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A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP
_By the same Author._
=Penelope's Irish Experiences.= 6s.
=Penelope's English Experiences.= Illustrated by Charles E. Brock. 6s.
=Penelope's Experiences in Scotland.= Illustrated by Charles E.
Brock. 6s.
=Timothy's Quest.= Illustrated by Oliver Herford. 2s. 6d.
=Marm Liza.= 6s.
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_By Mrs. Wiggin & Miss Nora A. Smith._
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_LONDON: GAY AND BIRD._
[Illustration: 'Jack! Jack! save me!']
A Cathedral Courtship
BY
Kate Douglas Wiggin
_ILLUSTRATED_
BY
CHARLES E. BROCK
GAY AND BIRD
22 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND
LONDON
1901
_All rights reserved_
_Originally published in 1893 with 'Penelope's English Experiences,' and
reprinted 1893 (twice), 1894, 1895, 1896, 1897._
_PREFACE_
_'A Cathedral Courtship' was first published in 1893, appearing in a
volume with 'Penelope's English Experiences.' In course of time, the
latter story, finding unexpected favour in the public eyes, left its
modest companion, and was promoted to a separate existence, with
pictures and covers of its own. Then something rather curious occurred,
one of those trifles which serve to make a publisher's life an exciting,
if not a happy, one. When the 'gentle reader' (bless his or her warm and
irrational heart!) could no longer buy 'A Cathedral Courtship,' a new
desire for it sprang into being, and when the demands became
sufficiently ardent and numerous, it was decided to republish the story,
with illustrations by Mr. Charles E. Brock, an artist who can be relied
upon to put new energy into a live tale or resuscitate a dead one.
At this point the author, having presumably grown in knowledge of
grammar, spelling, and punctuation, was asked to revise the text, and
being confronted with the printed page, was overcome by the temptation
to add now and then a sentence, line, or paragraph, while the charming
shade of Miss Kitty Schuyler perched on every exclamation point, begging
permission to say a trifle, just a trifle, more.
'You might allow me to explain myself just there,' she coaxed; 'and if
you have told them all I was supposed to be thinking in Winchester or
Salisbury or Oxford, why not tell them what I thought in Bath or
Peterborough or Ely? It was awfully interesting!'
Jack Copley, too, clamoured to be heard still further on the subject of
his true-love's charms, so the author yielded to this twofold pressure,
and added a few corroborative details.
The little courtship, running its placid course through sleepy cathedral
towns, has not been altered in the least by these new pages. It is only
as if the story-teller, meeting a new pair of interested eyes, had
almost unconsciously drifted into fresh confidences._
_KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN._
_This is all quite true, and anyway we have said nothing that we are a
bit ashamed of._
_KITTY SCHUYLER._
X
_JACK COPLEY._
_Their mark._
London, _July, 1901_.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
'JACK! JACK! SAVE ME!' _Frontispiece_
'IT WOULD 'ARDLY BE A SUBSTITUTE FOR GOOSEBERRY-TART, MISS' 11
I OFFERED IT TO HER WITH DISTINGUISHED GRACE 27
I WAS DISCONCERTED AT BEING FOUND IN A DRAMSHOP ALONE 35
SHE IGNORES THE BABBLE OF CONTEMPORANEOUS LOVERS 63
'LOR', MISS!' SAID FARMER HENDRY, 'HE HAVEN'T BEEN PASTURED THERE
FOR THREE WEEKS' 93
A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP
_She_
Winchester, _May 28, ----_,
The Royal Garden Inn.
We are doing the English cathedral towns, Aunt Celia and I. Aunt Celia
has an intense desire to improve my mind. Papa told her, when we were
leaving Cedarhurst, that he wouldn't for the world have it too much
improved, and Aunt Celia remarked that, so far as she could judge, there
was no immediate danger; with which exchange of hostilities they parted.
We are travelling under the yoke of an iron itinerary, warranted
neither to bend nor break. It was made out by a young High Church curate
in New York, and if it were a creed, or a document that had been blessed
by all the bishops and popes, it could not be more sacred to Aunt Celia.
She is awfully High Church, and I believe she thinks this tour of the
cathedrals will give me a taste for ritual and bring me into the true
fold. Mamma was a Unitarian, and so when she was alive I generally
attended service at that church. Aunt Celia says it is not a Church;
that the most you can say for it is that it is a 'belief' rather loosely
and carelessly formulated. She also says that dear old Dr. Kyle is the
most dangerous Unitarian she knows, because he has leanings towards
Christianity.
Long ago, in her youth, Aunt Celia was engaged to a young architect. He,
with his triangles and T-squares and things, succeeded in making an
imaginary scale-drawing of her heart (up to that time a virgin forest,
an unmapped territory), which enabled him to enter in and set up a
pedestal there, on which he has remained ever since. He has been only a
memory for many years, to be sure, for he died at the age of twenty-six,
before he had had time to build anything but a livery stable and a
country hotel. This is fortunate, on the whole, because Aunt Celia
thinks he was destined to establish American architecture on a higher
plane, rid it of its base, time-serving, imitative instincts, and waft
it to a height where, in the course of centuries, it would have been
revered and followed by all the nations of the earth.
