'Hullo, Plantagenet, so I hear you're going up to college at Oxford2!'
Nothing on earth could well have been more unpleasant for poor Dick. He saw at once from Mr. Wells's tone that his father must have bragged3: he must have spoken of the projected trip at the White Horse last night, not as a mere5 speculative6 journey in search of a problematical and uncertain Scholarship, but as a fait accompli—a domestic arrangement dependent on the mere will of the house of Plantagenet. He must have treated his decision as when a Duke decides that he shall send his son and heir to Christ Church or Trinity.
This mode of envisaging7 the subject was doubly annoying to Dick, for not only would he feel most keenly the disgrace of returning empty-handed if he failed in the examination, but relations might perhaps become strained meanwhile between himself and Mr. Wells, if the employer thought he might at any moment be deprived of the assistant's services. However, we must all answer for the sins of our fathers: there was nothing for it now but to brazen8 it out as best he might; so Dick at once confided9 to his master the true state of the case, explaining that he would only want a few days' holiday, during which he engaged to supply an efficient substitute; that his going to Oxford permanently10 must depend on his success in the Scholarship examination; and that even if he succeeded—which he modestly judged unlikely—he wouldn't need to give up his present engagement and go into residence at the University till October.
These explanations, frankly11 given with manly12 candour, had the good effect of visibly mollifying Mr. Wells's nascent13 and half-unspoken resentment14. Richard had noticed just at first that he assumed a sarcastic15 and somewhat aggrieved16 tone, as one who might have expected to be the first person informed of this intended new departure. But as soon as all was satisfactorily cleared up, the bookseller's manner changed immediately, and he displayed instead a genuine interest in the success of the great undertaking17. To say the truth, Mr. Wells was not a little proud of his unique assistant. He regarded him with respect, not unmixed with pity.
All Chiddingwick, indeed, took a certain compassionate18 interest in the Plantagenet family. They were, so to speak, public property and local celebrities19. Lady Agatha Moore herself, the wife of the Squire20, and an Earl's daughter, always asked Mrs. Plantagenet to her annual garden-party. Chiddingwickians pointed21 out the head of the house to strangers, and observed with pardonable possessive pride: 'That's our poor old dancing-master; he's a Plantagenet born, and some people say if it hadn't been for those unfortunate Wars of the Roses he'd have been King of England. But now he holds classes at the White Horse Assembly Rooms.'
Much more then had Mr. Wells special reason to be proud of his own personal relations with the heir of the house, the final inheritor of so much shadowy and hypothetical splendour. The moment he learned the real nature of Dick Plantagenet's errand, he was kindness itself to his clever assistant. He desired to give Dick every indulgence in his power. Mind the shop? No, certainly not! Richard would want all his time now to cram22 for the examination. He must cram, cram, cram; there was nothing like cramming23!
Mr. Wells, laudably desirous of keeping well abreast24 with the educational movement of the present day, laid immense stress upon this absolute necessity for cram in the modern world. He even advised Richard to learn by heart the names and dates of all the English monarchs25 Dick could hardly forbear a smile at this na?ve but well-meant proposal. He had worked hard at Modern History, both British and continental26, in all his spare time, ever since he left the grammar school, and few men at the University knew as much as he did of our mediaeval annals. We are all for 'epochs' nowadays; and Dick's epoch27 was the earlier middle age of feudalism. But the notion that anything so childish as the names and dates of kings could serve his purpose tickled28 his gravity not a little. Still, the advice was kindly29 meant, up to Mr. Wells's lights, and Dick received it with grave courtesy, making answer politely that all these details were already familiar to him.
During the four days that remained before the trip to Oxford, Mr. Wells wouldn't hear of Richard's doing any more work in the shop than was absolutely necessary. He must spend all his time, the good man said, in reading Hume and Smollett—the latest historical authorities of whom the Chiddingwick bookseller had any personal knowledge. Dick availed himself for the most part of his employer's kindness; but there was one piece of work, he said, which he couldn't neglect, no matter what happened. It was a certain bookbinding job of no very great import—just a couple of volumes to cover in half-calf32 for the governess at the Rectory. Yet he insisted upon doing it.
