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. 

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 =Village Watch-Tower. = 3s. 6d. 

 =Polly Oliver's Problem. = Illustrated. 3s. 6d. 

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 =Birds' Christmas Carol. = Illustrated. 1s. 6d. 

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_By Mrs. Wiggin & Miss Nora A. Smith. _

 =The Story Hour. = Illustrated. 2s. 6d. 

 =Children's Rights. = 5s. 

 =Republic of Childhood. = 3 vols. 5s. Each. 

_LONDON: GAY AND BIRD. _

[Illustration: 'Jack! Jack! save me!']

A Cathedral Courtship

BYKate Douglas Wiggin

_ILLUSTRATED_

BYCHARLES E. BROCK

GAY AND BIRD22 BEDFORD STREET, STRANDLONDON

1901

_All rights reserved_

_Originally published in 1893 with 'Penelope's English Experiences, ' andreprinted 1893 (twice), 1894, 1895, 1896, 1897. _

_PREFACE_

_'A Cathedral Courtship' was first published in 1893, appearing in avolume with 'Penelope's English Experiences. ' In course of time, thelatter story, finding unexpected favour in the public eyes, left itsmodest companion, and was promoted to a separate existence, withpictures 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 andirrational heart!) could no longer buy 'A Cathedral Courtship, ' a newdesire for it sprang into being, and when the demands becamesufficiently ardent and numerous, it was decided to republish the story, with illustrations by Mr. Charles E. Brock, an artist who can be reliedupon to put new energy into a live tale or resuscitate a dead one. 

At this point the author, having presumably grown in knowledge ofgrammar, spelling, and punctuation, was asked to revise the text, andbeing confronted with the printed page, was overcome by the temptationto add now and then a sentence, line, or paragraph, while the charmingshade of Miss Kitty Schuyler perched on every exclamation point, beggingpermission to say a trifle, just a trifle, more. 

'You might allow me to explain myself just there, ' she coaxed; 'and ifyou have told them all I was supposed to be thinking in Winchester orSalisbury or Oxford, why not tell them what I thought in Bath orPeterborough or Ely? It was awfully interesting!'

Jack Copley, too, clamoured to be heard still further on the subject ofhis 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 cathedraltowns, has not been altered in the least by these new pages. It is onlyas if the story-teller, meeting a new pair of interested eyes, hadalmost unconsciously drifted into fresh confidences. _

 _KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. _

_This is all quite true, and anyway we have said nothing that we are abit 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 Celiahas an intense desire to improve my mind. Papa told her, when we wereleaving Cedarhurst, that he wouldn't for the world have it too muchimproved, and Aunt Celia remarked that, so far as she could judge, therewas no immediate danger; with which exchange of hostilities they parted. 

We are travelling under the yoke of an iron itinerary, warrantedneither to bend nor break. It was made out by a young High Church curatein New York, and if it were a creed, or a document that had been blessedby 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 thecathedrals will give me a taste for ritual and bring me into the truefold. Mamma was a Unitarian, and so when she was alive I generallyattended 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 looselyand carelessly formulated. She also says that dear old Dr. Kyle is themost dangerous Unitarian she knows, because he has leanings towardsChristianity. 

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 animaginary scale-drawing of her heart (up to that time a virgin forest, an unmapped territory), which enabled him to enter in and set up apedestal there, on which he has remained ever since. He has been only amemory 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 acountry hotel. This is fortunate, on the whole, because Aunt Celiathinks he was destined to establish American architecture on a higherplane, rid it of its base, time-serving, imitative instincts, and waftit to a height where, in the course of centuries, it would have beenrevered and followed by all the nations of the earth. 

I went to see the stable, after one of these Miriam-like flights ofprophecy on the might-have-been. It isn't fair to judge a man's promiseby one modest performance, and so I shall say nothing, save that I amsure it was the charm of the man that won my aunt's affection, not thegenius of the builder. 

This sentiment about architecture and this fondness for the verytoppingest High Church ritual cause Aunt Celia to look on the Englishcathedrals with solemnity and reverential awe. She has given me a fatnote-book, with 'Katharine Schuyler' stamped in gold letters on theRussia-leather cover, and a lock and key to conceal its youthfulinanities from the general public. I am not at all the sort of girl whomakes notes, and I have told her so; but she says that I must at leastrecord my passing impressions, if they are ever so trivial andcommonplace. She also says that one's language gains unconsciously indignity and sobriety by being set down in black and white, and that aliberal use of pen and ink will be sure to chasten my extravagances ofstyle. 

I wanted to go directly from Southampton to London with the Abbotts, ourship friends, who left us yesterday. Roderick Abbott and I had had acharming time on board ship (more charming than Aunt Celia knows, because she was very ill, and her natural powers of chaperoning wereseverely impaired), and the prospect of seeing London sights togetherwas not unpleasing; but Roderick Abbott is not in Aunt Celia'sitinerary, which reads: 'Winchester, Salisbury, Bath, Wells, Gloucester, Oxford, London, Ely, Peterborough, Lincoln, York, Durham. ' These are thecathedrals Aunt Celia's curate chose to visit, and this is the order inwhich he chose to visit them. Canterbury was too far east for him, andExeter was too far west, but he suggests Ripon and Hereford if strengthand time permit. 

Aunt Celia is one of those persons who are born to command, and whenthey are thrown in contact with those who are born to be commanded allgoes as merry as a marriage bell; otherwise not. 

So here we are at Winchester; and I don't mind all the Roderick Abbottsin the universe, now that I have seen the Royal Garden Inn, its prettycoffee-room opening into the old-fashioned garden, with its borders ofclove-pinks, its aviaries, and its blossoming horse-chestnuts, greattowering masses of pink bloom. 

Aunt Celia has driven to St. Cross Hospital with Mrs. Benedict, anestimable lady tourist whom she 'picked up' _en route_ from Southampton. I am tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write letters, because AuntCelia has the guide-books, so I sit by the window in indolent content, watching the dear little school laddies, with their short jackets andwide white collars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, andkissable. I should like to kiss the chambermaid, too. She has a pinkprint dress, no fringe, thank goodness (it's curious our servants can'tleave 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 beEnglish while I study her as a type, but of course I mustn't. SometimesI 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 hasjust knocked and inquired what we will have for dinner. It is veryembarrassing to give orders to a person who looks like a Justice of theSupreme 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 newpotatoes and green peas?'

'Just the thing; and for dessert--' I couldn't think what I ought toorder 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 delightas I heard those intoxicating words, heretofore met only in Englishnovels!

'Ye--es, ' I said hesitatingly, though I was palpitating with joy, 'Ifancy we should like gooseberry-tart' (here a bright idea entered mymind); 'and perhaps, in case my aunt doesn't care for thegooseberry-tart, you might bring a lemon-squash, please. '

Now, I had never met a lemon-squash personally, but I had often heard ofit, and wished to show my familiarity with British culinary art. 

'It would 'ardly be a substitute for gooseberry-tart, miss; but shall Ibring _one_ lemon-squash, miss?'

