Before the end of the quarter, two things occurred which made almost as serious a difference to Ernest’s and Edie’s lives as the dismissal from Pilbury Regis Grammar School. It was about a week or ten days after Herr Max’s unfortunate visit that Ernest awoke one morning with a very curious and unpleasant taste in his mouth, accompanied by a violent fit of coughing. He knew what the taste was well enough; and he mentioned the matter casually to Edie a little later in the morning. Edie was naturally frightened at the symptoms, and made him go to see the school doctor. The doctor felt his pulse attentively, listened with his stethoscope at the chest, punched and pummelled the patient all over in the most orthodox fashion, and asked the usual inquisitorial personal questions about all the other members of his family. When he heard about Ronald’s predisposition, he shook his head seriously, and feared there was really something in it. Increased vocal resonance at the top of the left lung, he must admit. Some tendency to tubercular deposit there, and perhaps even a slight deep-seated cavity. Ernest must take care of himself for the present, and keep himself as free as possible from all kind of worry or anxiety.

‘Is it consumption, do you think, Dr. Sanders?’ Edie asked breathlessly.

‘Well, consumption, Mrs. Le Breton, is a very vague and indefinite expression,’ said the doctor, tapping his white shirtcuff with his nail in his slowest and most deliberate manner. ‘It may mean a great deal, or it may mean very little. I don’t want in any way to alarm you, or to alarm your husband; but there’s certainly a marked incipient tendency towards tubercular deposit. Yes, tubercular deposit... Well, if you ask me the question point-blank, I should say so... certainly... I should say it was phthisis, very little doubt of it... In short, what some people would call consumption.’

Ernest went home with Edie, comforting her all the way as well as he was able, and trying to make light of it, but feeling in his own heart that the look-out was decidedly beginning to gather blacker and darker than ever before them. Through the rest of that term he worked as well as he could; but Edie noticed every morning that the cough was getting worse and worse; and long before the time came for them to leave Pilbury he had begun to look distinctly delicate. Care for Edie and for the future was telling on him: his frame had never been very robust, and the anxieties of the last year had brought out the same latent hereditary tendency which had shown itself earlier and more markedly in the case of his brother Ronald.

Meanwhile, Dr. Greatrex was assiduous in looking about for something or other that Ernest could turn his hand to, and writing letters with indefatigable kindness to all his colleagues and correspondents: for though he was, as Ernest said, a most unmitigated humbug, that was really his only fault; and when his sympathies were once really aroused, as the Le Bretons had aroused them, there was no stone he would leave unturned if only his energy could be of any service to those whom he wished to benefit. But unfortunately in this case it couldn’t. ‘I’m at my wit’s end what to do with you, Le Breton,’ he said kindly one morning to Ernest: ‘but how on earth I’m to manage anything, I can’t imagine. For my own part, you know, though your conduct about that poor man Schurz (a well-meaning harmless fanatic, I dare say) was really a public scandal—from the point of view of parents I mean, my dear fellow, from the point of view of parents—I should almost be inclined to keep you on here in spite of it, and brave the public opinion of Pilbury Regis, if it depended entirely upon my own judgment. But in the management of a school, my dear boy, as you yourself must be aware, a head master isn’t the sole and only authority; there are the governors, for example, Le Breton, and—and—and, ur, there’s Mrs. Greatrex. Now, in all matters of social discipline and attitude, Mrs. Greatrex is justly of equal authority with me; and Mrs. Greatrex thinks it would never do to keep you at Pilbury. So, of course, that practically settles the question. I’m awfully sorry, Le Breton, dreadfully sorry, but I don’t see my way out of it. The mischief’s done already, to some extent, for all Pilbury knows now that Schurz came down here to stop with you at your lodgings: but if I were to keep you on they’d say I didn’t disapprove of Schurz’s opinions, and that would naturally be simple ruination for the school—simple ruination.’

Ernest thanked him sincerely for the trouble he had taken, but wondered desperately in his own heart what sort of future could ever be in store for them.