I went to see the stable, after one of these Miriam-like flights of
prophecy on the might-have-been. It isn't fair to judge a man's promise
by one modest performance, and so I shall say nothing, save that I am
sure it was the charm of the man that won my aunt's affection, not the
genius of the builder.
This sentiment about architecture and this fondness for the very
toppingest High Church ritual cause Aunt Celia to look on the English
cathedrals with solemnity and reverential awe. She has given me a fat
note-book, with 'Katharine Schuyler' stamped in gold letters on the
Russia-leather cover, and a lock and key to conceal its youthful
inanities from the general public. I am not at all the sort of girl who
makes notes, and I have told her so; but she says that I must at least
record my passing impressions, if they are ever so trivial and
commonplace. She also says that one's language gains unconsciously in
dignity and sobriety by being set down in black and white, and that a
liberal use of pen and ink will be sure to chasten my extravagances of
style.
I wanted to go directly from Southampton to London with the Abbotts, our
ship friends, who left us yesterday. Roderick Abbott and I had had a
charming time on board ship (more charming than Aunt Celia knows,
because she was very ill, and her natural powers of chaperoning were
severely impaired), and the prospect of seeing London sights together
was not unpleasing; but Roderick Abbott is not in Aunt Celia's
itinerary, which reads: 'Winchester, Salisbury, Bath, Wells, Gloucester,
Oxford, London, Ely, Peterborough, Lincoln, York, Durham.' These are the
cathedrals Aunt Celia's curate chose to visit, and this is the order in
which he chose to visit them. Canterbury was too far east for him, and
Exeter was too far west, but he suggests Ripon and Hereford if strength
and time permit.
Aunt Celia is one of those persons who are born to command, and when
they are thrown in contact with those who are born to be commanded all
goes as merry as a marriage bell; otherwise not.
So here we are at Winchester; and I don't mind all the Roderick Abbotts
in the universe, now that I have seen the Royal Garden Inn, its pretty
coffee-room opening into the old-fashioned garden, with its borders of
clove-pinks, its aviaries, and its blossoming horse-chestnuts, great
towering masses of pink bloom.
Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. Benedict, an
estimable lady tourist whom she 'picked up' _en route_ from Southampton.
I am tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write letters, because Aunt
Celia has the guide-books, so I sit by the window in indolent content,
watching the dear little school laddies, with their short jackets and
wide white collars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, and
kissable. I should like to kiss the chambermaid, too. She has a pink
print dress, no fringe, thank goodness (it's curious our servants can't
leave that deformity to the upper classes), but shining brown hair,
plump figure, soft voice, and a most engaging way of saying 'Yes, miss?
Anythink more, miss?' I long to ask her to sit down comfortably and be
English while I study her as a type, but of course I mustn't. Sometimes
I wish I could retire from the world for a season and do what I like,
'surrounded by the general comfort of being thought mad.'
An elegant, irreproachable, high-minded model of dignity and reserve has
just knocked and inquired what we will have for dinner. It is very
embarrassing to give orders to a person who looks like a Justice of the
Supreme Court, but I said languidly:
'What would you suggest?'
'How would you like a clear soup, a good spring soup, to begin with,
miss?'
'Very much.'
'And a bit of turbot next, miss, with anchovy sauce?'
'Yes, turbot, by all means,' I said, my mouth watering at the word.
'And what else, miss? Would you enjoy a young duckling, miss, with new
potatoes and green peas?'
'Just the thing; and for dessert--' I couldn't think what I ought to
order next in England, but the high-minded model coughed apologetically,
and, correcting my language, said:
'I was thinking you might like gooseberry-tart and cream for a sweet,
miss.'
Oh that I could have vented my New World enthusiasm in a sigh of delight
as I heard those intoxicating words, heretofore met only in English
novels!
'Ye--es,' I said hesitatingly, though I was palpitating with joy, 'I
fancy we should like gooseberry-tart' (here a bright idea entered my
mind); 'and perhaps, in case my aunt doesn't care for the
gooseberry-tart, you might bring a lemon-squash, please.'
Now, I had never met a lemon-squash personally, but I had often heard of
it, and wished to show my familiarity with British culinary art.
'It would 'ardly be a substitute for gooseberry-tart, miss; but shall I
bring _one_ lemon-squash, miss?'
'Oh, as to that, it doesn't matter,' I said haughtily; 'bring a
sufficient number for two persons.'
* * * * *
Aunt Celia came home in the highest feather. She had twice been mistaken
for an Englishwoman. She said she thought that lemon-squash was a
drink; I thought, of course, it was a pie; but we shall find out at
dinner, for, as I said, I ordered a sufficient number for two persons,
and the head-waiter is not a personage who will let Transatlantic
ignorance remain uninstructed.
