The Prince and the Pauper - Mark Twain (tohfa e dulha read online .TXT) 📗

“Yes, Sire,” Miles replied; then observed to himself, “If I must humor the poor lad’s madness, I must ‘Sire’ him, I must ‘Majesty’ him, I must not go by halves, I must stick at nothing that belongeth to the part I play, else shall I play it ill and work evil to this charitable and kindly cause.”

The king warmed his heart with a second glass of wine, and said⁠—“I would know thee⁠—tell me thy story. Thou hast a gallant way with thee, and a noble⁠—art nobly born?”

“We are of the tail of the nobility, good your Majesty. My father is a baronet⁠—one of the smaller lords by knight service8⁠—Sir Richard Hendon of Hendon Hall, by Monk’s Holm in Kent.”

“The name has escaped my memory. Go on⁠—tell me thy story.”

“ ’Tis not much, your Majesty, yet perchance it may beguile a short half-hour for want of a better. My father, Sir Richard, is very rich, and of a most generous nature. My mother died whilst I was yet a boy. I have two brothers: Arthur, my elder, with a soul like to his father’s; and Hugh, younger than I, a mean spirit, covetous, treacherous, vicious, underhanded⁠—a reptile. Such was he from the cradle; such was he ten years past, when I last saw him⁠—a ripe rascal at nineteen, I being twenty then, and Arthur twenty-two. There is none other of us but the Lady Edith, my cousin⁠—she was sixteen then⁠—beautiful, gentle, good, the daughter of an earl, the last of her race, heiress of a great fortune and a lapsed title. My father was her guardian. I loved her and she loved me; but she was betrothed to Arthur from the cradle, and Sir Richard would not suffer the contract to be broken. Arthur loved another maid, and bade us be of good cheer and hold fast to the hope that delay and luck together would some day give success to our several causes. Hugh loved the Lady Edith’s fortune, though in truth he said it was herself he loved⁠—but then ’twas his way, alway, to say the one thing and mean the other. But he lost his arts upon the girl; he could deceive my father, but none else. My father loved him best of us all, and trusted and believed him; for he was the youngest child, and others hated him⁠—these qualities being in all ages sufficient to win a parent’s dearest love; and he had a smooth persuasive tongue, with an admirable gift of lying⁠—and these be qualities which do mightily assist a blind affection to cozen itself. I was wild⁠—in troth I might go yet farther and say very wild, though ’twas a wildness of an innocent sort, since it hurt none but me, brought shame to none, nor loss, nor had in it any taint of crime or baseness, or what might not beseem mine honorable degree.

“Yet did my brother Hugh turn these faults to good account⁠—he seeing that our brother Arthur’s health was but indifferent, and hoping the worst might work him profit were I swept out of the path⁠—so⁠—but ’twere a long tale, good my liege, and little worth the telling. Briefly, then, this brother did deftly magnify my faults and make them crimes; ending his base work with finding a silken ladder in mine apartments⁠—conveyed thither by his own means⁠—and did convince my father by this, and suborned evidence of servants and other lying knaves, that I was minded to carry off my Edith and marry with her in rank defiance of his will.

“Three years of banishment from home and England might make a soldier and a man of me, my father said, and teach me some degree of wisdom. I fought out my long probation in the continental wars, tasting sumptuously of hard knocks, privation, and adventure; but in my last battle I was taken captive, and during the seven years that have waxed and waned since then, a foreign dungeon hath harbored me. Through wit and courage I won to the free air at last, and fled hither straight; and am but just arrived, right poor in purse and raiment, and poorer still in knowledge of what these dull seven years have wrought at Hendon Hall, its people and belongings. So please you, sir, my meagre tale is told.”

“Thou hast been shamefully abused!” said the little king, with a flashing eye. “But I will right thee⁠—by the cross will I! The king hath said it.”

Then, fired by the story of Miles’s wrongs, he loosed his tongue and poured the history of his own recent misfortunes into the ears of his astonished listener. When he had finished, Miles said to himself⁠—

“Lo, what an imagination he hath! Verily, this is no common mind; else, crazed or sane, it could not weave so straight and gaudy a tale as this out of the airy nothings wherewith it hath wrought this curious romaunt. Poor ruined little head, it shall not lack friend or shelter whilst I bide with the living. He shall never leave my side; he shall be my pet, my little comrade. And he shall be cured!⁠—ay, made whole and sound⁠—then will he make himself a name⁠—and proud shall I be to say, ‘Yes, he is mine⁠—I took him, a homeless little ragamuffin, but I saw what was in him, and I said his name would be heard some day⁠—behold him, observe him⁠—was I right?’ ”

The king spoke⁠—in a thoughtful, measured voice⁠—

“Thou didst save me injury and shame, perchance my life, and so my crown. Such service demandeth rich reward. Name thy desire, and so it be within the compass of my royal power, it is thine.”

This fantastic suggestion startled Hendon out of his reverie. He was about to thank the king and put the matter aside with saying he had only done his duty and desired no reward, but a wiser thought came into his head, and he asked leave to be silent a few moments and