The second event was less unexpected, though quite equally embarrassing under existing circumstances. Hardly more than a month before the end of the quarter, a little black-eyed baby daughter came to add to the prospective burdens of the Le Breton family. She was a wee, fat, round-faced, dimpled Devonshire lass to look at, as far surpassing every previous baby in personal appearance as each of those previous babies, by universal admission, had surpassed all their earlier predecessors—a fact which, as Mr. Sanders remarked, ought to be of most gratifying import both to evolutionists and to philanthropists in general, as proving the continuous and progressive amelioration of the human race: and Edie was very proud of her indeed, as she lay placidly in her very plain little white robes on the pillow of her simple wickerwork cradle. But Ernest, though he learned to love the tiny intruder dearly afterwards, had no heart just then to bear the conventional congratulations of his friends and fellow-masters. Another mouth to feed, another life dependent upon him, and little enough, as it seemed, for him to feed it with. When Edie asked him what they should name the baby—he had just received an adverse answer to his application for a vacant secretaryship—he crumpled up the envelope bitterly in his hand, and cried out in his misery, ‘Call her Pandora, Edie, call her Pandora; for we’ve got to the very bottom of the casket, and there is nothing at all left for us now but hope—and even of that very little!’

So they duly registered her name as Pandora; but her mother shortened it familiarly into Dot; and as little Dot she was practically known ever after.

Almost as soon as poor Edie was able to get about again, the time came when they would have to leave Pilbury Regis. The doctor’s search had been quite ineffectual, and he had heard of absolutely nothing that was at all likely to suit Ernest Le Breton. He had tried Government offices, Members of Parliament, colonial friends, every body he knew in any way who might possibly know of vacant posts or appointments, but each answer was only a fresh disappointment for him and for Ernest. In the end, he was fain to advise his peccant under-master, since nothing else remained for it, that he had better go up to London for the present, take lodgings, and engage in the precarious occupation known as ‘looking about for something to turn up.’ On the morning when Edie and he were to leave the town, Dr. Greatrex saw Ernest privately in his own study.

‘I wish very much I could have gone to the station to see you off, Le Breton,’ he said, pressing his hand warmly; ‘but it wouldn’t do, you know, it wouldn’t do, and Mrs. Greatrex wouldn’t like it. People would say I sympathised secretly with your political opinions, which might offend Sir Matthew Ogle and others of our governors. But I’m sorry to get rid of you, really and sincerely sorry, my dear fellow; and apart from personal feeling, I’m sure you’d have made a good master in most ways, if it weren’t for your most unfortunate socialistic notions. Get rid of them, Le Breton, I beg of you: do get rid of them. Well, the only thing I can advise you now is to try your hand, for the present only—till something turns up, you know—at literature and journalism. I shall be on the look-out for you still, and shall tell you at once of anything I may happen to hear of. But meanwhile, you must try to be earning something. And if at any time, my dear friend, you should be temporarily in want of money,’—the doctor said this in a shame-faced, hesitating sort of way, with not a little humming and hawing—‘in want of money for immediate necessities merely, if you’ll only be so kind as to write and tell me, I should consider it a pleasure and a privilege to lend you a ten pound note, you know—just for a short time, till you saw your way clear before you. Don’t hesitate to ask me now, be sure; and I may as well say, write to me at the school, Le Breton, not at the school-house, so that even Mrs. Greatrex need never know anything about it. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve put a small sum into this envelope—only twenty pounds—which may be of service to you, as a loan, as a loan merely; if you’ll take it—only till something turns up, you know—you’ll really be conferring a great favour upon me. There, there, my dear boy; now don’t be offended: I’ve borrowed money myself at times, when I was a young man like you, and I hadn’t a wife and family then as an excuse for it either. Put it in your pocket, there’s a good fellow; you’ll need it for Mrs. Le Breton and the baby, you see; now do please put it in your pocket.’

The tears rode fast and hot in Ernest’s eyes, and he grasped the doctor’s other hand with grateful fervour. ‘Dear Dr. Greatrex,’ he said as well as he was able, ‘it’s too kind of you, too kind of you altogether. But I really can’t take the money. Even after the expenses of Edie’s illness and of baby Dot’s wardrobe, we have a little sum, a very little sum laid by, that’ll help us to tide over the immediate present. It’s too good of you, too good of you altogether. I shall remember your kindness for ever with the most sincere and heartfelt gratitude.’