At four o'clock we attended evensong at the cathedral. I shall not say
what I felt when the white-surpliced boy choir entered, winding down
those vaulted aisles, or when I heard for the first time that intoned
service, with all its 'witchcraft of harmonic sound.' I sat quite by
myself in a high carved oak seat, and the hour was passed in a trance of
serene delight. I do not have many opinions, it is true, but papa says I
am always strong on sentiments; nevertheless, I shall not attempt to
tell even what I feel in these new and beautiful experiences, for it has
been better told a thousand times.
[Illustration: "It would 'ardly be a substitute for gooseberry-tart,
miss."]
There were a great many people at service, and a large number of
Americans among them, I should think, though we saw no familiar faces.
There was one particularly nice young man, who looked like a Bostonian.
He sat opposite me. He didn't stare--he was too well bred, but when I
looked the other way he looked at me. Of course, I could feel his eyes;
anybody can--at least, any girl can; but I attended to every word of the
service, and was as good as an angel. When the procession had filed out,
and the last strain of the great organ had rumbled into silence, we went
on a tour through the cathedral, a heterogeneous band, headed by a
conscientious old verger, who did his best to enlighten us, and
succeeded in virtually spoiling my pleasure.
After we had finished (think of 'finishing' a cathedral in an hour or
two!), Aunt Celia and I, with one or two others, wandered through the
beautiful close, looking at the exterior from every possible point, and
coming at last to a certain ruined arch which is very famous. It did not
strike me as being remarkable. I could make any number of them with a
pattern without the least effort. But, at any rate, when told by the
verger to gaze upon the beauties of this wonderful relic and tremble, we
were obliged to gaze also upon the beauties of the aforesaid nice young
man, who was sketching it.
As we turned to go away, Aunt Celia dropped her bag. It is one of those
detestable, all-absorbing, all-devouring, thoroughly respectable, but
never proud, Boston bags, made of black cloth with leather trimmings,
'C. Van T.' embroidered on the side, and the top drawn up with stout
cords which pass over the Boston wrist or arm. As for me, I loathe them,
and would not for worlds be seen carrying one, though I do slip a great
many necessaries into Aunt Celia's.
I hastened to pick up the horrid thing, for fear the nice young man
would feel obliged to do it for me; but, in my indecorous haste, I
caught hold of the wrong end, and emptied the entire contents on the
stone flagging. Aunt Celia didn't notice; she had turned with the
verger, lest she should miss a single word of his inspired testimony. So
we scrambled up the articles together, the nice young man and I; and oh,
I hope I may never look upon his face again.
There were prayer-books and guide-books, a Bath bun, a bottle of
soda-mint tablets, a church calendar, a bit of gray frizz that Aunt
Celia pins into her cap when she is travelling in damp weather, a
spectacle-case, a brandy-flask, and a bon-bon-box, which broke and
scattered cloves and peppermint lozenges. (I hope he guessed Aunt Celia
is a dyspeptic, and not intemperate!) All this was hopelessly vulgar,
but I wouldn't have minded anything if there had not been a Duchess
novel. Of course he thought that it belonged to me. He couldn't have
known Aunt Celia was carrying it for that accidental Mrs. Benedict, with
whom she went to St. Cross Hospital.
After scooping the cloves out of the cracks in the stone flagging--and,
of course, he needn't have done this, unless he had an abnormal sense of
humour--he handed me the tattered, disreputable-looking copy of 'A
Modern Circe,' with a bow that wouldn't have disgraced a Chesterfield,
and then went back to his easel, while I fled after Aunt Celia and her
verger.
* * * * *
Memoranda: _The Winchester Cathedral has the longest nave. The inside is
more superb than the outside. Izaak Walton and Jane Austen are buried
here._
_He_
Winchester, _May 28_,
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 am greatly mistaken. It was in the
cathedral, where I have been sketching for several days. I was sitting
at the end of a bench, 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
made a memorandum 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 allow an artist to 'fix her' properly in his
gallery of types.
A black-and-white sketch doesn't give any definite idea of this
charmer's charms, but sometime 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 she is
called '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 trained in the way she should go) hastened to pick up the bag
for fear that I, a stranger, should serve her by doing it. She was
punished by turning it inside out, and I was rewarded by helping her
gather together 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 almost atone for not
being able to read at all, but I refrained. It is vexatious all the
same, for, though one doesn't expect to find perfection here below, the
'nut-brown mayde,' externally considered, comes perilously near it.
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? A fellow whose mother and sister
are in America must have some feminine society!
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 in the guest-book of the Royal Garden Inn:
'Miss Celia Van Tyck, Beverly, Mass., U.S.A. Miss Katharine Schuyler,
New York, U.S.A.' 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.
* * * * *
_She_
Salisbury, _June 1_,
The White Hart Inn.
