England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Genealogy -- Fiction
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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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