‘There’s no partridges about in May, Miss Luttrell,’ said Mrs. Oswald, quietly smiling to herself at the fancy picture of Ernest seated in congenial converse with the Rector, Colonel Turnbull, and young Luttrell; ‘but as to Mr. Le Breton, I DO happen to know where he’s stopping, though it’s not often that I know any Calcombe gossip, save and except what you’re good enough to tell me when you drop in, ma’am; for Mr. Le Breton’s stopping here, in this house, with us, ma’am, this very minute.’
‘In this house, Mrs. Oswald!’ the old lady cried with a start, wagging her unsteady old head this time in genuine surprise; ‘why, I didn’t know you let lodgings. I thought you and your daughter were too much of fine ladies for THAT, really. I’m glad to hear it. I’ll leave a note for him.’
‘No, Miss Luttrell, we don’t let lodgings, ma’am, and we don’t need to,’ Mrs. Oswald answered, proudly. ‘Mr. Le Breton’s stopping here as my son’s guest. They were friends at Oxford together: and now that Mr. Le Breton has got his holiday, like, Harry’s asked him down to spend a fortnight at Calcombe Pomeroy. And if you’ll leave a note I’ll be very happy to give it to him as soon as he comes in, for he’s out walking now with Harry and Edith.’
Old Miss Luttrell sat for half a minute in unwonted silence, revolving in her poor puzzled head what line of tactics she ought to adopt under such a very singular and annoying combination of circumstances. Stopping at the village grocer’s!—this was really too atrocious! The Le Bretons were all as mad as hatters, that she knew well; all except the mother, who was a sensible person, and quite rational. But old Sir Owen was a man with the most absurd religious fancies—took an interest in the souls of the soldiers; quite right and proper, of course, in a chaplain, but really too ridiculous in a regular field officer. No doubt Ernest Le Breton had taken up some equally extraordinary notions—liberty, equality, fraternity, and a general massacre, probably; and he had picked up Harry Oswald as a suitable companion in his revolutionary schemes and fancies. There was no knowing what stone wall one of those mad Le Bretons might choose to run his head against. Still, the practical difficulty remained—how could she extricate herself from this awkward dilemma in such a way as to cover herself with glory, and inflict another bitter humiliation on poor Mrs. Oswald? If only she had known sooner that Ernest was stopping at the Oswalds, she wouldn’t have been so loud in praise of the Le Breton family; she would in that case have dexterously insinuated that Lady Le Breton was only a half-pay officer’s widow, living on her pension; and that her boys had got promotion at Oxford as poor scholars, through the Archdeacon’s benevolent influence. It was too late now, however, to adopt that line of defence; and she fell back accordingly upon the secondary position afforded her by the chance of taking down Mrs. Oswald’s intolerable insolence in another fashion.
‘Oh, he’s out walking with your daughter, is he?’ she said, maliciously. ‘Out walking with your daughter, Mrs. Oswald, NOT with your son. I saw her passing down the meadows half an hour ago with a strange young man; and her brother stopped behind near the millpond. A strange young man; yes, I noticed particularly that he looked like a gentleman, and I was quite surprised that you should let her walk out with him in that extraordinary manner. Depend upon it, Mrs. Oswald, when young gentlemen in Mr. Le Breton’s position go out walking with young women in your daughter’s position, they mean no good by it—they mean no good by it. Take my advice, Mrs. Oswald, and don’t permit it. Mr. Le Breton’s a very nice young man, and well brought up no doubt—I know his mother’s a woman of principle—still, young men will be young men; and if your son goes bringing down his fine Oxford acquaintances to Calcombe Pomeroy, and you and your husband go flinging Miss Jemima—her name’s Jemima, I think—at the young men’s heads, why, then, of course, you must take the consequences—you must take the consequences!’ And with this telling Parthian shot discharged carefully from the shadow of the doorway, accompanied by a running comment of shrugs, nods, and facial distortions, old Miss Luttrell successfully shuffled herself out of the shop, her list unfinished, leaving poor Mrs. Oswald alone and absolutely speechless with indignation. Ernest Le Breton never got a note of invitation from the Squire’s sister: but before nightfall all that was visitable in Calcombe Pomeroy had heard at full length of the horrid conspiracy by which those pushing upstart Oswalds had inveigled a son of poor Lady Le Breton’s down to stop with them, and were now trying to ruin his prospects by getting him to marry their brazen-faced hussey, Jemima Edith.
When Edie returned from her walk that afternoon, Mrs. Oswald went up into her bedroom to see her daughter. She knew at once from Edie’s radiant blushing face and moist eyes what had taken place, and she kissed the pretty shrinking girl tenderly on her forehead. ‘Edie darling, I hope you will be happy,’ she whispered significantly.
‘Then you guess it all, mother dear?’ asked Edie, relieved that she need not tell her story in set words.
‘Yes, darling,’ said the mother, kissing her again. ‘And you said “yes.”’
Edie coloured once more. ‘I said “yes,” mother, for I love him dearly.’
‘He’s a dear fellow,’ the mother answered gently; ‘and I’m sure he’ll do his best to make you happy.’