'Oh, as to that, it doesn't matter, ' I said haughtily; 'bring asufficient number for two persons. '

 * * * * *

Aunt Celia came home in the highest feather. She had twice been mistakenfor an Englishwoman. She said she thought that lemon-squash was adrink; I thought, of course, it was a pie; but we shall find out atdinner, for, as I said, I ordered a sufficient number for two persons, and the head-waiter is not a personage who will let Transatlanticignorance remain uninstructed. 

At four o'clock we attended evensong at the cathedral. I shall not saywhat I felt when the white-surpliced boy choir entered, winding downthose vaulted aisles, or when I heard for the first time that intonedservice, with all its 'witchcraft of harmonic sound. ' I sat quite bymyself in a high carved oak seat, and the hour was passed in a trance ofserene delight. I do not have many opinions, it is true, but papa says Iam always strong on sentiments; nevertheless, I shall not attempt totell even what I feel in these new and beautiful experiences, for it hasbeen 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 ofAmericans 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 Ilooked 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 theservice, 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 wenton a tour through the cathedral, a heterogeneous band, headed by aconscientious old verger, who did his best to enlighten us, andsucceeded in virtually spoiling my pleasure. 

After we had finished (think of 'finishing' a cathedral in an hour ortwo!), Aunt Celia and I, with one or two others, wandered through thebeautiful close, looking at the exterior from every possible point, andcoming at last to a certain ruined arch which is very famous. It did notstrike me as being remarkable. I could make any number of them with apattern without the least effort. But, at any rate, when told by theverger to gaze upon the beauties of this wonderful relic and tremble, wewere obliged to gaze also upon the beauties of the aforesaid nice youngman, who was sketching it. 

As we turned to go away, Aunt Celia dropped her bag. It is one of thosedetestable, all-absorbing, all-devouring, thoroughly respectable, butnever proud, Boston bags, made of black cloth with leather trimmings, 'C. Van T. ' embroidered on the side, and the top drawn up with stoutcords 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 greatmany necessaries into Aunt Celia's. 

I hastened to pick up the horrid thing, for fear the nice young manwould feel obliged to do it for me; but, in my indecorous haste, Icaught hold of the wrong end, and emptied the entire contents on thestone flagging. Aunt Celia didn't notice; she had turned with theverger, lest she should miss a single word of his inspired testimony. Sowe 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 ofsoda-mint tablets, a church calendar, a bit of gray frizz that AuntCelia pins into her cap when she is travelling in damp weather, aspectacle-case, a brandy-flask, and a bon-bon-box, which broke andscattered cloves and peppermint lozenges. (I hope he guessed Aunt Celiais a dyspeptic, and not intemperate!) All this was hopelessly vulgar, but I wouldn't have minded anything if there had not been a Duchessnovel. Of course he thought that it belonged to me. He couldn't haveknown Aunt Celia was carrying it for that accidental Mrs. Benedict, withwhom 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 ofhumour--he handed me the tattered, disreputable-looking copy of 'AModern 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 herverger. 

 * * * * *

Memoranda: _The Winchester Cathedral has the longest nave. The inside ismore superb than the outside. Izaak Walton and Jane Austen are buriedhere. _

_He_

 Winchester, _May 28_, The White Swan. 

As sure as my name is Jack Copley, I saw the prettiest girl in the worldto-day--an American, too, or I am greatly mistaken. It was in thecathedral, where I have been sketching for several days. I was sittingat the end of a bench, at afternoon service, when two ladies entered bythe side-door. The ancient maiden, evidently the head of the family, settled herself devoutly, and the young one stole off by herself to oneof the old carved seats back of the choir. She was worse than pretty! Imade a memorandum of her during service, as she sat under the darkcarved-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 hisgallery of types. 

A black-and-white sketch doesn't give any definite idea of thischarmer'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 offher arm, a knot of yellow primroses in her girdle, carved-oakbackground, and the afternoon sun coming through a stained-glass window. Great Jove! She had a most curious effect on me, that girl! I can'texplain it--very curious, altogether new, and rather pleasant. When oneof the choir-boys sang 'Oh for the wings of a dove!' a tear rolled outof one of her lovely eyes and down her smooth brown cheek. I would havegiven a large portion of my modest monthly income for the felicity ofwiping away that teardrop with one of my new handkerchiefs, marked witha tremendous 'C' by my pretty sister. 

An hour or two later they appeared again--the dragon, who answers to thename of 'Aunt Celia, ' and the 'nut-brown mayde, ' who comes when she iscalled 'Katharine. ' I was sketching a ruined arch. The dragon droppedher unmistakably Boston bag. I expected to see encyclopædias and Russiantracts fall from it, but was disappointed. The 'nut-brown mayde' (whohas been trained in the way she should go) hastened to pick up the bagfor fear that I, a stranger, should serve her by doing it. She waspunished by turning it inside out, and I was rewarded by helping hergather together the articles, which were many and ill-assorted. Mylittle romance received the first blow when I found that she reads theDuchess 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 havetold her that such a blush on such a cheek would almost atone for notbeing able to read at all, but I refrained. It is vexatious all thesame, 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 undersome stones. It proved to be an itinerary. I didn't return it. I thoughtthey must know which way they were going; and as this was precisely whatI wanted to know, I kept it for my own use. She is doing the cathedraltowns. I am doing the cathedral towns. Happy thought! Why shouldn't wedo them together--we and Aunt Celia? A fellow whose mother and sisterare in America must have some feminine society!

I had only ten minutes to catch my train for Salisbury, but I concludedto 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, ordereddinner, and took an altogether indefensible and inconsistent pleasure inwriting 'John Quincy Copley, Cambridge, Mass. , ' directly beneath thecharmer's autograph. 

 * * * * *

_She_

 Salisbury, _June 1_, The White Hart Inn. 

We left Winchester on the 1. 16 train yesterday, and here we are withinsight of another superb and ancient pile of stone. I wanted so much tostop at the Highflyer Inn in Lark Lane, but Aunt Celia said that if wewere destitute of personal dignity, we at least owed something to ourancestors. Aunt Celia has a temperamental distrust of joy as somethingdangerous and ensnaring. She doesn't realize what fun it would be todate one's letters from the Highflyer Inn, Lark Lane, even if one wereobliged to consort with poachers and trippers in order to do it. 

Better times are coming, however, for she was in a melting mood lastevening, and promised me that wherever I can find an inn with apicturesque and unusual name, she will stop there, provided it is cleanand respectable, if I on my part will agree to make regular notes oftravel in my Russia-leather book. She says that ever since she was myage she has asked herself nightly the questions Pythagoras was in thehabit 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 consistentrhyme, and she evaded the point by answering that Pythagoras didn'twrite it in English. 

