|Chiddingwick High Street is one of the quaintest and most picturesque
bits of old town architecture to be found in England. Narrow at either
end, it broadens suddenly near the middle, by a sweeping curve outward,
just opposite the W hite Horse, where the weekly cattle-market is held,
and where the timbered gable-ends cluster thickest round the ancient
stone cross, now reduced as usual to a mere stump or relic. In addition
to its High Street, Chiddingwick also possesses a Mayor, a Corporation,
a town pump, an Early English church, a Baptist chapel, and abundant
opportunities for alcoholic refreshment. The White Horse itself may
boast, indeed, of being one of the most famous old coaching inns still
remaining in our midst, in spite of railways. And by its big courtyard
door, one bright morning' in early spring, Mr. Edmund Plantagenet, ever
bland and self-satisfied, stood sunning his portly person, and surveying
the world of the little town as it unrolled itself in changeful panorama
before him.
'Who's that driving the Hector's pony, Tom?' Mr. Plantagenet asked
of the hostler in a lordly voice, as a pretty girl went past in
an unpretentious trap. 'She's a stranger in Chiddingwick.' For Mr.
Plantagenet, as one of the oldest inhabitants, prided himself upon
knowing, by sight at least, every person in the parish, from Lady Agatha
herself to the workhouse children.
Tom removed the straw he was sucking from his mouth for a moment, as he
answered, with the contempt of the horsy man for the inferior gentry:
'Oh, _she!_ she ain't nobody, sir. That lot's the new governess.'
Mr. Plantagenet regarded the lady in the carriage with the passing
interest which a gentleman of his distinction might naturally bestow
upon so unimportant a personage. He was a plethoric man, of pompous
aspect, and he plumed himself on being a connoisseur in female beauty.
'Not a bad-looking little girl, though, Tom,' he responded
condescendingly, closing one eye and scanning her as one might scan a
two-year-old filly. 'She holds herself well. I like to see a woman who
can sit up straight in her place when she's driving.'
Mr. Plantagenet's opinion on all questions of deportment was much
respected at Chiddingwick; so Tom made no reply save to chow a little
further the meditative straw; while Mr. Plantagenet, having by this time
sufficiently surveyed the street for all practical purposes, retired
into the bar-parlour of the friendly White Horse for his regulation
morning brandy-and-soda.
But the new governess, all unconscious of the comments she excited,
drove placidly on to the principal bookseller and stationer's.
There were not many booksellers' shops in Chiddingwick; people in Surrey
import their literature, if any, direct from London. But the one at
whose door the pretty governess stopped was the best in the town, and
would at least do well enough for the job she wanted. It bore, in
fact, the proud legend, 'Wells's Select Library then by an obvious
afterthought, in smaller letters, 'In connection with Mudie's.' An
obsequious small boy rushed up, as she descended, to hold the Rector's
horse, almost as in the days before compulsory education, when small
hoys lurked unseen, on the look-out for stray ha'pence, at every street
corner. Mary accepted his proffered aid with a sunny smile, and went
into the shop carrying a paper parcel.
There was nobody in the place, however, to take her order; and Mary,
who was a timid girl, not too sure of her position, stood for a moment
irresolute, uncertain how to call the attention of the inmates. Just
as she was on the point of giving it up as useless, and retiring
discomfited, the door that led into the room behind the shop opened
suddenly, and a young man entered. He seemed about nineteen, and he was
tall and handsome, with deep-blue eyes, and long straggling locks of
delicate yellow hair, that fell picturesquely though not affectedly
about his ears and shoulders. He somehow reminded Mary of a painted
window. She didn't know why, but instinctively, as he entered, she felt
as if there were something medieval and romantic about the good-looking
shopman. His face was almost statuesquely beautiful--a fair, frank, open
face, like a bonny young sailor's, and the loose curls above were
thrown lightly off the tall white forehead in a singularly graceful yet
unstudied fashion. He was really quite Florentine. The head altogether
was the head of a gentleman, and something more than that: it had the
bold and clear-cut, fearless look about it that one seldom finds among
our English population, except as the badge of rank and race in the very
highest classes. Mary felt half ashamed of herself, indeed, for noting
all these things immediately and instinctively about a mere ordinary
shopman; for, after all, a shopman he was, and nothing more: though his
head and face were the head and face of a gentleman of distinction, his
dress was simply the every-day dress of his class and occupation. He was
a son of the people. And as Mary was herself a daughter of the clergy,
the eldest girl of a country rector, compelled by the many mouths and
the narrow endowment at home to take a place as governess with a more
favoured family at Chiddingwick Rectory, she knew she could have
no possible right of any sort to take any personal interest in
a bookseller's lad, however handsome and yellow-haired and
distinguished-looking.