As Ernest looked into the doctor’s half-averted eyes, swimming and glistening just a little with sympathetic moisture, his heart smote him when he thought that he had ever described that good, kindly, generous man as an unmitigated humbug. ‘It shows how little one can trust the mere outside shell of human beings,’ he said to Edie, self-reproachfully, as they sat together in their hare third-class carriage an hour later. ‘The humbug’s just the conventional mask of his profession—necessary enough, I suppose, for people who are really going to live successfully in the world as we find it: the heart within him’s a thousand times warmer and truer and more unspoiled than one could ever have imagined from the outer covering. He offered me his twenty pounds so delicately and considerately that but for my father’s blood in me, Edie, for your sake, I believe I could almost have taken it.’

When they got to London, Ernest wished to leave Edie and Dot at Arthur Berkeley’s rooms (he knew nowhere else to leave them), while he went out by himself to look about for cheap lodgings. Edie was still too weak, he said, to carry her baby about the streets of London in search of apartments. But Edie wouldn’t hear of this arrangement; she didn’t quite like going to Arthur’s, and she felt sure she could bargain with the London landladies a great deal more effectually than a man like Ernest—which was an important matter in the present very reduced condition of the family finances. In the end it was agreed that they should both go out on the hunt together, but that Ernest should be permitted to relieve Edie by turns in taking care of the precious baby.

‘They’re dreadful people, I believe, London landladies,’ said Edie, in her most housewifely manner; ‘regular cheats and skinflints, I’ve always heard, who try to take you in on every conceivable point and item. We must be very careful not to let them get the better of us, Ernest, and to make full inquiries about all extras, and so forth, beforehand.’

They turned towards Holloway and the northern district, to look for cheap rooms, and they saw a great many, more or less dear, and more or less dirty and unsuitable, until their poor hearts really began to sink within them. At last, in despair, Edie turned up a small side street in Holloway, and stopped at a tiny house with a clean white curtain in its wee front bay window. ‘This is awfully small, Ernest,’ she said, despondently, ‘but perhaps, after all, it might really suit us.’

The door was opened for them by a tall, raw-boned, hard-faced woman, the very embodiment and personification of Edie’s ideal skinflint London landlady. Might they see the lodgings, Edie asked dubiously. Yes, they might, indeed, mum, answered the hard-faced woman. Edie glanced at Ernest significantly, as who should say that these would really never do.

The lodgings were very small, but they were as clean as a new pin. Edie began to relent, and thought, perhaps in spite of the landlady, they might somehow manage to put up with them. ‘What was the rent?’

The hard-faced landlady looked at Edie steadily, and then answered ‘Fifteen shillings, mum.’

‘Oh, that’s too much for us, I’m afraid,’ said Edie ruefully. ‘We don’t want to go as high as that. We’re very poor and quiet people.’

‘Well, mum,’ the landlady assented quickly, ‘it is ‘igh for the rooms, perhaps, mum, though I’ve ‘ad more; but it IS ‘igh, mum. I won’t deny it. Still, for you, mum, and the baby, I wouldn’t mind making it twelve and sixpence.’

‘Couldn’t you say half-a-sovereign?’ Edie asked timidly, emboldened by success.

‘Arf a suvveran, mum? Well, I ‘ardly rightly know,’ said the hard-faced landlady deliberately. ‘I can’t say without askin’ of my ‘usband whether he’ll let me. Excuse me a minnit, mum; I’ll just run down and ask ‘im.’

Edie glanced at Ernest, and whispered doubtfully, ‘They’ll do, but I’m afraid she’s a dreadful person.’

Meanwhile, the hard-faced landlady had run downstairs quickly, and called out in a pleasant voice of childish excitement to her husband. ‘John, John,’ she cried—‘drat that man, where’s he gone to. Oh, a smokin’ of course, in the back kitching. Oh, John, there’s the sweetest little lady you ever set eyes on, all in black, with a dear baby, a dear little speechless infant, and a invalid ‘usband, I should say by the look of ‘im, ‘as come to ask the price of the ground floor lodgin’s. And seein’ she was so nice and kindlike, I told her fifteen shillings, instead of a suvveran; and she says, can’t you let ‘em for less? says she; and she was that pretty and engagin’ that I says, well, for you I’ll make it twelve and sixpence, mum, says I: and says she, you couldn’t say ‘arf a suvveran, could you? and says I, I’ll ask my ‘usband: and oh, John, I DO wish you’d let me take ‘em at that, for a kinder, sweeter-lookin’ dearer family I never did, an’ that I tell you.’