We left Winchester on the 1.16 train yesterday, and here we are within
sight of another superb and ancient pile of stone. I wanted so much to
stop at the Highflyer Inn in Lark Lane, but Aunt Celia said that if we
were destitute of personal dignity, we at least owed something to our
ancestors. Aunt Celia has a temperamental distrust of joy as something
dangerous and ensnaring. She doesn't realize what fun it would be to
date one's letters from the Highflyer Inn, Lark Lane, even if one were
obliged to consort with poachers and trippers in order to do it.
Better times are coming, however, for she was in a melting mood last
evening, and promised me that wherever I can find an inn with a
picturesque and unusual name, she will stop there, provided it is clean
and respectable, if I on my part will agree to make regular notes of
travel in my Russia-leather book. She says that ever since she was my
age she has asked herself nightly the questions Pythagoras was in the
habit of using as a nightcap:
'What have I learned that's worth the knowing?
What have I done that's worth the doing?
What have I sought I should have shunned,
And into what new follies run?'
I asked her why Pythagoras didn't say 'runned' and make a consistent
rhyme, and she evaded the point by answering that Pythagoras didn't
write it in English.
We attended service at three. The music was lovely, and there were
beautiful stained-glass windows by Burne-Jones and Morris. The verger
(when wound up with a shilling) talked like an electric doll. If that
nice young man is making a cathedral tour like ourselves, he isn't
taking our route, for he isn't here. If he has come over for the purpose
of sketching, he wouldn't stop with one cathedral, unless he is very
indolent and unambitious, and he doesn't look either of these.
Perhaps he began at the other end, and worked down to Winchester. Yes,
that must be it, for the _Ems_ sailed yesterday from Southampton. Too
bad, for he was a distinct addition to the landscape. Why didn't I say,
when he was picking up the collection of curios in Aunt Celia's bag,
'You needn't bother about the novel, thank you; it is not mine, and
anyway it would be of no use to anybody.'
_June 2._
We intended to go to Stonehenge this morning, but it rained, so we took
a 'growler' and went to the Earl of Pembroke's country place to see the
pictures. Had a delightful morning with the magnificent antiques,
curios, and portraits. The Van Dyck room is a joy for ever; but one
really needs a guide or a friend who knows something of art if one would
understand these things. There were other visitors; nobody who looked
especially interesting. Don't like Salisbury so well as Winchester.
Don't know why. We shall drive this afternoon, if it is fair, and go to
Bath and Wells to-morrow, I am glad to say. Must read Baedeker on the
Bishop's palace. Oh, dear! if one could only have a good time and not
try to know anything!
Memoranda: _This cathedral has the highest spire. Remember: Winchester,
longest nave; Salisbury, highest spire._
_The Lancet style is those curved lines meeting in a rounding or a sharp
point like this [inverted U shape] /\, and then joined together like
this \/\/\/, the way they scallop babies' flannel petticoats. Gothic
looks like triangles meeting together in various spots and joined with
a beautiful sort of ornamented knobs. I think I recognise Gothic when I
see it. Then there is Norman, Early English, fully developed Early
English, Early and Late Perpendicular, Transition, and, for aught I
know, a lot of others. Aunt Celia can tell them all apart._
_He_
Salisbury, _June 3_,
The Red Lion.
I went off on a long tramp this afternoon, and coming on a pretty river
flowing through green meadows, with a fringe of trees on either side, I
sat down to make a sketch. I heard feminine voices in the vicinity, but
as these are generally a part of the landscape in the tourist season, I
paid no special notice. Suddenly a dainty patent-leather shoe floated
towards me on the surface of the stream. It evidently had just dropped
in, for it was right side up with care, and was disporting itself most
merrily. 'Did ever Jove's tree drop such fruit?' I quoted as I fished it
out on my stick; and just then I heard a distressed voice saying, 'Oh,
Aunt Celia, I've lost my smart little London shoe. I was sitting in a
tree taking a pebble out of the heel, when I saw a caterpillar, and I
dropped it into the river--the shoe, you know, not the caterpillar.'
[Illustration: I offered it to her with distinguished grace]
Hereupon she came in sight, and I witnessed the somewhat unusual
spectacle of my 'nut-brown mayde' hopping, like a divine stork, on one
foot, and ever and anon emitting a feminine shriek as the other, clad in
a delicate silk stocking, came in contact with the ground. I rose
quickly, and, polishing the patent leather ostentatiously inside and out
with my handkerchief, I offered it to her with distinguished grace. She
sat hurriedly down on the ground with as much dignity as possible, and
then, recognising me as the person who picked up the contents of Aunt
Celia's bag, she said, dimpling in the most distracting manner (that's
another thing there ought to be a law against): 'Thank you again; you
seem to be a sort of knight-errant.'
'Shall I--assist you?' I asked. I might have known that this was going
too far. Of course I didn't suppose she would let me help her put the
shoe on, but I thought--upon my soul, I don't know what I thought, for
she was about a million times prettier to-day than yesterday.
