CHAPTER V.
ASKELON VILLA, GATH.
Number, 28, Epsilon Terrace, Bayswater, was one of the very smallest
houses that a person with any pretensions to move in that Society
which habitually spells itself with a capital initial could ever
possibly have dreamt of condescending to inhabit. Indeed, if
Dame Eleanor, relict of the late Sir Owen Le Breton, Knight, had
consulted merely the length of her purse and the interests of her
personal comfort, she would doubtless have found for the same rental
a far more convenient and roomy cottage in Upper Clapton or Stoke
Newington. But Lady Le Breton was a thoroughly and conscientiously
religious woman, who in all things consulted first and foremost
the esoteric interests of her ingrained creed. It was a prime
article of this cherished social faith that nobody with any shadow
of personal self-respect could endure to live under any other
postal letter than W. or S.W. Better not to be at all than to drag
out a miserable existence in the painful obscurity of N. or S.E.
Happily for people situated like Lady Le Breton, the metropolitan
house-contractor (it would be gross flattery to describe him
as a builder) has divined, with his usual practical sagacity, the
necessity for supplying this felt want for eligible family residences
at once comparatively cheap and relatively fashionable. By driving
little culs-de-sac and re-entrant alleys at the back of his larger
rows of shoddy mansions, he is enabled to run up a smaller terrace,
or crescent, or place, as the case may be, composed of tiny shallow
cottages with the narrowest possible frontage, and the tallest
possible elevation, which will yet entitle their occupiers to feel
themselves within the sacred pale of social salvation, in the blest
security of the mystic W. Narrowest, shallowest, and tallest of
these marginal Society residences is the little block of blank-faced,
stucco-fronted, porticoed rabbit-hutches, which blazons itself
forth in the Court Guide under the imposing designation of Epsilon
Terrace, Bayswater.
The interior of No. 28 in this eminently respectable back alley was
quite of a piece, it must be confessed, with the vacant Philistinism
of its naked exterior. 'Mother has really an immense amount of
taste,' Herbert Le Breton used to say, blandly, 'and all of it of
the most atrocious description; she picked it up, I believe, when
my poor father was quartered at Lahore, a station absolutely fatal
to the aesthetic faculties; and she will never get rid of it again
as long as she lives.' Indeed, when once Lady Le Breton got anything
whatsoever into her head, it was not easy for anybody else to get
it out again; you might much more readily expect to draw one of her
double teeth than to eliminate one of her pet opinions. Not that
she was a stupid or a near-sighted woman--the mother of clever
sons never is--but she was a perfectly immovable rock of social
and political orthodoxy. The three Le Breton boys--for there was
a third at home--would gladly have reformed the terrors of that
awful drawing-room if they had dared; but they knew it was as much
as their places were worth, Herbert said, to attempt a remonstrance,
and they wisely left it alone, and said nothing.
Of course the house was not vulgarly furnished, at least in the
conventional sense of the word; Lady Le Breton was far too rigid
in her social orthodoxy to have admitted into her rooms anything
that savoured of what she considered bad form, according to her
lights. It was only vulgar with the underlying vulgarity of mere
tasteless fashionable uniformity. There was nothing in it that any
well-bred footman could object to; nothing that anybody with one
grain of genuine originality could possibly tolerate. The little
occasional chairs and tables set casually about the room were of
the strictest négligé Belgravian type, a sort of studied protest
against the formal stiffness of the ordinary unused middle-class
drawing-room. The portrait of the late Sir Owen in the wee library,
presented by his brother-officers, was painted by that distinguished
R. A., Sir Francis Thomson, a light of the middle of this century;
and an excellent work of art it was too, in its own solemn academic
kind. The dining-room, tiny as it was, possessed that inevitable
Canaletti without which no gentleman's dining-room in England
is ever considered to be complete. Everything spoke at once the
stereotyped Society style of a dozen years ago (before Mr. Morris
had reformed the outer aspect of the West End), entirely free from
anything so startling or indecorous as a gleam of spontaneity in
the possessor's mind. To be sure, it was very far indeed from the
centre round-table and brilliant-flowered-table-cover style of the
utter unregenerate Philistine household; but it was further still
from the simple natural taste acd graceful fancy of Edie Oswald's
cosy little back parlour behind the village grocer's shop at
Calcombe-Pomeroy.
