‘He says it’s a cruel, brutal sport, papa,’ Lynmouth put in parenthetically, in spite of an angry glance from Hilda; ‘and he won’t let me go while I’m his pupil.’
Lord Exmoor’s face grew very red indeed, and he rose from the sofa angrily. ‘So that’s it, Mr. Le Breton!’ he said, in a short sharp fashion. ‘You think pigeon-shooting cruel and brutal, do you? Will you have the goodness to tell me, sir, do you know that I myself am in the habit of shooting pigeons at matches?’
‘Yes,’ Ernest answered, without flinching a muscle.
‘Yes!’ cried Lord Exmoor, growing redder and redder. ‘You knew that, Mr. Le Breton, and yet you told my son you considered the practice brutal and cruel! Is that the way you teach him to honour his parents? Who are you, sir, that you dare set yourself up as a judge of me and my conduct? How dare you speak to him of his father in that manner? How dare you stir him up to disobedience and insubordination against his elders? How dare you, sir; how dare you?’
Ernest’s face began to get red in return, and he answered with unwonted heat, ‘How dare you address me so, yourself, Lord Exmoor? How dare you speak to me in that imperious manner? You’re forgetting yourself, I think, and I had better leave you for the present, till you remember how to be more careful in your language. But Lynmouth is not to go pigeon-shooting. I object to his going, because the sport is a cruel and a brutal one, whoever may practise it. If I have any authority over him, I insist upon it that he shall not go. If he goes, I shall not stop here any longer. You can do as you like about it, of course, but you have my final word upon the matter. Lynmouth, go down to the study.’
‘Stop, Lynmouth,’ cried his father, boiling over visibly with indignation: ‘Stop. Never mind what Mr. Le Breton says to you; do you hear me? Go out if you choose with Gerald Talfourd.’
Lynmouth didn’t wait a moment for any further permission. He ran downstairs at once and banged the front door soundly after him with a resounding clatter. Lady Hilda looked imploringly at Ernest, and whispered half audibly, ‘Now you’ve done it.’ Ernest stood a second irresolute, while the Earl tramped angrily up and down the drawing-room, and then he said in a calmer voice, ‘When would it be convenient, Lord Exmoor, that I should leave you?’
‘Whenever you like,’ Lord Exmoor answered violently. ‘To-day if you can manage to get your things together. This is intolerable, absolutely intolerable! Gross and palpable impertinence; in my own house, too! “Cruel and brutal,” indeed! “Cruel and brutal.” Fiddlesticks! Why, it’s not a bit different from partridge-shooting!’ And he went out, closely followed by Ernest, leaving Lady Hilda alone and frightened in the drawing-room.
Ernest ran lightly upstairs to his own little study sitting-room. ‘I’ve done it this time, certainly, as Lady Hilda said,’ he thought to himself; ‘but I don’t see how I could possibly have avoided it. Even now, when all’s done, I haven’t succeeded in saving the lives of the poor innocent tortured pigeons. They’ll be mangled and hunted for their poor frightened lives, anyhow. Well, now I must look out for that imaginary schoolmastership, and see what I can do for dear Edie. I shan’t be sorry to get out of this after all, for the place was an impossible one for me from the very beginning. I shall sit down this moment and write to Edie, and after that I shall take out my portmanteau and get the man to help me put my luggage up to go away this very evening. Another day in the house after this would be obviously impossible.’
At that moment there came a knock at the door—a timid, tentative sort of knock, and somebody put her head inquiringly halfway through the doorway. Ernest looked up in sudden surprise. It was Lady Hilda.