|At Chiddingwick, meanwhile, Dick Plantagenet himself had been oddly
enough engaged on rather opposite business. When he arrived at the
house in the High Street, so long his father's, he found Maud flown, of
course, and nobody at home but his mother and little Eleanor. Now, if
Maud had been there, being a forcible young person in spite of her frail
frame, she would soon have stirred up Mrs. Plantagenet to take her own
view of the existing situation. But the widow, always weary with the
cares of too large a family for her slender means, and now broken by
the suddenness of her husband's death--thus left without Maud's aid--was
disposed like Dick himself to take the practical side in this pressing
emergency. To her, very naturally, the question of bread-and-cheese for
the boys and girls came uppermost in consciousness. And though it was
terrible they should have to face that sordid question at such a moment
as this, yet that was a painful fate they shared, after all, with the
vast majority of their fellow-creatures, who constantly have to consider
practical difficulties of daily bread at the very time when their
affections have just been most deeply lacerated. The more Dick talked
with his mother, indeed, the more did he feel himself how imperative a
duty it was for him to resign his dream and return home at once, to
do what he could for her and his brothers and sisters. He was a
Plantagenet, he reflected, and _noblesse oblige_. That motto of his race
stood him in good stead on all such occasions. If do it he must, then
do it he would. A Plantagenet should not be ashamed of earning his
livelihood and supporting his family in any honest way, however
distasteful. For no matter what trade he might happen to take up, being
a Plantagenet himself, _ipso facto_ he ennobled it.
Fired with these sentiments, which, after all, were as proud in their
way as Maud's equally strong ones, if not even prouder, Dick went out
almost at once to inquire at the White Horse about the possibility of
his keeping up the rent of the rooms as his father had paid it; for if
the scheme was to be worked no time must be lost over it, so that the
lessons might be continuous. He was a capital dancer himself (worse
luck!) and a tolerable violinist--and, for the matter of that, Maud
could help him with the music; though he shrank, to be sure, from the
painful idea that the heiress of the Plantagenets, a born princess of
the blood royal of England, should mix herself up any longer with that
hateful profession.
Oh, how his soul loathed it! Indeed, on second thoughts he decided
'twould be best for Maud to-be set free from the classes for her
ordinary music lessons. While his father lived he couldn't have done
without Maud; but now the head of the house was gone, never more should
she be subjected to that horrid slavery. Enough that one member of the
family should give himself up to it for the common good. Maud, poor,
delicate, high-strung Maud, should, at least, be exempt.
If he needed any help he would hire an assistant.
The interview at the White Horse was quite satisfactory--too
satisfactory by far, Dick thought, for he longed for a decent obstacle;
and as soon as it was finished Dick felt the hardest part of his
self-sacrifice was yet to come. For he had to give up not only Oxford,
but also Mary Tudor. For her own sake he felt he must really do it. He
had never asked her to think of him till he got his Scholarship; and it
was on the strength of that small success he first ventured to speak to
her. Now that Oxford must fade like a delicious dream behind him, he saw
clearly his hopes of Mary must needs go with it.
They were never engaged: from first to last Mary had always said so, and
Dick had admitted it. But, still, they had come most perilously near
it. During the Long Vacation, when Dick had had some coaching to do for
matriculation at a neighbouring town, he and Mary, had almost arrived
at an understanding with one another. Dick was a gentleman now--he had
always been a gentleman, indeed, in everything except the artificial
position; and since he went to Oxford he had that as well, and Mary felt
there was no longer any barrier of any sort interposed between them. But
now all, all must go, and he must say farewell for ever to Mary.
It was hard, very hard; but duty before everything! With a beating
heart he mounted the Rectory steps, and for the first time in his life
ventured to ask boldly out if he could see Miss Tudor. It would be the
last time, too, he thought bitterly to himself, and so it didn't matter.
Mrs. Tradescant was kinder than usual. Mr. Plantagenet's sudden death
had softened her heart for the moment towards the family--perhaps even
towards Maud herself, that horrid girl who committed the unpardonable
offence, to a mother, of being prettier and more ladylike than her own
eldest daughter. The lady of the Rectory was in the schoolroom with Mary
when Ellen, the housemaid, came in with the unwonted message that Mr.
Richard Plantagenet--'him as has gone up to college at Oxford, ma'am,
has called for to see Miss Tudor.'
Mary blushed up to her eyes, and expected Mrs. Tradescant would insist
upon going down and seeing Dick with her.
But Mrs. Tradescant had a woman's inkling of what was afoot between the
two young people; and now that that horrid old man was dead, and Richard
his own master, she really didn't know that it very much mattered. Young
Plantagenet was an Oxford man, after all, and might go into the Church,
and turn out a very good match in the end for Mary Tudor. So she only
looked up and said, with a most unusual smile:
'You'd better run down to him, dear. I dare say you'd like best to see
him alone for awhile, after all that's happened.'
Taken aback at such generosity, Mary ran down at once, still blushing
violently, to Dick in the drawing-room. She hardly paused for a second
at the glass on her way, just to pull her front hair straight and rub
her cheek with her hand--quite needlessly--to bring up some colour.