Somehow, though he had only seen Mary Tudor once, for those few minutes in the shop, he attached a very singular and sentimental33 importance to binding31 that book for her. She was a pretty girl, for one thing—an extremely pretty girl—and he admired her intensely. But that wasn't all; she was a Tudor, as well, and he was a Plan-tagenet. In some vague, half-conscious way he reflected more than once that 'it had gone with a Tudor, and with a Tudor it might come back again.' What he meant by that it he hardly knew himself. Certainly not the crown of this United Kingdom; for Dick was far too good a student of constitutional history not to be thoroughly34 aware that the crown of England itself was elective, not hereditary35; and he had far too much common-sense to suppose for one moment that the people of these three realms would desire to disturb the Act of Settlement and repeal36 the union in order to place a local dancing-master or a bookseller's assistant on the throne of England—for to Scotland he hadn't even the shadowy claim of an outside pretender. As he put it himself, 'We were fairly beaten out of there once for all by the Bruce, and had never at the best of times any claim to speak of.' No; what he meant by It was rather some dim past greatness of the Plantagenet family, which the bookseller's lad hoped to win back to some small extent in the noblest and best of all ways—by deserving it.
The days wore away; Stubbs and Freeman were well thumbed; the two books for Mary Tudor were bound in the daintiest fashion known to Chiddingwickian art, and on the morning of the eventful Wednesday itself, when he was first to try his fate at Oxford, Dick took them up in person, neatly37 wrapped in white tissue-paper, to the door of the Rectory.
Half-way up the garden-path Mary met him by accident. She was walking in the grounds with one of the younger children; and Dick, whose quick imagination had built up already a curious castle in the air, felt half shocked to find that a future Queen of England, Wales, and Ireland (de jure) should be set to take care of the Rector's babies. However, he forgot his indignation when Mary, recognising him, advanced with a pleasant smile—her smile was always considered the prettiest thing about her—and said in a tone as if addressed to an equal:
'Oh, you've brought back my books, have you? That's punctuality itself. Don't mind taking them to the door. How much are they, please? I'll pay at once for them.'
Now, this was a trifle disconcerting to Dick, who had reasons of his own for not wishing her to open the parcel before him. Still, as there was no way out of it, he answered in a somewhat shamefaced and embarrassed voice: 'It comes to three-and-sixpence.'
Mary had opened the packet meanwhile, and glanced hastily at the covers. She saw in a second that the bookseller's lad had exceeded her instructions. For the books were bound in full calf, very dainty and delicate, and on the front cover of each was stamped in excellent workmanship a Tudor rose, with the initials M. T. intertwined in a neat little monogram38 beneath it. She looked at them for a moment with blank dismay in her eye, thinking just at first what a lot he must be going to charge her for it; then, as he named the price, a flush of shame rose of a sudden to her soft round cheek.
'Oh no,' she said hurriedly. 'It must be more than that. You couldn't possibly bind30 them so for only three-and-sixpence!'
'Yes, I did,' Dick answered, now as crimson39 as herself. 'You'll find the bill inside. Mr. Wells wrote it out. There's no error at all. You'll see it's what I tell you.'
Mary fingered her well-worn purse with uncertain fingers.
'Surely,' she said again, 'you've done it all in calf. Mr. Wells can't have known exactly how you were doing it.'
This put a Plantagenet at once upon his mettle40.
'Certainly he did,' Dick answered, almost haughtily41. 'It was a remnant of calf, no use for anything else, that I just made fit by designing those corners. He said I could use it up if I cared to take the trouble. And I did care to take the trouble, and to cut a block for the rose, and to put on the monogram, which was all my own business, in my own overtime42. Three-and-sixpence is the amount it's entered in the books for.'
Mary gazed hard at him in doubt. She scarcely knew what to do. She felt by pure instinct he was too much of a gentleman to insult him by offering him money for what had obviously been a labour of love to him; and yet, for her own part, she didn't like to receive those handsome covers to some extent as a present from a perfect stranger, and especially from a man in his peculiar43 position. Still, what else could she do? The books were her own; she couldn't refuse them now, merely because he chose to put a Tudor rose upon them—all the more as they contained those little marginal notes of 'localities' and 'finds' which even the amateur botanist44 prizes in his heart above all printed records; and she couldn't bear to ask this grave and dignified45 young man to take the volumes back, remove the covers on which he had evidently spent so much pains and thought, and replace them by three-and-sixpence worth of plain cloth, unlettered. In the end she was constrained46 to say frigidly47, in a lowered voice:
'They're extremely pretty. It was good of you to take so much trouble about an old book like this.
There's the money; thank you—and—I'm greatly obliged to you.'