'I beg your pardon for not having come sooner,' the tall young man began
in a very cultivated tone, which took Mary aback even more than did his
singular and noteworthy appearance; 'but the fact is, you opened the
door so very softly the bell didn't ring; and I didn't notice there was
anybody in the shop, as I was busy cutting, till I happened to look up
accidentally from my ream, and then I saw you. I hope I haven't kept you
unnecessarily waiting?'
He spoke like a gentleman; and Mary observed, almost without remarking
it, that he didn't call her 'miss,' though she was hardly even aware of
the unusual omission, his manner and address were so perfectly those of
a courteous and wellbred equal. If she had fancied the customary title
was left out on purpose, as a special tribute of disrespect to her
position as governess, her sensitive little soul would have been
deeply hurt by the slight, even from an utter stranger; but she felt
instinctively the handsome young mail had no such intention. He didn't
mean to be anything but perfectly polite, so she hardly even noticed the
curious omission.
'Oh dear no,' she answered, in her timid little voice, unfolding her
parcel as she spoke with a kind of shrinking fear that she must be
hurting his feelings by treating him as a tradesman. 'I've only just
come in; and I--well, I wanted to know whether you could bind this again
for me? Or is it quite too old to be worth the trouble of binding?'
The young man took it from her hands, and looked at her as he took it.
The book was a 'British Flora,' in two stout octavo volumes, and it had
evidently seen wear and tear, for it was tattered and dog-eared. But he
received it mechanically, without glancing at it for a moment. His eyes,
in fact, were fixed hard on Mary's. A woman knows at once what a man is
thinking--especially, of course, when it's herself he's thinking about;
and Mary knew that minute the young man with the fine brow and the loose
yellow hair was thinking in his own head how exceedingly pretty she was.
That makes a girl blush under any circumstances, and all the more so
when the man who thinks it is her social inferior. Now, when Mary
blushed, she coloured up to her delicate shell-like ears, which made her
look prettier and daintier and more charming than ever; and the young
man, withdrawing his eyes guiltily and suddenly--for he, too, knew what
that blush must mean--was still further confirmed in his first opinion
that she was very pretty.
The young lady, however, was ashamed he should even look at her. He was
accustomed to that, and yet somehow in this case it particularly hurt
him. He didn't know why, but he wanted her to like him. He look up the
book to cover his confusion, and examined it carefully. 'At the time
of the French Revolution,' he observed, as if to himself, in a curious,
far-away tone, like one who volunteers for no particular reason a piece
of general information, 'many of the refugees who came to this country
were compelled to take up mechanical work of the commonest description.
A Rochefoucauld mended shoes--and Talleyrand was a bookbinder.'
He said it exactly as if it was a casual remark about the volume he was
holding, or the comparative merits of cloth and leather, with his
eyes intently fixed on the backs of the covers, and his mind to all
appearance profoundly absorbed in the alternative contemplation of
morocco or russia. Mary thought him the oddest young man she had ever
met in her life; she fancied he must be mad, and wondered by what chance
of fate or fortune he could ever have wandered into a bookseller's shop
at Chiddingwick.
The young man volunteered no more stray remarks about the French
Revolution, however, but continued to inspect the backs of the books
with more business-like consideration. Then he turned to her quietly:
'We could do this for you very cheap in half-calf,' he said, holding it
up. 'It's not at all past mending. I see it's a favourite volume; and
a book of reference of the sort you're constantly using in the open air
ought to have sound, stout edges. The original binding, which was cloth,
is quite unsuitable, of course, for such a purpose. If you'll leave it
to me, I'll do my best to make a workman-like job of it.'