We attended service at three. The music was lovely, and there werebeautiful stained-glass windows by Burne-Jones and Morris. The verger(when wound up with a shilling) talked like an electric doll. If thatnice young man is making a cathedral tour like ourselves, he isn'ttaking our route, for he isn't here. If he has come over for the purposeof sketching, he wouldn't stop with one cathedral, unless he is veryindolent 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. Toobad, 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, andanyway it would be of no use to anybody. '

 _June 2. _

We intended to go to Stonehenge this morning, but it rained, so we tooka 'growler' and went to the Earl of Pembroke's country place to see thepictures. Had a delightful morning with the magnificent antiques, curios, and portraits. The Van Dyck room is a joy for ever; but onereally needs a guide or a friend who knows something of art if one wouldunderstand these things. There were other visitors; nobody who lookedespecially interesting. Don't like Salisbury so well as Winchester. Don't know why. We shall drive this afternoon, if it is fair, and go toBath and Wells to-morrow, I am glad to say. Must read Baedeker on theBishop's palace. Oh, dear! if one could only have a good time and nottry 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 sharppoint like this [inverted U shape] /\, and then joined together likethis \/\/\/, the way they scallop babies' flannel petticoats. Gothiclooks like triangles meeting together in various spots and joined witha beautiful sort of ornamented knobs. I think I recognise Gothic when Isee it. Then there is Norman, Early English, fully developed EarlyEnglish, Early and Late Perpendicular, Transition, and, for aught Iknow, 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 riverflowing through green meadows, with a fringe of trees on either side, Isat down to make a sketch. I heard feminine voices in the vicinity, butas these are generally a part of the landscape in the tourist season, Ipaid no special notice. Suddenly a dainty patent-leather shoe floatedtowards me on the surface of the stream. It evidently had just droppedin, for it was right side up with care, and was disporting itself mostmerrily. 'Did ever Jove's tree drop such fruit?' I quoted as I fished itout 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 atree taking a pebble out of the heel, when I saw a caterpillar, and Idropped 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 unusualspectacle of my 'nut-brown mayde' hopping, like a divine stork, on onefoot, and ever and anon emitting a feminine shriek as the other, clad ina delicate silk stocking, came in contact with the ground. I rosequickly, and, polishing the patent leather ostentatiously inside and outwith my handkerchief, I offered it to her with distinguished grace. Shesat hurriedly down on the ground with as much dignity as possible, andthen, recognising me as the person who picked up the contents of AuntCelia's bag, she said, dimpling in the most distracting manner (that'sanother thing there ought to be a law against): 'Thank you again; youseem to be a sort of knight-errant. '

'Shall I--assist you?' I asked. I might have known that this was goingtoo far. Of course I didn't suppose she would let me help her put theshoe on, but I thought--upon my soul, I don't know what I thought, forshe was about a million times prettier to-day than yesterday. 

'No, thank you, ' she said, with polar frigidity. 'Good-afternoon. ' Andshe hopped back to her Aunt Celia without another word. 

I don't know how to approach Aunt Celia. She is formidable. By a curiousaccident of feature, for which she is not in the least responsible, shealways wears an unfortunate expression as of one perceiving someoffensive odour in the immediate vicinity. This may be a mere accidentof high birth. It is the kind of nose often seen in the 'firstfamilies, ' and her name betrays the fact that she is of good oldKnickerbocker 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 placethat grows on one the longer one stays in it. I am quite sorry we mustleave so soon, but Aunt Celia is always in haste to be gone. Bath may beinteresting, 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 beingridiculous, and he is always rescuing us. Aunt Celia never really seeshim, and thus never recognises him when he appears again, always as theflower of chivalry and guardian of ladies in distress. I will neveragain travel abroad without a man, even if I have to hire one from afeeble-minded asylum. We work like galley-slaves, Aunt Celia and I, finding out about trains and things. Neither of us can understandBradshaw, and I can't even grapple with the lesser intricacies of theA B C Railway Guide. The trains, so far as I can see, always arrivebefore they go out, and I can never tell whether to read up the page ordown. It is certainly very queer that the stupidest man that breathes, one that barely escapes idiocy, can disentangle a railway guide when thebrightest woman fails. Even the boots at the inn in Wells took my book, and, rubbing his frightfully dirty finger down the row of puzzlingfigures, found the place in a minute, and said, 'There ye are, miss. ' Itis very humiliating. I suppose there are Bradshaw professorships in theEnglish universities, but the boots cannot have imbibed his knowledgethere. A traveller at _table d'hôte_ dinner yesterday said there arethree classes of Bradshaw trains in Great Britain: those that depart andnever arrive, those that arrive but never depart, and those that can becaught in transit, going on, like the wheel of eternity, with neitherbeginning nor end. All the time I have left from the study of routes andhotels I spend on guide-books. Now, I'm sure that if any one of the menI know were here, he could tell me all that is necessary as we walkalong the streets. I don't say it in a frivolous or sentimental spiritin the least, but I do affirm that there is hardly any juncture in lifewhere one isn't better off for having a man about. I should never daredivulge this to Aunt Celia, for she doesn't think men very nice. Sheexcludes them from conversation as if they were indelicate subjects. 

But to go on, we were standing at the door of Ye Crowne and Keys atWells, waiting for the fly which we had ordered to take us to thestation, when who should drive up in a four-wheeler but the flower ofchivalry. Aunt Celia was saying very audibly, 'We shall certainly missthe train, if the man doesn't come at once. '

'Pray take this cab, ' said the flower of chivalry. 'I am not leaving foran hour or more. '

Aunt Celia got in without a murmur; I sneaked in after her, not daringto lift my eyes. I don't think she looked at him, though she didvouchsafe the remark that he seemed to be a civil sort of person. 

I was walking about by myself this afternoon. Aunt Celia and I hadtaken a long drive, and she had dropped me in a quaint old part of thetown that I might have a brisk walk home for exercise. Suddenly it beganto rain, which it is apt to do in England, between the showers, and atthe same moment I espied a sign, 'Martha Huggins, Licensed Victualler. 'It was a nice, tidy little shop, with a fire on the hearth and flowersin the window, and I thought no one would catch me if I stepped insideto chat with Martha until the sun shone again. I fancied it would bedelightful and Dickensy to talk quietly with a licensed victualler bythe name of Martha Huggins. 

Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in andordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone, forI thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family ofinebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he merelylifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale. Hecertainly has the loveliest manners, and his hair is a more beautifulcolour every time I see him. 

And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his politenessand his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and talked with like aforward boarding-school miss; but I must say I don't think much of hisingenuity. Of course one can't have all the virtues, but if I were he, Iwould part with my distinguished air, my charming ease--in fact, almostanything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of common-sense, justenough 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 quitelike an artist; or just a dilettante, but he doesn't look in the leastlike a dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that is themost probable guess of all. Perhaps he is only 'going to be' one ofthese 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 kindof self-reliance in his mien--not self-assertion, nor self-esteem, butbelief in self, as if he were able, and knew that he was able, toconquer circumstances. 

Aunt Celia wouldn't stay at Ye Olde Bell and Horns here. She lookedunder the bed (which, I insist, was an unfair test), and ordered herluggage to be taken instantly to the Grand Pump Room Hotel. 

Memoranda: _Bath became distinguished for its architecture and popularas a fashionable resort in the 17th century from the deserved repute ofits waters and through the genius of two men, Wood the architect andBeau Nash, Master of Ceremonies. A true picture of the society of theperiod is found in Smollett's 'Humphry Clinker', which Aunt Celia saysshe will read and tell me what is necessary. Remember the window of theseven lights in the Abbey Church, the one with the angels ascending anddescending; also the rich Perp. Chantry of Prior Bird, S. Of chancel. Itis 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'sname is Hetty Precious, and I could eat almost anything brought me bysuch a beautifully named person. A little parcel postmarked Bath was onmy 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 readbefore, but was glad to see again, because I had forgotten that thescene is partly laid in Bath, and now I can follow dear Anne and vainSir Walter, hateful Elizabeth and scheming Mrs. Clay through CamdenPlace and Bath Street, Union Street, Milsom Street, and the Pump Yard. Ican even follow them to the site of the White Hart Hotel, where theadorable Captain Wentworth wrote the letter to Anne. After more than twohundred pages of suspense, with what joy and relief did I read thatletter! I wonder if Anne herself was any more excited than I?

