myself any longer. I can go nowhere at all where my future wife
will not be received on exactly the same terms that I am.'
'Then you had bettor go,' said Lady Le Breton, in her chilliest
manner. 'Ronald, do me the favour to ring the bell for a cab for
your brother Ernest.'
'I shall walk, thank you, mother,' said Ernest quietly. 'Good
morning, dear Ronald.'
Ronald rose solemnly and opened the door for him. 'Therefore shall
a man leave his father and mother,' he said in his clear, soft
voice, 'and shall cleave unto his wife; and they twain shall be
one flesh. Amen.'
Lady Le Breton darted a withering glance at her younger son as
Ernest shut the door after him, and burst once more into a sudden
flood of uncontrollable tears.