The words stuck in her throat. She said them almost necessarily with some little stiffness. And as she spoke4 she looked down, and dug her parasol into the gravel48 of the path for nervousness. But Richard Plantagenet's pride was far deeper than her own. He took the money frankly; that was Mr. Wells's; then he answered in that lordly voice he had inherited from his father:
'I'm glad you like the design. It's not quite original; I copied it myself with a few variations from the cover of a book that once belonged to Margaret Tudor. Her initials and yours are the same. But I see you think I oughtn't to have done it. I'm sorry for that; yet I had some excuse. I thought a Plantagenet might venture to take a little more pains than usual over a book for a Tudor. Noblesse oblige.'
And as he spoke, standing49 a yard or two off her, with an air of stately dignity, he lifted his hat, and then moved slowly off down the path to the gate again.
Mary didn't know why, but with one of those impulsive50 fits which often come over sympathetic women, she ran hastily after him.
'I beg your pardon,' she said, catching51 him up, and looking into his face with her own as flushed as his. 'I'm afraid I've hurt you. I'm sure I didn't mean to. It was very, very kind of you to design and print that monogram so nicely. I understand your reasons, and I'm immensely obliged. It's a beautiful design. I shall be proud to possess it.'
As for Richard, he dared hardly raise his eyes to meet hers, they were so full of tears. This rebuff was very hard on him. But the tell-tale moisture didn't quite escape Mary.
'Thank you,' he said simply. I meant no rudeness; very much the contrary. The coincidence interested me; it made me wish to do the thing for you as well as I could. I'm sorry if I was obtrusive52. But—one sometimes forgets—or perhaps remembers. It's good of you to speak so kindly.'
And he raised his hat once more, and, walking rapidly off without another word, disappeared down the road in the direction of the High Street.
As soon as he was gone Mary went back into the Rectory. Mrs. Tradescant, the Rector's wife, was standing in the hall. Mary reflected at once that the little girl had listened open-eared to all this queer colloquy53, and that, to prevent misapprehension, the best thing she could do would be to report it all herself before the child could speak of it. So she told the whole story of the strange young man who had insisted on binding her poor dog-eared old botany-book in such regal fashion. Mrs. Tradescant glanced at it, and only smiled.
'Oh, my dear, you mustn't mind him,' she said. 'He's one of those crazy Plantagenets. They're a very queer lot—as mad as hatters. The poor old father's a drunken old wretch54; come down in the world, they say. He teaches dancing; but his mania55 is that he ought by rights to be King of England. He never says so openly, you know; he's too cunning for that; but in a covert56 sort of way he lays tacit claim to it. The son's a very well-con-ducted young man in his own rank, I believe, but as cracked as the father; and as for the daughter, oh, my dear—such a stuck-up sort of a girl, with a feather in her hat and a bee in her bonnet57, who goes out and gives music-lessons! It's dreadful, really! She plays the violin rather nicely, I hear; but she's an odious58 creature. The books? Oh yes, that's just the sort of thing Dick Plantagenet would love. He's mad on antiquity59. If he saw on the title-page your name was Mary Tudor, he'd accept you at once as a remote cousin, and he'd claim acquaintance off-hand by a royal monogram. The rose is not bad. But the best thing you can do is to take no further notice of him.'
A little later that very same morning, however, Richard Plantagenet, mad or sane60, was speeding away across country, in a parliamentary train, towards Reading and Oxford, decided61 in his own mind now about two separate plans he had deeply at heart. The first one was that, for the honour of the Plantagenets, he mustn't fail to get that Scholarship at Durham College; the second was that, when he came back with it to Chiddingwick, he must make Mary Tudor understand he was at least a gentleman. He was rather less in love with her, to be sure, after this second meeting, than he had been after the first; but, still, he liked her immensely, and in spite of her coldness was somehow attracted towards her; and he couldn't bear to think a mere Welsh Tudor, not even really royal, should feel herself degraded by receiving a gift of a daintily-bound book from the hands of the Heir Apparent of the true and only Plantagenets.
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1
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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3
bragged
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| v.自夸，吹嘘( brag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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5
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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7
envisaging
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| 想像，设想( envisage的现在分词 ) | |
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8
brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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9
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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10
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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11
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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13
nascent
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| adj.初生的，发生中的 | |
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14
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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16
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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17
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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21
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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22
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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23
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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24
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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25
monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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27
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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28
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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29
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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30
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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31
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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32
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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34
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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35
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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36
repeal
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| n.废止，撤消；v.废止，撤消 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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38
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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39
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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40
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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41
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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42
overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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43
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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44
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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45
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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46
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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47
frigidly
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| adv.寒冷地；冷漠地；冷淡地；呆板地 | |
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48
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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49
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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50
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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51
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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52
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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53
colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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54
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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55
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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56
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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57
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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58
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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59
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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60
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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61
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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