At first I thought Roderick Abbott sent the book, until I rememberedthat 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 toCaptain Wentworth's letter in the last chapter but one--oh, it _is_ abeautiful letter! I _wish_ somebody would ever write me that he is 'halfagony, half hope, ' and that I 'pierce his soul. ' Of course, it would bewicked to pierce a soul, and of course they wouldn't write that waynowadays; but there is something perfectly delightful about theexpression. 

Well, when I found the place, what do you suppose? Some of the sentencesin 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 bysuch 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 feelingsare gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even moreyour own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Darenot say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlierdeath. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak andresentful I have been, but never inconstant. [underlined: You alone havebrought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seenthis? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited eventhese ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you musthave penetrated mine. ] I can hardly write. I am every instant hearingsomething which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I candistinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. You dobelieve that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believeit to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

 'F. W. '

Of course, this means nothing. Somebody has been reading the book, andmarked it idly as he (or she) read. I can imagine someone's underlininga splendid sentiment like 'Dare not say that man forgets sooner thanwoman!' 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 ofapproach. A false move would be fatal. We have seven more towns (as peritinerary), and if their thirst for cathedrals isn't slaked when theseare finished, we have the entire Continent to do. If I could onlysucceed 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 hasobserved me. This absent-mindedness of hers serves me ill now, but itmay prove a blessing later on. 

I made two modest moves on the chessboard of Fate yesterday, but theywere so very modest and mysterious that I almost fear they were nevernoticed. 

_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 placardpasted on the window of a first-class carriage. It had 'VAN TYCK:RESERVED, ' written on it, after the English fashion, and we took ourplaces without question. Presently Aunt Celia's eyes and mine alightedat the same moment on a bunch of yellow primroses pinned on the stuffedback of the most comfortable seat next the window. 

'They do things so well in England, ' said Aunt Celia admiringly. 'Thelandlord must have sent my name to the guard--you see the advantage ofstopping at the best hotels, Katharine--but one would not have suspectedhim capable of such a refined attention as the bunch of flowers. Youmust 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 mostinteresting country in the world; and as for the cathedral towns, howcan 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 ofthe flower of chivalry; you might call it the dawn of reason. We hadspent part of the morning in High Street, 'the noblest old street inEngland, ' as our dear Hawthorne calls it. As Wordsworth had written asonnet about it, Aunt Celia was armed for the fray--a volume ofWordsworth in one hand, and one of Hawthorne in the other. (I wishBaedeker and Murray didn't give such full information about what oneought 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 downon a bench in Addison's Walk, where Aunt Celia proceeded to store mymind with the principal facts of Addison's career, and his influence onthe literature of the something or other century. The cramming processover, we wandered along, and came upon 'him' sketching a shady corner ofthe walk. 

Aunt Celia went up behind him, and, Van Tyck though she is, she couldnot restrain her admiration of his work. I was surprised myself; Ididn't suppose so good-looking a youth could do such good work. Iretired to a safe distance, and they chatted together. He offered herthe sketch; she refused to take advantage of his kindness. He said hewould 'dash off' another that evening and bring it to our hotel--'soglad to do anything for a fellow-countryman, ' etc. I peeped from behinda tree and saw him give her his card. It was an awful moment; Itrembled, but she read it with unmistakable approval, and gave him herown with an expression that meant, 'Yours is good, but beat that if youcan!'

She called to me, and I appeared. Mr. John Quincy Copley, Cambridge, waspresented 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'saffections. Theological students, ministers, missionaries, heroes, andmartyrs she may distrust, but architects never!

'He is an architect, my dear Katharine, and he is a Copley, ' she told meafterwards. 'I never knew a Copley who was not respectable, and many ofthem have been more. '

After the introduction was over, Aunt Celia asked him guilelessly if hehad visited any other of the English cathedrals. Any others, indeed!--this to a youth who had been all but in her lap for afortnight. It was a blow, but he rallied bravely, and, with an amusedlook in my direction, replied discreetly that he had visited most ofthem at one time or another. I refused to let him see that I had evernoticed him before--that is, particularly. 

I wish I had had an opportunity of talking to him of our plans, but justas I was leading the conversation into the proper channels, the waitercame in for breakfast orders--as if it mattered what one had forbreakfast, or whether one had any at all. I can understand an interestin dinner or even in luncheon, but not in breakfast; at least not whenmore important things are under consideration. 

 * * * * *

Memoranda: _'The very stones and mortar of this historic town seemimpregnated with the spirit of restful antiquity. '_ (Extract from one ofAunt Celia's letters. ) _Among the great men who have studied here arethe Prince of Wales, Duke of Wellington, Gladstone, Sir Robert Peel, SirPhilip Sidney, William Penn, John Locke, the two Wesleys, Ruskin, BenJonson, 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 havedone 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 sorich in joy!' or something of that sort. 

I have just given two hours to a sketch of Addison's Walk, and carriedit to Aunt Celia at the Mitre. Object, to find out whether they make along stay in London (our next point), and, if so, where. It seems theystop only a night. I said in the course of conversation:

'So Miss Schuyler is willing to forego a London season? Marvellousself-denial!'

'My niece did not come to Europe for a London season, ' replied Miss VanTyck. 'We go through London this time merely as a cathedral town, simply because it chances to be where it is geographically. We shallvisit St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, and then go directly on, thatour chain of impressions may have absolute continuity and be free fromany 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 omitWestminster Abbey for the moment, and sit on the top of a bus with MissSchuyler or in a hansom jogging up and down Piccadilly. The hansomshould have bouquets of paper-flowers in the windows, and the horseshould wear carnations in his headstall, and Miss Schuyler should ask mequestions, to which I should always know the right answers. This wouldbe but a prelude, for I should wish later to ask her questions to whichI should hope she would also know the right answers. 

Heigho! I didn't suppose that anything could be lovelier than thatgirl's smile, but there is, and it is her voice. 

I shall call there again to-morrow morning. I don't know on whatpretext, but I shall call, for my visit was curtailed this evening bythe entrance of the waiter, who asked what they would have forbreakfast. Miss Van Tyck said she would be disengaged in a moment, sonaturally I departed, with a longing to knock the impudent waiter's headagainst the uncomprehending wall. Breakfast indeed! A fellow canbreakfast 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! Howshall 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 manyhotels, too many people, and the distances are too great. For ten hoursI kept a hansom galloping between St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, withno result. I am now going to Ely, where I shall stay in the cathedralfrom morning till night, and have my meals brought to me on a tray bythe verger. 

_She_

 Ely, _June 15_, At Miss Kettlestring's lodgings. 

I have lost him! He was not at St. Paul's or Westminster inLondon--great, cruel, busy, brutal London, that could swallow up anyprecious thing and make no sign. And he is not here! They say it is avery fine cathedral. 