'No, thank you,' she said, with polar frigidity. 'Good-afternoon.' And
she hopped back to her Aunt Celia without another word.
I don't know how to approach Aunt Celia. She is formidable. By a curious
accident of feature, for which she is not in the least responsible, she
always wears an unfortunate expression as of one perceiving some
offensive odour in the immediate vicinity. This may be a mere accident
of high birth. It is the kind of nose often seen in the 'first
families,' and her name betrays the fact that she is of good old
Knickerbocker origin. We go to Wells to-morrow--at least, I think we do.
_She_
Salisbury, _June 3_.
I didn't like Salisbury at first, but I find it is the sort of place
that grows on one the longer one stays in it. I am quite sorry we must
leave so soon, but Aunt Celia is always in haste to be gone. Bath may be
interesting, but it is entirely out of the beaten path from here.
_She_
Bath, _June 7_,
The Best Hotel.
I met him at Wells and again this afternoon here. We are always being
ridiculous, and he is always rescuing us. Aunt Celia never really sees
him, and thus never recognises him when he appears again, always as the
flower of chivalry and guardian of ladies in distress. I will never
again travel abroad without a man, even if I have to hire one from a
feeble-minded asylum. We work like galley-slaves, Aunt Celia and I,
finding out about trains and things. Neither of us can understand
Bradshaw, and I can't even grapple with the lesser intricacies of the
A B C Railway Guide. The trains, so far as I can see, always arrive
before they go out, and I can never tell whether to read up the page or
down. It is certainly very queer that the stupidest man that breathes,
one that barely escapes idiocy, can disentangle a railway guide when the
brightest woman fails. Even the boots at the inn in Wells took my book,
and, rubbing his frightfully dirty finger down the row of puzzling
figures, found the place in a minute, and said, 'There ye are, miss.' It
is very humiliating. I suppose there are Bradshaw professorships in the
English universities, but the boots cannot have imbibed his knowledge
there. A traveller at _table d'hote_ dinner yesterday said there are
three classes of Bradshaw trains in Great Britain: those that depart and
never arrive, those that arrive but never depart, and those that can be
caught in transit, going on, like the wheel of eternity, with neither
beginning nor end. All the time I have left from the study of routes and
hotels I spend on guide-books. Now, I'm sure that if any one of the men
I know were here, he could tell me all that is necessary as we walk
along the streets. I don't say it in a frivolous or sentimental spirit
in the least, but I do affirm that there is hardly any juncture in life
where one isn't better off for having a man about. I should never dare
divulge this to Aunt Celia, for she doesn't think men very nice. She
excludes them from conversation as if they were indelicate subjects.
But to go on, we were standing at the door of Ye Crowne and Keys at
Wells, waiting for the fly which we had ordered to take us to the
station, when who should drive up in a four-wheeler but the flower of
chivalry. Aunt Celia was saying very audibly, 'We shall certainly miss
the train, if the man doesn't come at once.'
'Pray take this cab,' said the flower of chivalry. 'I am not leaving for
an hour or more.'
Aunt Celia got in without a murmur; I sneaked in after her, not daring
to lift my eyes. I don't think she looked at him, though she did
vouchsafe the remark that he seemed to be a civil sort of person.
I was walking about by myself this afternoon. Aunt Celia and I had
taken a long drive, and she had dropped me in a quaint old part of the
town that I might have a brisk walk home for exercise. Suddenly it began
to rain, which it is apt to do in England, between the showers, and at
the same moment I espied a sign, 'Martha Huggins, Licensed Victualler.'
It was a nice, tidy little shop, with a fire on the hearth and flowers
in the window, and I thought no one would catch me if I stepped inside
to chat with Martha until the sun shone again. I fancied it would be
delightful and Dickensy to talk quietly with a licensed victualler by
the name of Martha Huggins.
Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and
ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone, for
I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of
inebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he merely
lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale. He
certainly has the loveliest manners, and his hair is a more beautiful
colour every time I see him.
And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his politeness
and his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and talked with like a
forward boarding-school miss; but I must say I don't think much of his
ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the virtues, but if I were he, I
would part with my distinguished air, my charming ease--in fact, almost
anything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of common-sense, just
enough to guide me in the practical affairs of life.
[Illustration: "I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone."]
I wonder what he is? He might be an artist, but he doesn't seem quite
like an artist; or just a dilettante, but he doesn't look in the least
like a dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that is the
most probable guess of all. Perhaps he is only 'going to be' one of
these things, for he can't be more than twenty-five or twenty-six.
Still, he looks as if he were something already; that is, he has a kind
of self-reliance in his mien--not self-assertion, nor self-esteem, but
belief in self, as if he were able, and knew that he was able, to
conquer circumstances.
Aunt Celia wouldn't stay at Ye Olde Bell and Horns here. She looked
under the bed (which, I insist, was an unfair test), and ordered her
luggage to be taken instantly to the Grand Pump Room Hotel.
