from Mr. Wells’s tone that his father must have bragged: he must have spoken of the projected trip at the White Horse last night, not as a mere speculative 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 envisaging 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 brazen it out as best he might; so Dick at once confided 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 permanently 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, frankly given with manly candour, had the good effect of visibly mollifying Mr. Wells’s nascent and half-unspoken resentment. Richard had noticed just at first that he assumed a sarcastic and somewhat aggrieved 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 undertaking. 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 compassionate interest in the Plantagenet family. They were, so to speak, public property and local celebrities. Lady Agatha Moore herself, the wife of the Squire, and an Earl’s daughter, always asked Mrs. Plantagenet to her annual garden-party. Chiddingwickians pointed 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 cram for the examination. He must cram, cram, cram; there was nothing like cramming!
Mr. Wells, laudably desirous of keeping well abreast 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 monarchs Dick could hardly forbear a smile at this naïve but well-meant proposal. He had worked hard at Modern History, both British and continental, 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 epoch 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 tickled his gravity not a little. Still, the advice was kindly 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-calf 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 sentimental importance to binding 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 thoroughly aware that the crown of England itself was elective, not hereditary; 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 repeal 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, neatly 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 monogram 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 bind them so for only three-and-sixpence!’
‘Yes, I did,’ Dick answered, now as crimson 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 mettle.
‘Certainly he did,’ Dick answered, almost haughtily. ‘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,