Memoranda: _The Octagon is perhaps the most beautiful and originaldesign to be found in the whole range of Gothic architecture. Rememberalso the retrochoir. The lower tier of windows consists of three longlancets, with groups of Purbeck shafts at the angles; the upper, of fivelancets, diminishing from the centre, and set back, as in theclerestory, within an arcade supported by shafts. _ (I don't believe evenhe could make head or tail of this. ) _Remember the curious bosses underthe brackets of the stone altar in the Alcock Chapel. They representammonites projecting from their shells and biting each other. _ (If Iwere 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, desertedcathedral hour after hour. On to Peterborough this evening. 

_She_

 Peterborough, _June 18_. 

He is not here. The cathedral, even the celebrated west front, seems tome somewhat overrated. Catherine of Aragon (or one of those Henry theEighth wives) is buried here, also Mary Queen of Scots; but I am tiredof looking at graves, viciously tired, too, of writing in this trumperynote-book. We move on this afternoon. 

_He_

 Peterborough, _June 19_. 

A few more days of this modern Love Chase will unfit me for professionalwork. Tried to draw the roof of the choir, a good specimen of earlyPerp. , and failed. Studied the itinerary again to see if it had anyunsuspected suggestions in cipher. No go! York and Durham weredouble-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 beingopposite Miss Schuyler's lodgings, for I have found her at last. Mysketch-book has deteriorated in artistic value during the last twoweeks. 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 Schuylerkneeling. 

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 itso 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 werewalking 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 gladAunt Celia has a letter to the Canon in residence, because it may keepher contented. 

We walked up Steep Hill this morning to see the Jews' house, but longbefore we reached it I had seen Mr. Copley sitting on a camp-stool, withhis easel in front of him. Wonderful to relate, Aunt Celia recognisedhim, and was most cordial in her greeting. As for me, I was never soembarrassed in my life. I felt as if he knew that I had expected to seehim 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 andover-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 himto luncheon, and he came, and we had such a cosy, homelike mealtogether. He is even nicer than he looks, which is saying a good dealmore than I should, even to a locked book. Aunt Celia dozed a littleafter luncheon, and Mr. Copley almost talked in whispers, he was soafraid of disturbing her nap. It is just in these trifling things thatone can tell a true man--courtesy to elderly people and considerationfor their weaknesses. He has done something in the world; I was surethat he had. He has a little income of his own, but he is too proud andambitious to be an idler. He looked so manly when he talked about it, standing up straight and strong in his knickerbockers. I like men inknickerbockers. Aunt Celia doesn't. She says she doesn't see how awell-brought-up Copley can go about with his legs in that condition. Iwould give worlds to know how Aunt Celia ever unbent sufficiently to getengaged. But, as I was saying, Mr. Copley has accomplished something, young as he is. He has built three picturesque suburban churchessuitable for weddings, and a State lunatic asylum. 

Aunt Celia says we shall have no worthy architecture until everybuilding is made an exquisitely sincere representation of its deepestpurpose--a symbol, as it were, of its indwelling meaning. I should thinkit would be very difficult to design a lunatic asylum on that basis, butI didn't dare say so, as the idea seemed to present no incongruities toMr. Copley. Their conversation is absolutely sublimated when they get totalking of architecture. I have just copied two quotations from Emerson, and am studying them every night for fifteen minutes before I go tosleep. I'm going to quote them some time offhand, just after matins, when we are wandering about the cathedral grounds. The first is this:'The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone, subdued by theinsatiable demand of harmony in man. The mountain of granite blooms intoan eternal flower, with the lightness and delicate finish as well as theaerial proportion and perspective of vegetable beauty. ' Then when he hasrecovered from the shock of this, here is my second: 'Nor can any loverof nature enter the old piles of English cathedrals without feeling thatthe forest overpowered the mind of the builder, and that his chisel, his saw and plane still reproduced its ferns, its spikes of flowers, itslocust, elm, pine, and spruce. '

Memoranda: _Lincoln choir is an example of Early English or FirstPointed, which can generally be told from something else by boldprojecting buttresses and dog-tooth moulding round the abacusses. _ (Theplural is my own, and it does not look right. ) _Lincoln Castle was thescene of many prolonged sieges, and was once taken by Oliver Cromwell. _

 * * * * *

_He_

 York, _June 26_, The Black Swan. 

Kitty Schuyler is the concentrated essence of feminine witchery. Intuition strong, logic weak, and the two qualities so balanced as toproduce an indefinable charm; will-power large, but docility equal, ifa man is clever enough to know how to manage her; knowledge of factsabsolutely _nil_, but she is exquisitely intelligent in spite of it. Shehas a way of evading, escaping, eluding, and then gives you anintoxicating hint of sudden and complete surrender. She is divinelyinnocent, but roguishness saves her from insipidity. Her looks? Shelooks as you would imagine a person might look who possessed thesegraces; and she is worth looking at, though every time I do it I have arush of love to the head. When you find a girl who combines all thequalities you have imagined in the ideal, and who has added a dozen ortwo on her own account, merely to distract you past all hope, why standup and try to resist her charm? Down on your knees like a man, say I!

 * * * * *

I'm getting to adore Aunt Celia. I didn't care for her at first, but sheis so deliciously blind. Anything more exquisitely unserviceable as achaperon I can't imagine. Absorbed in antiquity, she ignores the babbleof contemporaneous lovers. That any man could look at Kitty when hecould look at a cathedral passes her comprehension. I do not presume toogreatly on her absent-mindedness, however, lest she should turnunexpectedly and rend me. I always remember that inscription on thebacks of the little mechanical French toys: 'Quoiqu'elle soit trèssolidement montée, il faut ne pas brutaliser la machine. '

And so my courtship progresses under Aunt Celia's very nose. I say'progresses'; but it is impossible to speak with any certainty ofcourting, for the essence of that gentle craft is hope, rooted in labourand trained by love. 

[Illustration: She ignores the babble of contemporaneous lovers]

I set out to propose to her during service this afternoon by writing myfeelings on the flyleaf of the hymn-book, or something like that; but Iknew that Aunt Celia would never forgive such blasphemy, and I thoughtthat Kitty herself might consider it wicked. Besides, if she shouldchance to accept me, there was nothing I could do in a cathedral torelieve my feelings. No; if she ever accepts me, I wish it to be in alarge, vacant spot of the universe, peopled by two only, and those twoso indistinguishably blended, as it were, that they would appear as oneto the casual observer. So I practised repression, though the wall of myreserve is worn to the thinness of thread-paper, and I tried to keep mymind on the droning minor canon, and not to look at her, 'for that waymadness lies. '

 * * * * *

_She_

 York, _June 28_, High Petergate Street. 

My taste is so bad! I just begin to realize it, and I am feeling my'growing pains, ' like Gwendolen in 'Daniel Deronda. ' I admired thestained glass in the Lincoln Cathedral the other day, especially theNuremberg window. I thought Mr. Copley looked pained, but he saidnothing. When I went to my room, I consulted a book and found that allthe glass in that cathedral is very modern and very bad, and theNuremberg window is the worst of all. Aunt Celia says she hopes that itwill be a warning to me to read before I speak; but Mr. Copley says no, that the world would lose more in one way than it would gain in theother. I tried my quotations this morning, and stuck fast in the middleof the first. 

