Τίς δ’ ἀγροιῶτίς τοι θελγει νόον,
οὐκ ἐπισταμένα τὰ βράκε’ ἔλκην ἐπὶ τῶν σφύρων.—_Sappho._
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I
THE clangour of bells grew insistent. In uncontrollable hilarity pealed
S. Mary, contrasting clearly with the subdued carillon of S. Mark. From
all sides, seldom in unison, resounded bells. S. Elizabeth and S.
Sebastian, in Flower Street, seemed in loud dispute, while S. Ann “on
the Hill,” all hollow, cracked, consumptive, fretful, did nothing but
complain. Near by S. Nicaise, half-paralysed, and impotent, feebly
shook. Then, triumphant, in a hurricane of sound, S. Irene hushed them
all.
It was Sunday again.
Up and up, and still up, the winding ways of the city the straggling
townsfolk toiled.
Now and again a pilgrim perhaps would pause in the narrow lane behind
the Deanery to rest.
Opening a black lacquer fan and setting the window of her bedroom wide,
Miss Sarah Sinquier peered out.
The lane, very frequently, would prove interesting of an afternoon.
Across it, the Cathedral rose up before her with wizardry against the
evening sky.
Miss Sinquier raised her eyes towards the twin grey spires, threw up her
arms, and yawned.
From a pinnacle a devil with limbs entwined about some struggling
crowned-coiffed prey, grimaced.
“_For I yearn for those kisses you gave me once
On the steps by Bakerloo!_”
Miss Sinquier crooned caressingly, craning further out.
Under the little old lime trees by the Cathedral door lounged Lady
Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman.
Miss Sinquier considered him.
In her mind’s eye she saw the impression her own conversion would make
in the parochial world.
“Canon Sinquier’s only daughter has gone over to Rome....” Or, “Canon
Sinquier’s daughter has taken the veil.” Or, “Miss Sinquier, having
suffered untold persecution at the hands of her family, has been
received into the Convent of the Holy Dove.”
Her eyes strayed leisurely from the powdered head and weeping
shoulder-knots of Lady Caroline Dempsey’s Catholic footman. The lack of
movement was oppressive.
Why was not Miss Worrall in her customary collapse being borne senseless
to her Gate in the Sacristan’s arms? And why to-night were they not
chaunting the Psalms?
Darting out her tongue, Miss Sinquier withdrew her head and resumed her
book.
“Pouf!”
She shook her fan.
The room would soon be dark.
From the grey-toned walls, scriptural, a _Sasso Sassi_ frowned.
“In all these fruitful years,” she read, “the only instance he is
recorded to have smiled was at a great rat running in and out among some
statues.... _He_ was the Ideal Hamlet. Morose of countenance, and
cynical by nature, his outbursts, at times, would completely freeze the
company.”
Miss Sinquier passed her finger-tips lightly across her hair.
“Somehow it makes no difference,” she murmured, turning towards a glass.
To feign Ophelia—no matter what!
She pulled about her a lace Manilla shawl.
It was as though it were Andalusia whenever she wrapped it on.
“_Dona Rosarda!_”
“_Fernan Perez? What do you want?_”
“_Ravishing Rosarda, I need you._”
“_I am the wife of Don José Cuchillo—the Moor._”
“_Dona Rosarda Castilda Cuchillo, I love you._”
“_Sh——! My husband will be back directly._”
Stretched at ease before a pier-glass, Miss Sinquier grew enthralled.
An hour sped by.
The room was almost dark.
Don José would wish his revenge.
“_Rosarda._”
“_Fernando?_”
“_Ah-h!_”
Miss Sinquier got up.
She must compose herself for dinner—wash off the blood.
Poor Fernan!
She glanced about her, a trifle Spanish still.
From a clothes-peg something hanging seemed to implore.
“To see me? Why, bless you. Yes!”
With an impetuous, pretty gesture she flung it upon a couch.
“How do I like America?”
“I adore it.... You see ... I’ve lost my heart here—! Tell them so—oh!
especially to the men.... Whereabouts was I born? In Westmorland; yes.
_In England, Sir!_ Inquisitive? Why not at all: I was born in the sleepy
peaceful town of Applethorp (three p’s), in the inmost heart—right in
the very middle,” Miss Sinquier murmured, tucking a few field flowers
under her chin, “of the _Close._”
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