Memoranda: _Bath became distinguished for its architecture and popular
as a fashionable resort in the 17th century from the deserved repute of
its waters and through the genius of two men, Wood the architect and
Beau Nash, Master of Ceremonies. A true picture of the society of the
period is found in Smollett's 'Humphry Clinker', which Aunt Celia says
she will read and tell me what is necessary. Remember the window of the
seven lights in the Abbey Church, the one with the angels ascending and
descending; also the rich Perp. chantry of Prior Bird, S. of chancel. It
is Murray who calls it a Perp. chantry, not I._
_She_
_June 8._
It was very wet this morning, and I had breakfast in my room. The maid's
name is Hetty Precious, and I could eat almost anything brought me by
such a beautifully named person. A little parcel postmarked Bath was on
my tray, but as the address was printed, I have no clue to the sender.
It was a wee copy of Jane Austen's 'Persuasion,' which I have read
before, but was glad to see again, because I had forgotten that the
scene is partly laid in Bath, and now I can follow dear Anne and vain
Sir Walter, hateful Elizabeth and scheming Mrs. Clay through Camden
Place and Bath Street, Union Street, Milsom Street, and the Pump Yard. I
can even follow them to the site of the White Hart Hotel, where the
adorable Captain Wentworth wrote the letter to Anne. After more than two
hundred pages of suspense, with what joy and relief did I read that
letter! I wonder if Anne herself was any more excited than I?
At first I thought Roderick Abbott sent the book, until I remembered
that his literary taste is _Puck_ in America and _Pick-me-up_ and
_Tit-Bits_ in England; and now I don't know what to think. I turned to
Captain Wentworth's letter in the last chapter but one--oh, it _is_ a
beautiful letter! I _wish_ somebody would ever write me that he is 'half
agony, half hope,' and that I 'pierce his soul.' Of course, it would be
wicked to pierce a soul, and of course they wouldn't write that way
nowadays; but there is something perfectly delightful about the
expression.
Well, when I found the place, what do you suppose? Some of the sentences
in the letter seem to be underlined ever so faintly; so faintly, indeed,
that I cannot quite decide whether it's my imagination or a lead-pencil,
but this is the way it seems to look:
'I can listen no longer in silence. [underlined: I must speak to you by
such means as are within my reach.] You pierce my soul. I am half agony,
half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings
are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more
your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare
not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier
death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and
resentful I have been, but never inconstant. [underlined: You alone have
brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen
this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even
these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must
have penetrated mine.] I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing
something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can
distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.
Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. You do
believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe
it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in
'F. W.'
Of course, this means nothing. Somebody has been reading the book, and
marked it idly as he (or she) read. I can imagine someone's underlining
a splendid sentiment like 'Dare not say that man forgets sooner than
woman!' but why should a reader lay stress on such a simple sentence as
'You alone brought me to Bath'?
_He_
Gloucester, _June 10,_
The Golden Slipper.
Nothing accomplished yet. Her aunt is a Van Tyck, and a stiff one, too.
I am a Copley, and that delays matters. Much depends upon the manner of
approach. A false move would be fatal. We have seven more towns (as per
itinerary), and if their thirst for cathedrals isn't slaked when these
are finished, we have the entire Continent to do. If I could only
succeed in making an impression on the retina of Aunt Celia's eye!
Though I have been under her feet for ten days, she never yet has
observed me. This absent-mindedness of hers serves me ill now, but it
may prove a blessing later on.
I made two modest moves on the chessboard of Fate yesterday, but they
were so very modest and mysterious that I almost fear they were never
noticed.
_She_
Gloucester, _June 10_,
In Impossible Lodgings chosen by Me.
Something else awfully exciting has happened.
When we walked down the railway platform at Bath, I saw a pink placard
pasted on the window of a first-class carriage. It had 'VAN TYCK:
RESERVED,' written on it, after the English fashion, and we took our
places without question. Presently Aunt Celia's eyes and mine alighted
at the same moment on a bunch of yellow primroses pinned on the stuffed
back of the most comfortable seat next the window.
'They do things so well in England,' said Aunt Celia admiringly. 'The
landlord must have sent my name to the guard--you see the advantage of
stopping at the best hotels, Katharine--but one would not have suspected
him capable of such a refined attention as the bunch of flowers. You
must take a few of them, dear; you are so fond of primroses.'
Oh! I am having a delicious time abroad! I do think England is the most
interesting country in the world; and as for the cathedral towns, how
can anyone bear to live anywhere else?
_She_
Oxford, _June 12_,
The Mitre.
It was here in Oxford that a grain of common-sense entered the brain of
the flower of chivalry; you might call it the dawn of reason. We had
spent part of the morning in High Street, 'the noblest old street in
England,' as our dear Hawthorne calls it. As Wordsworth had written a
sonnet about it, Aunt Celia was armed for the fray--a volume of
Wordsworth in one hand, and one of Hawthorne in the other. (I wish
Baedeker and Murray didn't give such full information about what one
ought to read before one can approach these places in a proper spirit.)