Mr. Copley thinks I have been feeing the vergers too liberally, so Iwrote a song about it called 'The Ballad of the Vergers and the FoolishVirgin, ' which I sang to my guitar. Mr. Copley thinks it is clevererthan anything he ever did with his pencil. Of course, he says that onlyto be agreeable; but really, whenever he talks to me in that way, I canalmost hear myself purring with pleasure. 

We go to two services a day in the minster, and sometimes I sit quitealone in the nave drinking in the music as it floats out from behind thechoir-screen. The Litany and the Commandments are so beautiful heard inthis way, and I never listen to the fresh, young voices chanting 'Writeall these Thy laws in our hearts, we beseech Thee, ' without wantingpassionately to be good. I love, too, the joyful burst of music in the_Te Deum_: 'Thou didst open the kingdom of heaven to all believers. ' Ilike that word 'all'; it takes in foolish me, as well as wise AuntCelia. 

And yet, with all its pomp and magnificence, the service does not helpme quite so much nor stir up the deep places, in me so quickly as dearold Dr. Kyle's simpler prayers and talks in the village meeting-housewhere I went as a child. Mr. Copley has seen it often, and made a littlepicture of it for me, with its white steeple and the elm-tree brancheshanging over it. If I ever have a husband I should wish him to havememories like my own. It would be very romantic to marry an Italianmarquis or a Hungarian count, but must it not be a comfort to two peopleto look back on the same past?

 * * * * *

We all went to an evening service last night. It was an 'occasion, ' anda famous organist played the Minster organ. 

I wonder why choir-boys are so often playful and fidgety anduncanonical in behaviour? Does the choirmaster advertise 'Naughty boyspreferred, ' or do musical voices commonly exist in unregenerate bodies?With all the opportunities they must have outside of the cathedral toexchange those objects of beauty and utility usually found in boys'pockets, there is seldom a service where they do not barter penknives, old coins, or tops, generally during the Old Testament reading. A dozenlittle black-surpliced 'probationers' sit together in a seat justbeneath the choir-boys, and one of them spent his time this evening intrying to pull a loose tooth from its socket. The task not only engagedall his own powers, but made him the centre of attraction for the wholeprobationary row. 

Coming home, Aunt Celia walked ahead with Mrs. Benedict, who keepsturning up at the most unexpected moments. She's going to build aGothicky memorial chapel somewhere, and is making studies for it. Idon't like her in the least, but four is certainly a more comfortablenumber than three. I scarcely ever have a moment alone with Mr. Copley, for, go where I will and do what I please, as Aunt Celia has the mostperfect confidence in my indiscretion, she is always _en évidence_. 

Just as we were turning into the quiet little street where we arelodging, I said:

'Oh dear, I wish that I really knew something about architecture!'

'If you don't know anything about it, you are certainly responsible fora good deal of it, ' said Mr. Copley. 

'I? How do you mean?' I asked quite innocently, because I couldn't seehow he could twist such a remark as that into anything like sentiment. 

'I have never built so many castles in my life as since I've known you, Miss Schuyler, ' he said. 

'Oh, ' I answered as lightly as I could, 'air-castles don't count. '

'The building of air-castles is an innocent amusement enough, Isuppose, ' he said; 'but I'm committing the folly of living in mine. I--'

Then I was frightened. When, all at once, you find you have somethingprecious that you only dimly suspected was to be yours, you almost wishit hadn't come so soon. But just at that moment Mrs. Benedict called tous, and came tramping back from the gate, and hooked her supercilious, patronizing arm in Mr. Copley's, and asked him into the sitting-room totalk over the 'lady-chapel' in her new memorial church. Then Aunt Celiatold me they would excuse me, as I had had a wearisome day; and therewas nothing for me to do but to go to bed, like a snubbed child, andwonder if I should ever know the end of that sentence. And I listenedat the head of the stairs, shivering, but all that I could hear was thatMrs. Benedict asked Mr. Copley to be her own architect. Her architect, indeed! That woman ought not to be at large--so rich and good-lookingand unconscientious!

 * * * * *

_He_

 York, _July 5_. 

I had just established myself comfortably near to Miss Van Tyck's hotel, and found a landlady after my own heart in Mrs. Pickles, No. 6, Micklegate, when Miss Van Tyck, aided and abetted, I fear, by theromantic Miss Schuyler, elected to change her quarters, and I, ofcourse, had to change too. Mine is at present a laborious (but notunpleasant) life. The causes of Miss Schuyler's removal, as I have beengiven to understand by the lady herself, were some particularly pleasingwindow-boxes in a lodging in High Petergate Street; boxes overflowingwith pink geraniums and white field-daisies. No one (she explains) couldhave looked at this house without desiring to live in it; and when shediscovered, during a somewhat exhaustive study of the premises, that themaid's name was Susan Strangeways, and that she was promised in marriageto a brewer's apprentice called Sowerbutt, she went back to herconventional hotel and persuaded her aunt to remove without delay. IfMiss Schuyler were offered a room at the Punchbowl Inn in theGillygate and a suite at the Grand Royal Hotel in Broad Street, shewould choose the former unhesitatingly; just as she refused refreshmentat the best caterer's this afternoon and dragged Mrs. Benedict and meinto 'The Little Snug, ' where an alluring sign over the door announced'A Homely Cup of Tea for Twopence. ' But she would outgrow all that; or, if she didn't, I have common-sense enough for two; or if I hadn't, Ishouldn't care a hang. 

Is it not a curious dispensation of Providence that, just when AuntCelia is confined to her room with a cold, Mrs. Benedict should join ourparty and spend her days in our company? She drove to the Merchants'Hall and the Cavalry Barracks with us, she walked on the city walls withus, she even dared the 'homely' tea at 'The Little Snug'; and at thatmoment I determined I wouldn't build her memorial church for her, evenat a most princely profit. 

On crossing Lendal Bridge we saw the river Ouse running placidly throughthe town, and a lot of little green boats moored at a landing-stage. 

'How delightful it would be to row for an hour!' exclaimed MissSchuyler. 

'Oh, do you think so, in those tippy boats on a strange river?'remonstrated Mrs. Benedict. 

The moment I suspected she was afraid of the water, I lured her to thelanding-stage and engaged a boat. 

'It's a pity that that large flat one has a leak, otherwise it wouldhave held three nicely; but I dare say we can be comfortable in one ofthe little ones, ' I said doubtfully. 

'Shan't we be too heavy for it?' Mrs. Benedict inquired timidly. 

'Oh, I don't think so. We'll get in and try it. If we find it sinksunder our weight we won't risk it, ' I replied, spurred on by suchtwinkles in Miss Schuyler's eyes as blinded me to everything else. 

'I really don't think your aunt would like you to venture, MissSchuyler, ' said the marplot. 

'Oh, as to that, she knows I am accustomed to boating, ' replied MissSchuyler. 

'And Miss Schuyler is such an excellent swimmer, ' I added. 

Whereupon the marplot and killjoy remarked that if it were a questionof swimming she should prefer to remain at home, as she had largeresponsibilities devolving upon her, and her life was in a sense not herown to fling away as she might like. 