John drew his pipe slowly out of his mouth—he was a big, heavy, coachman-built sort of person, in waistcoat and shirt-sleeves—and answered with a kindly smile, ‘Why, Martha, if you want to take ‘em for ‘arf a suvveran, in course you’d ought to do it. Got a baby, pore thing, ‘ave she now? Well, there, there, you just go this very minnit, and tell ‘em as you’ll take ‘em.’

The hard-faced landlady went up the stairs again, only stopping a moment to observe parenthetically that a sweeter little lady she never did, and what was ‘arf-a-crown a week to you and me, John? and then, holding the corner of her apron in her hand, she informed Edie that her ‘usband was prepared to accept the ten shillings weekly.

‘I’ll try to make you and the gentleman comfortable, mum,’ she said, eagerly; ‘the gentleman don’t look strong, now do he? We must try to feed ‘im up and keep ‘im cheerful. And we’ve got plenty of flowers to make the room bright, you see: I’m very fond of flowers myself, mum: seems to me as if they was sort of company to one, like, and when you water ‘em and tend ‘em always, I feel as if they was alive, and got to know one again, I do, and that makes one love ‘em, now don’t it, mum? To see ‘em brighten up after you’ve watered ‘em, like that there maiden-’air fern there, why it’s enough to make one love ‘em the same as if they was Christians, mum.’ There was a melting tenderness in her voice when she talked about the flowers that half won over Edie’s heart, even in spite of her hard features.

‘I’m glad you’re so fond of flowers, Mrs.——. Oh, you haven’t told us your name yet,’ Edie said, beginning vaguely to suspect that perhaps the hard-faced landlady wasn’t quite as bad as she looked to a casual observer.

‘Alliss, mum,’ the landlady answered, filling up Edie’s interrogatory blank. ‘My name is ‘Alliss.’

‘Alice what?’ Edie asked again.

‘Oh, no, mum, you don’t rightly understand me,’ the landlady replied, getting very red, and muddling up her aspirates more decidedly than ever, as people with her failing always do when they want to be specially deliberate and emphatic: ‘not Halice, but ‘Alliss; haitch, hay, hell, hell, hi, double hess—‘Alliss: my full name’s Martha ‘Alliss, mum; my ‘usband’s John ‘Alliss. When would you like to come in?’

‘At once,’ Edie answered. ‘We’ve left our luggage at the cloak-room at Waterloo, and my husband will go back and fetch it, while I stop here with the baby.’

‘Not that, he shan’t, indeed, mum,’ cried the hard-faced landlady, hastily; ‘beggin’ your pardon for sayin’ so. Our John shall go—that’s my ‘usband, mum; and you shall give ‘im the ticket. I wouldn’t let your good gentleman there go, and ‘im so tired, too, not for the world, I wouldn’t. Just you give me the ticket, mum, and John shall go this very minnit and fetch it.’

‘But perhaps your husband’s busy,’ said Ernest, reflecting upon the probable cost of cab hire; ‘and he’ll want a cab to fetch it in.’

‘Bless your ‘eart, sir,’ said the landlady, busily arranging things all round the room meanwhile for the better accommodation of the baby, ‘’e ain’t noways busy ‘e ain’t. ‘E’s a lazy man, nowadays, John is: retired from business, ‘e says, sir, and ain’t got nothink to do but clean the knives, and lay the fires, and split the firewood, and such like. John were a coachman, sir, in a gentleman’s family for most of ‘is life, man and boy, these forty year, come Christmas; and we’ve saved a bit o’ money between us, so as we don’t need for nothink: and ‘e don’t want the cab, puttin’ you to expense, sir, onnecessary, to bring the luggage round in. ‘E’ll just borrer the hand-barrer from the livery in the mews, sir, and wheel it round ‘isself, in ‘arf an hour, and make nothink of it. Just you give me the ticket, and set you right down there, and I’ll make you and the lady a cup of tea at once, and John’ll bring round the luggage by the time you’ve got your things off.’

