A Cathedral Courtship | Page 5

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 bottle of soda mint tablets,
a spool of dental floss, a Bath bun, a bit of gray frizz that aunt Celia
pins into her steamer cap, a spectacle case, a brandy flask, and a
bonbon box, which broke and scattered cloves and cardamom seeds. (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 cardamom seeds out of the cracks in the stone
flagging, 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 there.

HE

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