A Cathedral Courtship Part 5

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

I a.s.sured her solemnly that she was quite, quite right, and pushed off before 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 me the moment I was first exposed to them:

'You oughtn't to have said that about my swimming, because I can't a bit, 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 been tempted to hold her down with the oar.'

Whereupon Miss Schuyler gave way to such whole-hearted mirth that she nearly 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 I have had any real chance to direct hot shot at the walls of the maiden castle. I regret to state that they stood remarkably firm. Of course, I don't wish to batter them down; I want them to melt under the warmth of my attack.

_She_

York, _July 5_.

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

Mr. Copley tried in every way, short of asking me a direct question, to find 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, I couldn'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 embarra.s.sed for a moment, and then he said:

'Well, she _is_, you know, if you come to that; and, besides, I didn't dare tell the guard the placard I really wanted to put on.'

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

'Perhaps not; but there are limits to most things, and I hadn't the pluck 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 my displeasure, and I am glad he did, for I was too embarra.s.sed for words.

Memoranda: _In the height of roofs, nave, and choir, York is first of English 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, and there was not a single fly at the station. Mr. Copley looked about in every direction, but neither horse nor vehicle was to be had for love or money. At last we started to walk to the village, Mr. Copley so laden with our hand-luggage that he resembled a pack mule.

We called first at the Three Tuns, where they still keep up the old custom of giving a wee gla.s.s of cherry-brandy to each guest on his arrival; but, alas! they were crowded, and we were turned from the hospitable door. We then made a tour of the inns, but not a single room was to be had, not for that night, nor for two days ahead, on account of that same election.

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

'Edinburgh? Never!' she replied. 'Do you suppose that I would voluntarily spend a Sunday in those bare Presbyterian churches until the memory of these past ideal weeks has faded a little from my memory?

What! leave out Durham and spoil the set?' (In her agitation and disappointment she spoke of the cathedrals as if they were souvenir spoons.) 'I intended to stay here for a week or more, and write up a record of our entire trip from Winchester while the impressions were fresh in my mind.'

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

At this juncture Aunt Celia disappeared for a moment to ask the barmaid if, in her opinion, the constant consumption of malt liquors prevents a more dangerous indulgence in brandy and whisky. She is gathering statistics, but as the barmaids can never collect their thoughts while they are drawing ale, Aunt Celia proceeds slowly.

'For my part,' said I, with mock humility, 'I am a docile person, who never has any intentions of her own, but who yields herself sweetly to the 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 a plan 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. If you will step into the coffee-room for an hour, I'll walk up to Farmer Hendry's and see if they will take us in. I think we might be fairly comfortable.'

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

'I hope, Katharine,' said Aunt Celia majestically--'I hope that I can accommodate myself to circ.u.mstances. If Mr. Copley can secure apartments 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 the dairy-house is covered with ivy, and Farmer Hendry's wife makes a real English curtsey, and there are herds of beautiful sleek Durham cattle, and the b.u.t.ter 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 wave the 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 happy returns.

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

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

Memoranda:--Casual remark for breakfast-table or perhaps for luncheon--it is a trifle heavy for breakfast: _'Since the sixteenth century, and despite the work of Inigo Jones and the great Wren_ (not Jenny Wren: Christopher), _architecture has had, in England especially, no legitimate development.' This is the only cathedral with a Bishop's Throne or a Sanctuary Knocker._

_He_

Durham, _July 19_.

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

She was so beautiful on Sunday. She has been wearing her favourite browns and primroses through the week, but on Sunday she blossomed into blue and white, topped by a wonderful hat, whose brim was laden with hyacinths. She sat on the end of a seat in the nave, and there was a capped and gowned crowd of university students in the transept. I watched them and they watched her. She has the fullest, whitest eyelids, and the loveliest lashes. When she looks down I wish she might never look up, and when she looks up I am never ready for her to look down. If it had been a secular occasion, and she had dropped her handkerchief, seven-eighths of the students would have started to pick it up--but I should 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 antic.i.p.ating, for she was still 'Miss Schuyler' then, but never mind.) We were walking through the fields, while Mrs. Benedict and Aunt Celia were driving. As we came across a corner of the bit of meadow land that joins the stable and the garden, we heard a m.u.f.fled roar, and as we looked around we saw a 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 low bars. I hadn't been a college athlete for nothing. I swung Kitty over the bars, and jumped after her. But she, not knowing in her fright where she was nor what she was doing, supposing also that the mad creature, like the villain in the play, would 'still pursue her,' flung herself bodily into my arms, crying, 'Jack! Jack! save me!'