The portrait and the Canaletti were relics of Lady Le Breton's best
days, when Sir Owen was alive, and the boys were still in their
first babyhood. Sir Owen was an Indian officer of the old school,
a simple-minded, gentle, brave man, very religious after his
own fashion, and an excellent soldier, with the true Anglo-Indian
faculty for administration and organisation. It was partly from
him, no doubt, that the boys inherited their marked intelligence;
and it was wholly from him, beyond any doubt at all, that Ernest
and his younger brother Ronald inherited their moral or religious
sincerity--for that was an element in which poor formally orthodox
Lady Le Breton was wholly deficient. The good General had been
brought up in the strictest doctrines of the Clapham sect; he had
gone to India young, as a cadet from Haileybury; and he had applied
his intellect all his life long rather to the arduous task of
extending 'the blessings of British rule' to Sikhs and Ghoorkas, than
to those abstract ethical or theological questions which agitated
the souls of a later generation. If a new district had to be
assimilated in settlement to the established model of the British
raj, if a tribe of hill-savages had to be conciliated by gentler
means than rifles or bayonets, if a difficult bit of diplomatic
duty had to be performed on the debateable frontiers, Sir Owen Le
Breton was always the person chosen to undertake it. An earnest,
honest, God-fearing man he remained to the end, impressed by a
profound sense of duty as he understood it, and a firm conviction
that his true business in life consisted in serving his Queen and
country, and in bringing more and more of the native populations
within the pale of the Company's empire, and the future evangelisation
that was ultimately to follow. But during the great upheaval of
the Mutiny, he fell at the head of his own unrevolted regiment in
one of the hottest battles of that terrible time, and my Lady Le
Breton found herself left alone with three young children, on little
more than the scanty pension of a general officer's widow on the
late Company's establishment.
Happily, enough remained to bring up the boys, with the aid
of their terminable annuities (which fell in on their attaining
their majority), in decent respect for the feelings and demands of
exacting Society; and as the two elder were decidedly clever boys,
they managed to get scholarships at Oxford, which enabled them
to tide over the dangerous intermediate period as far as their
degree. Herbert then stepped at once into a fellowship and sundry
other good things of like sort; and Ernest was even now trying to
follow in his brother's steps, in this particular. Only the youngest
boy, Ronald, still remained quite unprovided for. Ronald was a
tall, pale, gentle, weakly, enthusiastic young fellow of nineteen,
with so marked a predisposition to lung disease that it had not been
thought well to let him run the chance of over-reading himself; and
so he had to be content with remaining at home in the uncongenial
atmosphere of Epsilon Terrace, instead of joining his two elder
brothers at the university. Uncongenial, because Ronald alone
followed Sir Owen in the religious half of his nature, and found
the 'worldliness' and conventionality of his unflinching mother a
serious bar to his enjoyment of home society.
'Ronald,' said my lady, at the breakfast-table on the very morning
of Arthur Berkeley's little luncheon party, 'here's a letter for
you from Mackenzie and Anderson. No doubt your Aunt Sarah's will
has been recovered and proved at last, and I hope it'll turn out
satisfactory, as we wish it.'
'For my part, I really almost hope it won't, mother,' said Ronald,
turning it over; 'for I don't want to be compelled to profit by
Ernest's excessive generosity. He's too good to me, just because he
thinks me the weaker vessel; but though we must bear one another's
burdens, you know, we should each bear his own cross as well,
shouldn't we, mother?'
'Well, it can't be much in any case,' said his mother, a little
testily, 'whoever gets it. Open the envelope at once, my boy, and
don't stand looking at it like a goose in that abstracted way.'
'Oh, mother, she was my father's only sister, and I'm not in such
a hurry to find out how she has disposed of her mere perishing
worldly goods,' answered Ronald, gravely. 'It seems to me a terrible
thing that before poor dear good Aunt Sarah is cold in her grave
almost, we should be speculating and conjecturing as to what she
has done with her poor little trifle of earthly riches.'
'It's always usual to read the will immediately after the funeral,'
said Lady Le Breton, firmly, to whom the ordinary usage of society
formed an absolutely unanswerable argument; 'and how you, Ronald,
who haven't even the common decency to wear a bit of crape around
your arm for her--a thing that Ernest himself, with all his
nonsensical theories, consents to do--can talk in that absurd way
about what's quite right and proper to be done, I for my part,
really can't imagine.'