When we had done High Street, we went to Magdalen College, and sat down
on a bench in Addison's Walk, where Aunt Celia proceeded to store my
mind with the principal facts of Addison's career, and his influence on
the literature of the something or other century. The cramming process
over, we wandered along, and came upon 'him' sketching a shady corner of
the walk.
Aunt Celia went up behind him, and, Van Tyck though she is, she could
not restrain her admiration of his work. I was surprised myself; I
didn't suppose so good-looking a youth could do such good work. I
retired to a safe distance, and they chatted together. He offered her
the sketch; she refused to take advantage of his kindness. He said he
would 'dash off' another that evening and bring it to our hotel--'so
glad to do anything for a fellow-countryman,' etc. I peeped from behind
a tree and saw him give her his card. It was an awful moment; I
trembled, but she read it with unmistakable approval, and gave him her
own with an expression that meant, 'Yours is good, but beat that if you
can!'
She called to me, and I appeared. Mr. John Quincy Copley, Cambridge, was
presented to her niece, Miss Katharine Schuyler, New York. It was over,
and a very small thing to take so long about, too.
He is an architect, and, of course, has a smooth path into Aunt Celia's
affections. Theological students, ministers, missionaries, heroes, and
martyrs she may distrust, but architects never!
'He is an architect, my dear Katharine, and he is a Copley,' she told me
afterwards. 'I never knew a Copley who was not respectable, and many of
them have been more.'
After the introduction was over, Aunt Celia asked him guilelessly if he
had visited any other of the English cathedrals. Any others,
indeed!--this to a youth who had been all but in her lap for a
fortnight. It was a blow, but he rallied bravely, and, with an amused
look in my direction, replied discreetly that he had visited most of
them at one time or another. I refused to let him see that I had ever
noticed him before--that is, particularly.
I wish I had had an opportunity of talking to him of our plans, but just
as I was leading the conversation into the proper channels, the waiter
came in for breakfast orders--as if it mattered what one had for
breakfast, or whether one had any at all. I can understand an interest
in dinner or even in luncheon, but not in breakfast; at least not when
more important things are under consideration.
* * * * *
Memoranda: _'The very stones and mortar of this historic town seem
impregnated with the spirit of restful antiquity.'_ (Extract from one of
Aunt Celia's letters.) _Among the great men who have studied here are
the Prince of Wales, Duke of Wellington, Gladstone, Sir Robert Peel, Sir
Philip Sidney, William Penn, John Locke, the two Wesleys, Ruskin, Ben
Jonson, and Thomas Otway._ (Look Otway up.)
_He_
Oxford, _June 13_,
The Angel.
I have done it, and if I hadn't been a fool and a coward I might have
done it a week ago, and spared myself a good deal of delicious torment.
'How sweet must be Love's self possessed, when but Love's shadows are so
rich in joy!' or something of that sort.
I have just given two hours to a sketch of Addison's Walk, and carried
it to Aunt Celia at the Mitre. Object, to find out whether they make a
long stay in London (our next point), and, if so, where. It seems they
stop only a night. I said in the course of conversation:
'So Miss Schuyler is willing to forego a London season? Marvellous
self-denial!'
'My niece did not come to Europe for a London season,' replied Miss Van
Tyck. 'We go through London this time merely as a cathedral town,
simply because it chances to be where it is geographically. We shall
visit St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, and then go directly on, that
our chain of impressions may have absolute continuity and be free from
any disturbing elements.'
Oh, but she is lovely, is Aunt Celia! London a cathedral town!
Now, for my part, I should like to drop St. Paul's for once, and omit
Westminster Abbey for the moment, and sit on the top of a bus with Miss
Schuyler or in a hansom jogging up and down Piccadilly. The hansom
should have bouquets of paper-flowers in the windows, and the horse
should wear carnations in his headstall, and Miss Schuyler should ask me
questions, to which I should always know the right answers. This would
be but a prelude, for I should wish later to ask her questions to which
I should hope she would also know the right answers.
Heigho! I didn't suppose that anything could be lovelier than that
girl's smile, but there is, and it is her voice.
I shall call there again to-morrow morning. I don't know on what
pretext, but I shall call, for my visit was curtailed this evening by
the entrance of the waiter, who asked what they would have for
breakfast. Miss Van Tyck said she would be disengaged in a moment, so
naturally I departed, with a longing to knock the impudent waiter's head
against the uncomprehending wall. Breakfast indeed! A fellow can
breakfast regularly, and yet be in a starving condition.
_He_
Oxford, _June 14_,
The Angel.
I have just called. They have gone! Gone hours before they intended! How
shall I find her in London?
_He_
London, _June 15_,
Walsingham House Hotel.
As a cathedral town London leaves much to be desired. There are too many
hotels, too many people, and the distances are too great. For ten hours
I kept a hansom galloping between St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, with
no result. I am now going to Ely, where I shall stay in the cathedral
from morning till night, and have my meals brought to me on a tray by
the verger.