There was something in the earnest way the young man spoke that made
Mary feel he took a pride in his work, simple and ordinary as it was;
and his instant recognition of the needs and object of the particular
volume in question, which in point of fact had been her companion
in many country rambles over hill or moor, seemed to her singularly
different from the perfunctory habit of most common English workmen.
To them, a book is just a book to be covered. She conceived in her own
mind, therefore, a vague respect at once for the young man's character.
But he himself was just then looking down at the volume once more,
engaged in examining the inside of the binding. As he turned to the
fly-leaf he gave a sudden little start of intense surprise. 'Tudor!'
he murmured--'Mary Tudor! How very curious! Did this book, then, once
belong to someone named Mary Tudor?'
'It belongs to me, and that's my name,' Mary answered, a little
astonished, for he was gazing fixedly at her autograph on the blank page
of the first volume. Never before in her experience had any shop people
anywhere showed the slightest symptom of surprise at recognition of her
royal surname.
The young man made a sudden gesture of curious incredulity. 'I beg your
pardon,' he said, jotting down something in pencil in the inside of the
book; 'do I understand you to mean your own real name is Mary Tudor?'
'Why, yes, certainly,' Mary answered, much amused at his earnestness.
'That's my own real name--Mary Empson Tudor.'
He looked at it again. 'What a singular coincidence!' he murmured to
himself half inaudibly.
'It's not an uncommon name in Wales,' Mary answered, just to cover
the awkwardness, for she was surprised the young man should feel any
interest at all in so abstract a subject.
'Oh, that's not it,' the yellow-haired lad replied in a hasty little
way. 'The coincidence is--that _my_ name happens to be Richard
Plantagenet.'
As he spoke, he drew himself up, and met her gaze once more with
conscious pride in his clear blue eye. For a moment their glances
answered each other; then both dropped their lids together. But Richard
Plantagenet's cheek had flushed crimson meanwhile, as a very fair man's
often will, almost like a girl's, and a strange fluttering had seized
upon his heart well-nigh before he knew it. This was not remarkable.
Mary Tudor was an extremely pretty girl; and her name seemed fateful;
but who was she? Who could she be? Why had she happened to come there?
Richard Plantagenet determined in his own heart that moment he would
surely search this out, and never rest until he had discovered the
secret of their encounter.
'You shall have it on Wednesday,' he said, coming back to the book with
a sudden drop from cloudland. 'Where may I send it?' This last in the
common tone of business.
'To the Rectory,' Mary answered, 'addressed to Miss Tudor.' And then
Richard knew at once she must be the new governess. His eye wandered to
the door. He hadn't noticed till that minute the Rectory pony; but once
he saw it, he understood all; for Chiddingwick was one of those _very_
small places where everyone knows everyone else's business. And Fraulein
had gone back just three weeks ago to Hanover.
There was a moment's pause: then Mary said 'Good-morning,' sidling off a
little awkwardly; for she thought Richard Plantagenet's manner a trifle
embarrassing for a man in his position; and she didn't even feel quite
sure he wasn't going to claim relationship with her on the strength
of his surname. Now, a shopman may be handsome and gentlemanly, and
a descendant of kings, but he mustn't aspire to acquaintance on such
grounds as these with the family of a clergyman of the Church of
England.
'Good-morning,' Richard replied with a courtly bow, like a gentleman
of the old school, which indeed he was. 'Your books shall be covered as
well as we can do them.'
Mary returned to the pony, and Richard to his ream, which he was cutting
into sermon-paper. But Mary Tudor's pretty face seemed to haunt him at
his work; and he thought to himself more than once, between the clips
of the knife, that if ever he married at all, that was just the sort of
girl a descendant of the Plantagenets would like to marry. Yet the last
time one of his house had espoused a Tudor, he said to himself very
gravely, the relative _roles_ of man and woman were reversed; for the
Tudor was Henry of Richmond, 'called Henry VII., of our younger branch
and the Plantagenet was Elizabeth of York, his consort. And that was how
'the estates' went out of the family.
But 'the estates' were England, Wales, and Ireland, he often complained
in the bosom of the family.