I assured her solemnly that she was quite, quite right, and pushed offbefore she could change her mind. 

After a long interval of silence, Miss Schuyler observed in the voice, accompanied by the smile and the glance of the eye, that 'did' for methe moment I was first exposed to them:

'You oughtn't to have said that about my swimming, because I can't abit, you know. '

'I was justified, ' I answered gloomily. 'I have borne too much to-day, and if she had come with us and had fallen overboard, I might have beentempted to hold her down with the oar. '

Whereupon Miss Schuyler gave way to such whole-hearted mirth that shenearly upset the boat. I almost wish she had! I want to swim, sink, die, or do any other mortal thing for her. 

We had a heavenly hour. It was only an hour, but it was the first time Ihave had any real chance to direct hot shot at the walls of the maidencastle. I regret to state that they stood remarkably firm. Of course, Idon't wish to batter them down; I want them to melt under the warmth ofmy attack. 

_She_

 York, _July 5_. 

We had a lovely sail on the river Ouse this afternoon. Mrs. Benedict wastimid about boating, and did not come with us. As a usual thing, I hatea cowardly woman, but her lack of courage is the nicest trait in herwhole character; I might almost say the only nice trait. 

Mr. Copley tried in every way, short of asking me a direct question, tofind out whether I had received the marked copy of 'Persuasion' in Bath, but I evaded the point. 

Just as we were at the door of my lodging, and he was saying good-bye, Icouldn't resist the temptation of asking:

'Why, before you knew us at all, did you put "Miss Van Tyck: Reserved, "on the window of the railway carriage at Bath?'

He was embarrassed for a moment, and then he said:

'Well, she _is_, you know, if you come to that; and, besides, I didn'tdare tell the guard the placard I really wanted to put on. '

'I shouldn't think a lack of daring your most obvious fault, ' I saidcuttingly. 

'Perhaps not; but there are limits to most things, and I hadn't thepluck to paste on a pink paper with "Miss Schuyler: Engaged, " on it. '

He disappeared suddenly just then, as if he wasn't equal to facing mydispleasure, and I am glad he did, for I was too embarrassed for words. 

Memoranda: _In the height of roofs, nave, and choir, York is first ofEnglish cathedrals. _

_She_

 Durham, _July something or other_, At Farmer Hendry's. 

We left York this morning, and arrived in Durham about eleven o'clock. It seems there is some sort of an election going on in the town, andthere was not a single fly at the station. Mr. Copley looked about inevery direction, but neither horse nor vehicle was to be had for love ormoney. At last we started to walk to the village, Mr. Copley so ladenwith our hand-luggage that he resembled a pack mule. 

We called first at the Three Tuns, where they still keep up the oldcustom of giving a wee glass of cherry-brandy to each guest on hisarrival; but, alas! they were crowded, and we were turned from thehospitable door. We then made a tour of the inns, but not a single roomwas to be had, not for that night, nor for two days ahead, on account ofthat same election. 

'Hadn't we better go on to Edinburgh, Aunt Celia?' I asked, as we wereresting in the door of the Jolly Sailor. 

'Edinburgh? Never!' she replied. 'Do you suppose that I wouldvoluntarily spend a Sunday in those bare Presbyterian churches until thememory of these past ideal weeks has faded a little from my memory?What! leave out Durham and spoil the set?' (In her agitation anddisappointment she spoke of the cathedrals as if they were souvenirspoons. ) 'I intended to stay here for a week or more, and write up arecord of our entire trip from Winchester while the impressions werefresh in my mind. '

'And I had intended doing the same thing, ' said Mr. Copley. 'That is, Ihoped to finish off my previous sketches, which are in a frightful stateof incompletion, and spend a good deal of time on the interior of thiscathedral, which is unusually beautiful. '

At this juncture Aunt Celia disappeared for a moment to ask the barmaidif, in her opinion, the constant consumption of malt liquors prevents amore dangerous indulgence in brandy and whisky. She is gatheringstatistics, but as the barmaids can never collect their thoughts whilethey are drawing ale, Aunt Celia proceeds slowly. 

'For my part, ' said I, with mock humility, 'I am a docile person, whonever has any intentions of her own, but who yields herself sweetly tothe intentions of other people in her immediate vicinity. '

'Are you?' asked Mr. Copley, taking out his pencil. 

'Yes, I said so. What are you doing?'

'Merely taking note of your statement, that's all. Now, Miss Van Tyck'(of course Aunt Celia appeared at this delightful moment), 'I have aplan to propose. I was here last summer with a couple of Harvard men, and we lodged at a farmhouse about a mile distant from the cathedral. Ifyou will step into the coffee-room for an hour, I'll walk up to FarmerHendry's and see if they will take us in. I think we might be fairlycomfortable. '

'Can Aunt Celia have Apollinaris and black coffee after her morningbath?' I asked. 

'I hope, Katharine, ' said Aunt Celia majestically--'I hope that I canaccommodate myself to circumstances. If Mr. Copley can secureapartments for us, I shall be more than grateful. '

So here we are, all lodging together in an ideal English farmhouse. There is a thatched roof on one of the old buildings, and thedairy-house is covered with ivy, and Farmer Hendry's wife makes a realEnglish curtsey, and there are herds of beautiful sleek Durham cattle, and the butter and cream and eggs and mutton are delicious, and I never, never want to go home any more. I want to live here for ever and wavethe American flag on Washington's birthday. 

I am so happy that I feel as if something were going to spoil it all. Twenty years old to-day! I wish mamma were alive to wish me many happyreturns. 

The cathedral is very beautiful in itself, and its situation is beyondall words of mine to describe. I greatly admired the pulpit, which issupported by five pillars sunk into the backs of squashed lions; butMr. Copley, when I asked him the period, said, 'Pure Brummagem!'

There is a nice old cell for refractory monks, that we agreed will be alovely place for Mrs. Benedict if we can lose her in it. She arrives assoon as they can find room for her at the Three Tuns. 

Memoranda:--Casual remark for breakfast-table or perhaps forluncheon--it is a trifle heavy for breakfast: _'Since the sixteenthcentury, and despite the work of Inigo Jones and the great Wren_ (notJenny Wren: Christopher), _architecture has had, in England especially, no legitimate development. ' This is the only cathedral with a Bishop'sThrone or a Sanctuary Knocker. _

 * * * * *

_He_

 Durham, _July 19_. 

O child of fortune, thy name is J. Q. Copley! How did it happen to beelection time? Why did the inns chance to be full? How did Aunt Celiarelax sufficiently to allow me to find her a lodging? Why did she fallin love with the lodging when found? I do not know. I only know Fatesmiles; that Kitty and I eat our morning bacon and eggs together; that Icarve Kitty's cold beef and pour Kitty's sparkling ale at luncheon; thatI go to matins with Kitty, and dine with Kitty, and walk in the gloamingwith Kitty--and Aunt Celia. And after a day of heaven like this, likeLorna Doone's lover--ay, and like every other lover, I suppose--I go tosleep, and the roof above me swarms with angels, having Kitty under it. 

