WINCHESTER, _May_ 28, 1891
The White Swan.
As sure as my name is Jack Copley, I saw the prettiest girl in the world
to-day,--an American, too, or I'm greatly mistaken. It was in the
cathedral, where I have been sketching for several days. I was sitting
in the end of a seat, at afternoon service, when two ladies entered by
the side door. The ancient maiden, evidently the head of the family,
settled herself devoutly, and the young one stole off by herself to one
of the old carved seats back of the choir. She was worse than pretty! I
took a sketch of her during service, as she sat under the dark carved-oak
canopy, with this Latin inscription over her head:--
CARLTON CUM
DOLBY
LETANIA
IX SOLIDORUM
SUPER FLUMINA
CONFITEBOR TIBI
DUC PROBATI
There ought to be a law against a woman's making a picture of herself,
unless she is willing to sit and be sketched.
A black and white sketch doesn't give any definite idea of this charmer's
charms, but some time I'll fill it in,--hair, sweet little hat, gown, and
eyes, all in golden brown, a cape of tawny sable slipping off her arm, a
knot of yellow primroses in her girdle, carved-oak background, and the
afternoon sun coming through a stained-glass window. Great Jove! She
had a most curious effect on me, that girl! I can't explain it,--very
curious, altogether new, and rather pleasant! When one of the choir boys
sang, "Oh for the wings of a dove!" a tear rolled out of one of her
lovely eyes and down her smooth brown cheek. I would have given a large
portion of my modest monthly income for the felicity of wiping away that
teardrop with one of my new handkerchiefs, marked with a tremendous "C"
by my pretty sister.
An hour or two later they appeared again,--the dragon, who answers to the
name of "aunt Celia," and the "nut-brown mayde," who comes when you call
her "Katharine." I was sketching a ruined arch. The dragon dropped her
unmistakably Boston bag. I expected to see encyclopaedias and Russian
tracts fall from it, but was disappointed. The nut-brown mayde (who has
been brought up rigidly) hastened to pick up the bag, for fear that I
should serve her by doing it. She was punished by turning it inside out,
and I was rewarded by helping her pick up the articles, which were many
and ill assorted. My little romance received the first blow when I found
that she reads the Duchess novels. I think, however, she has the grace
to be ashamed of it, for she blushed scarlet when I handed her "A Modern
Circe." I could have told her that such a blush on such a cheek would
atone for reading Mrs. Southworth, but I refrained. After she had gone I
discovered a slip of paper which had blown under some stones. It proved
to be an itinerary. I didn't return it. I thought they must know which
way they were going; and as this was precisely what I wanted to know, I
kept it for my own use. She is doing the cathedral towns. I am doing
the cathedral towns. Happy thought! Why shouldn't we do them
together,--we and aunt Celia?
I had only ten minutes--to catch my train for Salisbury, but I concluded
to run in and glance at the registers of the principal hotels. Found my
nut-brown mayde at once on the pages of the Royal Garden Inn register:
"Miss Celia Van Tyck, Beverly, Mass.; Miss Katharine Schuyler, New York."
I concluded to stay over another train, ordered dinner, and took an
altogether indefensible and inconsistent pleasure in writing "John Quincy
Copley, Cambridge, Mass.," directly beneath the charmer's autograph.