Ernest looked at Edie, and Edie looked at Ernest. Could they have judged too hastily once more, after their determination to be lenient in first judgments for the future? So Ernest gave Mrs. Halliss the cloak-room ticket, and Mrs. Halliss ran downstairs with it immediately. ‘John,’ the cried again, ‘—drat that man, where’s ‘e gone to? Oh, there you are, dearie! Just you put on your coat an’ ‘at as fast as ever you can, and borrer Tom Wood’s barrer, and run down to Waterloo, and fetch up them two portmanteaus, will you? And you drop in on the way at the Waterfield dairy—not Jenkins’s: Jenkins’s milk ain’t good enough for them—and tell ‘em to send round two penn’orth of fresh this very minnit, do y’ear, John, this very minnit, as it’s extremely pertickler. And a good thing I didn’t give you them two eggs for your dinner, as is fresh-laid by our own ‘ens this mornin’, and no others like ‘em to be ‘ad in London for love or money; and they shall ‘ave ‘em boiled light for their tea this very evenin’. And you look sharp, John,—drat the man, ‘ow long ‘e is—for I tell yon, these is reel gentlefolk, and them pore too, which makes it all the ‘arder; and they’ve got to be treated the same in every respect as if they was paying a ‘ole suvverin, bless their ‘earts, the pore creechurs.’

‘Pore,’ said John, vainly endeavouring to tear on his coat with becoming rapidity under the influence of Mrs. Halliss’s voluble exhortations. ‘Pore are they, pore things? and so they may be. I’ve knowed the sons of country gentlemen, and that baronights too, Martha, as ‘ad kep’ their ‘ounds, redooced to be that pore as they couldn’t have afforded to a took our lodgings, even ‘umble as they may be. Pore ain’t nothink to do with it noways, as respecks gentility. I’ve lived forty years in gentlemen’s families, up an’ down, Martha, and I think I’d ought to know somethink about the ‘abits and manners of the aristocracy. Pore ain’t in the question at all, it ain’t, as far as breedin’ goes: and if they’re pore, and got to be gentlefolks too all the same’—John spoke of this last serious disability in a tone of unfeigned pity—‘why, Martha, wot I says is, we’d ought to do the very best we can for ‘em any ‘ow, now, oughtn’t we?’

‘Drat the man!’ cried Mrs. Halliss again, impatiently; ‘don’t stand talkin’ and sermonin’ about it there no longer like a poll parrot, but just you run along and send in the milk, like a dear, will you? or that dear little lady’ll have to be waitin’ for her tea—and her with a month-old baby, too, the pretty thing, just to think of it!’

And indeed, long before John Halliss had got back again with the two wee portmanteaus—‘I could ‘a carried that lot on my ‘ead,’ he soliloquised when he saw them, ‘without ‘avin’ troubled to wheel round a onnecessary encumbrance in the way of a barrer’—Mrs. Halliss had put the room tidy, and laid the baby carefully in a borrowed cradle in the corner, and brought up Edie and Ernest a big square tray covered by a snow-white napkin—‘My own washin’, mum’—and conveying a good cup of tea, a couple of crisp rolls, and two such delicious milky eggs as were never before known in the whole previous history of the county of Middlesex. And while they drank their tea, Mrs. Halliss insisted upon taking the baby down into the kitchen, so that they mightn’t be bothered, pore things; for the pore lady must be tired with nursin’ of it herself the livelong day, that she must: and when she got it into the kitchen, she was compelled to call over the back yard wall to Mrs. Bollond, the greengrocer’s wife next door, with the ultimate view to getting a hare’s brain for the dear baby to suck at through a handkerchief. And Mrs. Bollond, being specially so invited, came in by the area door, and inspected the dear baby; and both together arrived at the unanimous conclusion that little Dot was the very prettiest and sweetest child that ever sucked its fat little fingers, Lord bless her!

And in the neat wee parlour upstairs, Edie, pouring out tea from the glittering tin teapot into one of the scrupulously clean small whitey-gold teacups, was saying meanwhile to Ernest, ‘Well, after all, Ernest dear, perhaps London landladies aren’t all quite as black as they’re usually painted.’ A conclusion which neither Edie nor Ernest had ever after any occasion for altering in any way.