She was so beautiful on Sunday. She has been wearing her favouritebrowns and primroses through the week, but on Sunday she blossomed intoblue and white, topped by a wonderful hat, whose brim was laden withhyacinths. She sat on the end of a seat in the nave, and there was acapped and gowned crowd of university students in the transept. Iwatched them and they watched her. She has the fullest, whitest eyelids, and the loveliest lashes. When she looks down I wish she might neverlook up, and when she looks up I am never ready for her to look down. Ifit had been a secular occasion, and she had dropped her handkerchief, seven-eighths of the students would have started to pick it up--but Ishould have got there first! Well, all this is but a useless prelude, for there are facts to be considered--delightful, warm, breathing facts!

We were coming home from evensong, Kitty and I. (I am anticipating, forshe was still 'Miss Schuyler' then, but never mind. ) We were walkingthrough the fields, while Mrs. Benedict and Aunt Celia were driving. Aswe came across a corner of the bit of meadow land that joins the stableand the garden, we heard a muffled roar, and as we looked around we sawa creature with tossing horns and waving tail making for us, head down, eyes flashing. Kitty gave a shriek. We chanced to be near a pair of lowbars. I hadn't been a college athlete for nothing. I swung Kitty overthe bars, and jumped after her. But she, not knowing in her fright whereshe was nor what she was doing, supposing also that the mad creature, like the villain in the play, would 'still pursue her, ' flung herselfbodily into my arms, crying, 'Jack! Jack! save me!'

It was the first time she had called me 'Jack, ' and I needed no secondinvitation. I proceeded to save her, in the usual way, by holding herto my heart and kissing her lovely hair reassuringly as I murmured:

'You are safe, my darling; not a hair of your precious head shall behurt. Don't be frightened. '

She shivered like a leaf. 

'I am frightened, ' she said; 'I can't help being frightened. He willchase us, I know. Where is he? What is he doing now?'

Looking up to determine if I need abbreviate this blissful moment, I sawthe enraged animal disappearing in the side-door of the barn; and it wasa nice, comfortable Durham cow, that somewhat rare but possible thing--asportive cow. 

'Is he gone?' breathed Kitty from my waistcoat. 

'Yes, he is gone--she is gone, darling. But don't move; it may comeagain. '

My first too hasty assurance had calmed Kitty's fears, and she raisedher charming flushed face from its retreat and prepared to withdraw. Idid not facilitate the preparations, and a moment of awkward silenceensued. 

'Might I inquire, ' I asked, 'if the dear little person at presentreposing in my arms will stay there (with intervals for rest andrefreshment) for the rest of her natural life?'

She withdrew entirely now, all but her hand, and her eyes sought theground. 

'I suppose I shall have to--that is, if you think--at least, I supposeyou do think--at any rate, you look as if you were thinking--that thishas been giving you encouragement. '

'I do indeed--decisive, undoubted, bare-faced encouragement. '

'I don't think I ought to be judged as if I were in my sober senses, 'she replied. 'I was frightened within an inch of my life. I told youthis morning that I was dreadfully afraid of bulls, especially mad ones, and I told you that my nurse frightened me, when I was a child, withawful stories about them, and that I never outgrew my childish terror. Ilooked everywhere about. The barn was too far, the fence too high; I sawhim coming, and there was nothing but you and the open country. Ofcourse, I took you. It was very natural, I'm sure; any girl would havedone it. '

'To be sure, ' I replied soothingly, 'any girl would have run after me, as you say. '

'I didn't say any girl would have run after you--you needn't flatteryourself; and besides, I think I was really trying to protect you aswell as to gain protection, else why should I have cast myself on youlike a catamount, or a catacomb, or whatever the thing is?'

'Yes, darling, I thank you for saving my life, and I am willing todevote the remainder of it to your service as a pledge of my gratitude;but if you should take up life-saving as a profession, dear, don't throwyourself on a fellow with--'

'Jack! Jack!' she cried, putting her hand over my lips, and getting itwell kissed in consequence. 'If you will only forget that, and never, never taunt me with it afterwards, I'll--I'll--well, I'll do anything inreason--yes, even marry you!'

 * * * * *

_He_

 Canterbury, _July 31_, The Royal Fountain. 

I was never sure enough of Kitty, at first, to dare risk telling herabout that little mistake of hers. She is such an elusive person that Ispend all my time in wooing her, and can never lay the flatteringunction to my soul that she is really won. 

But after Aunt Celia had looked up my family record and given aprovisional consent, and Papa Schuyler had cabled a reluctant blessing, I did not feel capable of any further self-restraint. 

It was twilight here in Canterbury, and we were sitting on thevine-shaded veranda of Aunt Celia's lodging. Kitty's head was on myshoulder. There is something very queer about that; when Kitty's head ison my shoulder, I am not capable of any consecutive train of thought. When she puts it there I see stars, then myriads of stars, then, oh! Ican't begin to enumerate the steps by which ecstasy mounts to delirium;but, at all events, any operation which demands exclusive use of theintellect is beyond me at these times. Still, I gathered my stray witstogether, and said:

'Kitty!'

'Yes, Jack?'

'Now that nothing but death or marriage can separate us, I havesomething to confess to you. '

'Yes, ' she said serenely, 'I know what you are going to say. He was acow. '

I lifted her head from my shoulder sternly, and gazed into herchildlike, candid eyes. 

'You mountain of deceit! How long have you known about it?'

[Illustration: "Lor', miss!" said Farmer Hendry, "he haven't beenpastured there for three weeks"]

'Ever since the first. Oh, Jack, stop looking at me in that way! Not thevery first, not when I--not when you--not when we--no, not then, but thenext morning, I said to Farmer Hendry, "I wish you would keep yoursavage bull chained up while we are here; Aunt Celia is awfully afraidof them, especially those that go mad, like yours!" "Lor', miss!" saidFarmer Hendry, "he haven't been pastured here for three weeks. I keephim six mile away. There ben't nothing but gentle cows in the homemedder. " But I didn't think that you knew, you secretive person! I daresay you planned the whole thing in advance, in order to take advantageof my fright!'

'Never! I am incapable of such an unnecessary subterfuge! Besides, Kitty, I could not have made an accomplice of a cow, you know. '

'Then, ' she said, with great dignity, 'if you had been a gentleman and aman of honour, you would have cried, "Unhand me, girl! You are clingingto me under a misunderstanding!"'

_She_

 Chester, _August 8_, The Grosvenor. 

Jack and I are going over this same ground next summer on our weddingjourney. We shall sail for home next week, and we haven't half donejustice to the cathedrals. After the first two, we saw nothing but eachother on a general background of architecture. I hope my mind isimproved, but oh, I am so hazy about all the facts I have read since Iknew Jack! Winchester and Salisbury stand out superbly in my memory. They acquired their ground before it was occupied with other matters. Ishall never forget, for instance, that Winchester has the longest spireand Salisbury the highest nave of all the English cathedrals. And Ishall never forget so long as I live that Jane Austen and Isaac Newt--Oh dear! was it Isaac Newton or Izaak Walton that was buried inWinchester and Salisbury? To think that that interesting fact shouldhave slipped from my mind, after all the trouble I took with it! But Iknow that it was Isaac somebody, and that he was buried in--well, he wasburied in one of those two places. I am not certain which, but I can askJack; he is sure to know. 

THE END

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