_She_
Ely, _June 15_,
At Miss Kettlestring's lodgings.
I have lost him! He was not at St. Paul's or Westminster in
London--great, cruel, busy, brutal London, that could swallow up any
precious thing and make no sign. And he is not here! They say it is a
very fine cathedral.
Memoranda: _The Octagon is perhaps the most beautiful and original
design to be found in the whole range of Gothic architecture. Remember
also the retrochoir. The lower tier of windows consists of three long
lancets, with groups of Purbeck shafts at the angles; the upper, of five
lancets, diminishing from the centre, and set back, as in the
clerestory, within an arcade supported by shafts._ (I don't believe even
he could make head or tail of this.) _Remember the curious bosses under
the brackets of the stone altar in the Alcock Chapel. They represent
ammonites projecting from their shells and biting each other._ (If I
were an ammonite I know I should bite Aunt Celia. Look up ammonite.)
_He_
Ely, _June 18_,
The Lamb Hotel.
I cannot find her! Am racked with rheumatic pains sitting in this big,
empty, solitary, hollow, reverberating, damp, desolate, deserted
cathedral hour after hour. On to Peterborough this evening.
_She_
Peterborough, _June 18_.
He is not here. The cathedral, even the celebrated west front, seems to
me somewhat overrated. Catherine of Aragon (or one of those Henry the
Eighth wives) is buried here, also Mary Queen of Scots; but I am tired
of looking at graves, viciously tired, too, of writing in this trumpery
note-book. We move on this afternoon.
_He_
Peterborough, _June 19_.
A few more days of this modern Love Chase will unfit me for professional
work. Tried to draw the roof of the choir, a good specimen of early
Perp., and failed. Studied the itinerary again to see if it had any
unsuspected suggestions in cipher. No go! York and Durham were
double-starred by the Aunt Celia's curate as places for long stops.
Perhaps we shall meet again there.
Lincoln, _June 22_,
The Black Boy Inn.
I am stopping at a beastly little hole, which has the one merit of being
opposite Miss Schuyler's lodgings, for I have found her at last. My
sketch-book has deteriorated in artistic value during the last two
weeks. Many of its pages, while interesting to me as reminiscences,
will hardly do for family or studio exhibition. If I should label them,
the result would be something like this:
1. Sketch of a footstool and desk where I first saw Miss Schuyler
kneeling.
2. Sketch of a carved oak chair, Miss Schuyler sitting in it.
3. 'Angel choir.' Heads of Miss Schuyler introduced into the carving.
4. Altar screen. A row of full-length Miss Schuylers holding lilies.
5. Tomb of a bishop, where I tied Miss Schuyler's shoe.
6. Tomb of another bishop, where I had to tie it again because I did it
so badly the first time.
7. Sketch of the shoe, the shoe-lace worn out with much tying.
8. Sketch of the blessed verger who called her 'Madam' when we were
walking together.
9. Sketch of her blush when he did it; the prettiest thing in the world.
10. Sketch of J. Q. Copley contemplating the ruins of his heart.
'How are the mighty fallen!'
* * * * *
_She_
Lincoln, _June 23_,
At Miss Smallpage's, Castle Garden.
This is one of the charmingest towns we have visited, and I am so glad
Aunt Celia has a letter to the Canon in residence, because it may keep
her contented.
We walked up Steep Hill this morning to see the Jews' house, but long
before we reached it I had seen Mr. Copley sitting on a camp-stool, with
his easel in front of him. Wonderful to relate, Aunt Celia recognised
him, and was most cordial in her greeting. As for me, I was never so
embarrassed in my life. I felt as if he knew that I had expected to see
him in London and Ely and Peterborough, though, of course, he _couldn't_
know it, even if he looked for, and missed, me in those three dreary and
over-estimated places. He had made a most beautiful drawing of the Jews'
House, and completed his conquest of Aunt Celia by presenting it to her.
I should like to know when my turn is coming; but, anyway, she asked him
to luncheon, and he came, and we had such a cosy, homelike meal
together. He is even nicer than he looks, which is saying a good deal
more than I should, even to a locked book. Aunt Celia dozed a little
after luncheon, and Mr. Copley almost talked in whispers, he was so
afraid of disturbing her nap. It is just in these trifling things that
one can tell a true man--courtesy to elderly people and consideration
for their weaknesses. He has done something in the world; I was sure
that he had. He has a little income of his own, but he is too proud and
ambitious to be an idler. He looked so manly when he talked about it,
standing up straight and strong in his knickerbockers. I like men in
knickerbockers. Aunt Celia doesn't. She says she doesn't see how a
well-brought-up Copley can go about with his legs in that condition. I
would give worlds to know how Aunt Celia ever unbent sufficiently to get
engaged. But, as I was saying, Mr. Copley has accomplished something,
young as he is. He has built three picturesque suburban churches
suitable for weddings, and a State lunatic asylum.