A Cathedral Courtship | Page 4

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 bangs, 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 judge 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?"
"Yes, turbot, by all means," I said, my mouth watering at the word.
"And what for a roast, miss? Would you enjoy a young duckling,
miss?"
"Just the thing; and for dessert"--I couldn't think what we ought to have
for dessert in England, but the high-minded model coughed
apologetically and 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 shriek 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.
"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 taken
for an Englishwoman. She said she thought that lemon squash was a
drink; I thought it was a pie; but we shall find out at dinner, for, as I
said, I ordered a sufficient number for two persons.
At four o'clock we attended even-song 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.
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