'Ah, but you know, mother, I object to wearing crape on the ground
that it isn't allowable for us to sorrow as them that have no hope:
and I'm sure I'm paying no disrespect to dear Aunt Sarah's memory
in this matter, for she was always the first herself, you remember,
to wish that I should follow the dictates of my own conscience.'
'I remember she always upheld you in acts of opposition to your own
mother, Ronald,' Lady Le Breton said coldly, 'and I suppose you're
going to do honour to her religious precepts now by not opening
that letter when your mother tells you to do so. In MY Bible, sir,
I find a place for the Fourth Commandment.'
Ronald looked at her gently and unreprovingly; but though a quiet
smile played involuntarily around the corners of his mouth, he
resisted the natural inclination to correct her mistake, and to
suggest blandly that she probably alluded to the fifth. He knew
he must turn his left cheek also--a Christian virtue which he had
abundant opportunities of practising in that household; and he felt
that to score off his mother for such a verbal mistake as the one
she had just made would not be in keeping with the spirit of the
commandment to which, no doubt, she meant to refer him. So without
another word he opened the envelope and glanced rapidly at the
contents of the letter it enclosed.
'They've found the second will,' he said, after a moment, with a
rather husky voice, 'and they're taking steps to get it confirmed,
whatever that may be.'
'Broad Scotch for getting probate, I believe,' said Lady Le Breton,
in a slight tone of irony; for to her mind any departure from the
laws or language she was herself accustomed to use, assumed at once
the guise of a rank and offensive provincialism. 'Your poor Aunt
WOULD go and marry a Scotchman, and he a Scotch business man too;
so of course we must expect to put up with all kinds of ridiculous
technicalities and Edinburgh jargon accordingly. All law's bad
enough in the way of odd words, but commend me to Scotch law for
utter and meaningless incomprehensibility. Well, and what does
the second will say, Ronald?'
'There, mother,' cried Ronald, flinging the letter down hurriedly
with a burst of tears. 'Read it yourself, if you will, for I can't.
Poor dear Aunt Sarah, and dear, good unselfish Ernest! It makes me
cry even to think of them.'
Lady Le Breton took the paper up from the table without a word and
read it carefully through. 'I am very glad to hear it,' she said,
'very glad indeed to hear it. "And in order to guard against any
misinterpretation of my reasons for making this disposition of my
property," your Aunt says, "I wish to put it on record that I had
previously drawn up another will, bequeathing my effects to be divided
between my two nephews Ernest and Ronald Le Breton equally; that I
communicated the contents of that will"--a horrid Scotticism--"to
my nephew Ernest; and that at his express desire I have now revoked
it, and drawn up this present testament, leaving the share intended
for him to his brother Ronald." Why, she never even mentions dear
Herbert!'
'She knew that Herbert had provided for himself,' Ronald answered,
raising his head from his hands, 'while Ernest and I were unprovided
for. But Ernest said he could fight the world for himself, while
I couldn't; and that unearned wealth ought only to be accepted
in trust for those who were incapacitated by nature or misfortune
from earning their own bread. I don't always quite agree with
all Ernest's theories any more than you do, but we must both admit
that at least he always conscientiously acts up to them himself,
mother, mustn't we?'
'It's a very extraordinary thing,' Lady Le Breton went on, 'that Aunt
Sarah invariably encouraged both you boys in all your absurdities
and Quixotisms. She was Quixotic herself at heart, that's the truth
of it, just like your poor dear father. I remember once, when we
were quartered at Meean Meer in the Punjaub, poor dear Sir Owen
nearly got into disgrace with the colonel--he was only a sub. in
those days--because he wanted to go trying to convert his syces,
which was a most imprudent thing to do, and directly opposed to
the Company's orders. Aunt Sarah was just the same. Herbert's the
only one of you three who has never given me one moment's anxiety,
and of course poor Herbert must be passed over in absolute silence.
However, I'm very glad she's left the money to you, Ronald, as
you need it the most, and Mackenzie and Anderson say it'll come to
about a hundred and sixty a year.'
'One can do a great deal of good with that much money,' said Ronald
meditatively. 'I mean, after arranging with you, mother, for the
expenses of my maintenance at home, which of course I shall do, as
soon as the pension ceases, and after meeting one's own necessary
expenditure in the way of clothing and so forth. It's more than
any one Christian man ought to spend upon himself, I'm sure.'