Dick was dressed in black from head to foot, and looked even graver and
more solemn than usual. He stretched out both his hands to hers as Mary
entered, and took her fingers in his own with a regretful tenderness.
Then he looked deep into her eyes for some seconds in silence. His heart
was full to bursting. How could he ever break it to her? 'Twas so hard
to give up all his dreams for ever. At last he found words.
'Oh, Mary,' he cried, trembling, 'you've heard of all that's happened?'
Mary pressed his hand hard, and answered simply, with a great lump in
her throat: 'Yes, Dick dear, I've heard--and all these days long I've
lived with you constantly.'
Dick sat down on the sofa and began to tell her all his story. He told
her first about his father's death and the things that had followed it;
and then he went on to the more immediately practical question of what
he was to do for his mother and sisters. His voice trembled as he spoke,
for he was very, very fond of her; but he told her all straight out, as
a Plantagenet should, without one word of the disgrace he felt it would
be. He dwelt only on the absolute necessity of his doing something at
once to provide for the family.
'And under these circumstances, Mary,' he said at last, looking down at
her with some moisture in his brimming eyes. 'I feel that my duty to you
is perfectly plain and clear. I must release you unconditionally from
the engagement, which, as we both know, has never existed between us.'
Mary looked at him for a moment as if she hardly took in the full
meaning of his words; then, in a. very low and decided voice, she
answered clearly: 'But _I_ don't release _you_, dear Dick--and I shall
never release you.'
'But, Mary,' Dick cried, unable to conceal his pleasure at her words, in
spite of himself, 'you mustn't think of it, you know. It's--it's quite,
quite impossible. In the first place, I shall never be able to marry at
all now, or if ever, why, only after years and years--oh, Heaven only
knows how many!'
['That's nothing!' Mary sobbed out parenthetically; 'if necessary, I
could wait a thousand years for you.')
'And then again,' Dick continued, resolved not to spare himself one
solitary drop in his cup of degradation, 'it would never do for you to
be engaged--to the local dancing-master. If it comes to that, indeed,
I'm sure Mrs. Tradeseant wouldn't allow it.'
With a sudden womanly impulse Mary rose all at once and flung herself,
sobbing, on her lover's bosom.
'Oh, Dick,' she cried--'dear Dick, I'm proud of you--so proud of you,
no matter what you do--prouder now than ever! I think it's just grand
of you to be so ready to give up everything for your mother and sisters.
You seem to me to think only of them--and of me--and not a word of
yourself; and I say it's just beautiful of you. I _couldn't_ be ashamed
of you if you sold apples in the street. You'd always be yourself, and
I couldn't help being proud of you. And as for Mrs. Tradeseant, if she
won't let me be engaged to you, why, I'll throw up the place and take
another one, if I can get it--or else go without one. But I'm yours now,
Dick, and I shall be yours for ever.' She threw her arms round his neck,
and, for the first time in her life, she raised her lips and kissed him.
'Why, what a wretch I should be,' she cried through her tears, 'if I
could dream of giving you up just at the very moment when you most want
my help and sympathy! Dick, Dick--dear Dick, we never were engaged till
now; but now we _are_ engaged, and you won't argue me out of it!'
Dick led her to a seat. For the next few minutes the conversation was
chiefly of an inarticulate character. The type-founder's art has no
letters to represent it. Then Dick tried to speak again in the English
language. (The rest had been common to the human family.)
'This is very good of you, dearest,' he said, holding her hand tight in
his own; 'very, very good and sweet of you! It's just what I might have
expected; though I confess, being engaged chiefly in thinking of the
thing from the practical standpoint, I _didn't_ expect it, which was
awfully dull of me. But we must be practical--practical. I must devote
myself in future to my mother and sisters; and _you_ mustn't waste all
the best of your life in waiting for me--in waiting for a man who will
probably never, never be able to marry you.'
But women, thank God, are profoundly unpractical creatures! Mary looked
up in his face through her tears, and made answer solemnly:
'Oh, Dick, you don't know how long I would wait for you! I want to tell
you something, dear; to-day I feel I can tell you. _I_ could never have
told you before; I wouldn't tell you now if it weren't for all that has
happened. Eighteen months ago, when you first spoke to me, I thought to
myself: “He's a charming young man, and I like him very much; he's
so kind and so clever; but how could I ever marry him? It wouldn't be
right; he's the son of the dancing-master.” And now to-day, dear
Dick, you darling good fellow, if you turn dancing-master yourself, or
anything else in the world--if you sweep a crossing, even--I shall
be proud of you still; I shall feel prouder of you by far than if
you stopped there selfishly in your rooms at Oxford, and never gave a
thought to your mother and sisters.'
She paused for a second and looked at him. Then once more she flung her
arms round his neck and cried aloud, almost hysterically:
'Oh, Dick, dear Dick, whatever on earth you do, I shall always love you;
I shall always be proud of you!'
And when they parted that morning, Richard Plantagenet and Mary Tudor
were for the first time in their lives engaged to one another.
That's what always happens when you go to see a girl, conscientiously
determined, for her sake, much against the grain, to break things off
with her for ever. I have been there myself, and I know all about it.