'It's not at all too much for a young man in your position in
society, Ronald; but there--I know you'll want to spend half of
it on indiscriminate charity. However, there'll be time enough to
talk about that when you've actually got it, thank goodness.'
Ronald murmured a few words softly to himself, of which Lady Le
Breton only caught the last echo--'laid them down at the apostles'
feet; and distribution was made unto every man according as he had
need.'
'Just like Ernest's communistic notions,' she murmured in return,
half audibly. 'I do declare, between them both, a plain woman hardly
knows whether she's standing on her head or on her heels. I live
in daily fear that one or other of them will be taken up by the
police, for being implicated in some dynamite plot or other, to blow
up the Queen or destroy the Houses of Parliament.' Ronald smiled
again, gently, but answered nothing. 'There's another letter for
you there, though, with the Exmoor coronet upon it. Why don't you
open it? I hope it's an invitation for you to go down and stop at
Dunbude for a week or two. Nothing on earth would do you so much
good as to get away for a while from your ranters and canters, and
mix occasionally in a little decent and rational society.'
Ronald took up the second letter with a sigh. He feared as much
himself, and had doleful visions of a painful fortnight to be
spent in a big country house, where the conversation would be all
concerning the slaughter of pheasants and the torture of foxes,
which his soul loathed to listen to. 'It's from Lady Hilda,' he
said, glancing through it, 'and it ISN'T an invitation after all.'
He could hardly keep down a faint tone of gratification as he
discovered this reprieve. 'Here's what she says:--
'"DEAR MR. LE BRETON,--Mamma wishes me to write and tell you that
Lynmouth's tutor, Mr. Walsh, is going to leave us at Christmas,
and she thinks it just possible that one of your two brothers at
Oxford might like to come down to Dunbude and give us their kind
aid in taking charge of Lynmouth. He's a dreadful pickle, as you
know; but we are very anxious to get somebody to look after him in
whom mamma can have perfect confidence. We don't know your brothers'
addresses or we would have written to them direct about it. Perhaps
you will kindly let them hear this suggestion; and if they think
the matter worth while, we might afterwards arrange details as to
business and so forth. With kind regards to Lady Le Breton, believe
me,
'"Yours very sincerely,
'"HILDA TREGELLIS."'
'My dear Ronald,' said Lady Le Breton, much more warmly than before,
'this is really quite providential. Are they at Dunbude now?'
'No, mother. She writes from Wilton Place. They're up in town for
Lord Exmoor's gout, I know. I heard they were on Sunday.'
'Then I shall go and see Lady Exmoor this very morning about it.
It's exactly the right place for Ernest. A little good society
will get rid of all his nonsensical notions in a month or two. He's
lived too exclusively among his radical set at Oxford. And then
it'll be such a capital thing for him to be in the house continually
with Hilda; she's a girl of such excellent tone. I fancy--I'm not
quite sure, but I fancy--that Ernest has a decided taste for the
company of people, and even of young girls, who are not in Society.
He's so fond of that young man Oswald, who Herbert tells me is
positively the son of a grocer--yes, I'm sure he said a grocer!--and
it seems, from what Herbert writes me, that this Oswald has brought
a sister of his up this term from behind the counter, on purpose
to set her cap at Ernest. Now you boys have, unfortunately, no
sisters, and therefore you haven't seen as much of girls of a good
stamp--not daily and domestically I mean--as is desirable for you,
from the point of view of Society. But if Ernest can only be induced
to take this tutorship at the Exmoors', he'll have an opportunity
of meeting daily with a really nice girl, like Hilda; and though
of course it isn't likely that Hilda would take a fancy to her
brother's tutor--the Exmoors are such VERY conservative people
in matters of rank and wealth and family and so forth--quite
un-Christianly so, I consider--yet it can't fail to improve Ernest's
tone a great deal, and raise his standard of female society generally.
It's really a very distressing thought to me, Ronald, that all my
boys, except dear Herbert, should show such a marked preference for
low and vulgar companionship. It seems to me, you both positively
prefer as far as possible the society of your natural inferiors.
There's Ernest must go and take up with the friendship of that
snuffy old German Socialist glass-cutter; while you are always
running after your Plymouth Brethren and your Bible Christians,
and your other ignorant fanatical people, instead of going with
me respectably to St. Alphege's to hear the dear Archdeacon! It's
very discouraging to a mother, really, very discouraging.'
