A Cathedral Courtship

by Kate Douglas Smith Wiggin

  Transcribed from the 1893 Gay and Bird edition by David Price, emailccx074@pglaf.org

  A CATHEDRAL COURTSHIP

  BY KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN

  WITH FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY CLIFFORD CARLETON

  LONDON: GAY AND BIRD 5 CHANDOS STREET STRAND 1893

  _All rights reserved_

  First Edition June 1893. Second Edition July 1893. Third Edition September 1893. Fourth Edition November 1893. Fifth Edition October 1894.

  TO MY BOSTON FRIEND SALEMINA NO ANGLOMANIAC, BUT A TRUE BRITON

  SHE

  WINCHESTER, _May_ 28, 1891 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 traveling under the yoke of an iron itinerary, warranted neitherto bend nor break. It was made out by a young High Church curate in NewYork, and if it had been blessed by all the bishops and popes it couldnot be more sacred to aunt Celia. She is awfully High Church, and Ibelieve she thinks this tour of the cathedrals will give me a taste forritual and bring me into the true fold. I have been hearing dear old Dr.Kyle a great deal lately, and aunt Celia says that he is the mostdangerous Unitarian she knows, because he has leanings towardsChristianity.

  Long ago, in her youth, she was engaged to a young architect. He, withhis triangles and T-squares and things, succeeded in making an imaginaryscale-drawing of her heart (up to that time a virgin forest, an unmappedterritory), which enabled him to enter in and set up a pedestal there, onwhich he has remained ever since. He has been only a memory for manyyears, to be sure, for he died at the age of twenty-six, before he hadhad time to build anything but a livery stable and a country hotel. Thisis fortunate, on the whole, because aunt Celia thinks he was destined toestablish American architecture on a higher plane,--rid it of its base,time-serving, imitative instincts, and waft it to a height where, in thecourse of centuries, we should have been revered and followed by all thenations of the earth. I went to see the livery stable, after one ofthese Miriam-like flights of prophecy on the might-have-been. It isn'tfair to judge a man's promise by one performance, and that one a liverystable, so I shall say nothing.

  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 fatnotebook, with "Katharine Schuyler" stamped in gold letters on the Russialeather cover, and a lock and key to protect its feminine confidences. Iam not at all the sort of girl who makes notes, and I have told her so;but she says that I must at least record my passing impressions, if theyare ever so trivial and commonplace.

  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, becauseshe was very ill, and her natural powers of chaperoning were severelyimpaired), and the prospect of seeing London sights together was notunpleasing; but Roderick Abbott is not in aunt Celia's itinerary, whichreads: "Winchester, Salisbury, Wells, Bath, Bristol, Gloucester, Oxford,London, Ely, Lincoln, York, Durham."

  Aunt Celia is one of those persons who are born to command, and when theyare thrown in contact with those who are born to be commanded all goes asmerry 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. Iam tired, and stayed at home. I cannot write letters, because aunt Celiahas the guide-books, so I sit by the window in indolent content, watchingthe dear little school laddies, with their short jackets and wide whitecollars; they all look so jolly, and rosy, and clean, and kissable! Ishould like to kiss the chambermaid, too! She has a pink print dress; nobangs, thank goodness (it's curious our servants can't leave thatdeformity to the upper classes), but shining brown hair, plump figure,soft voice, and a most engaging way of saying, "Yes, miss? Anythinkmore, 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 Icould retire from the world for a season and do what I like, "surroundedby 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 judge 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?"

  "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 havefor dessert in England, but the high-minded model coughed apologeticallyand said, "I was thinking you might like gooseberry tart and cream for asweet, miss."

  Oh that I could have vented my New World enthusiasm in a shriek ofdelight as I heard those intoxicating words, heretofore met only inEnglish novels!

  "Ye-es," I said hesitatingly, though I was palpitating with joy, "I fancywe should like gooseberry tart (here a bright idea entered my mind) andperhaps in case my aunt doesn't care for the gooseberry tart, you mightbring 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.

  "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 takenfor 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 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 to telleven what I feel in these new and beautiful experiences, for it has beenbetter told a thousand times.

  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 hiseyes,--anybody can, at least any girl can; but I attended to every wordof the service, and was as good as an angel. When the procession hadfiled out and the last strain of the great organ had rumbled intosilence, 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 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 droppedher bag. It is one of those detestable, all-absorbing, all-devouring,thoroughly respectable, but never proud Boston bags, made of black clothwith leather trimmings, "C. Van T." embroidered on the side, and the topdrawn up with stout cords which pass over the Boston wrist or arm. Asfor 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 wouldfeel obliged to do it for me; but, in my indecorous haste, I caught holdof 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 shouldmiss a single word of his inspired testimony. So we scrambled up thearticles together, the nice young man and I; and oh, I hope I may neverlook upon his face again!

  There were prayer-books and guide-books, a bottle of soda mint tablets, aspool of dental floss, a Bath bun, a bit of gray frizz that aunt Celiapins into her steamer cap, a spectacle case, a brandy flask, and a bonbonbox, which broke and scattered cloves and cardamom seeds. (I hope heguessed aunt Celia is a dyspeptic, and not intemperate!) All this washopelessly vulgar, but I wouldn't have minded anything if there had notbeen a Duchess novel. Of course he thought that it belonged to me. Hecouldn'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 stoneflagging, he handed me the tattered, disreputable-looking copy of "AModern Circe" with a bow that wouldn't have disgraced a Chesterfield, andthen 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 buriedthere.

  HE

  WINCHESTER, _May_ 28, 1891 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'm greatly mistaken. It was in thecathedral, where I have been sketching for several days. I was sittingin the end of a seat, 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! Itook a sketch of her during service, as she sat under the dark carved-oakcanopy, 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'scharms, but some time I'll fill it in,--hair, sweet little hat, gown, andeyes, all in golden brown, a cape of tawny sable slipping off her arm, aknot of yellow primroses in her girdle, carved-oak background, and theafternoon sun coming through a stained-glass window. Great Jove! Shehad a most curious effect on me, that girl! I can't explain it,--verycurious, altogether new, and rather pleasant! When one of the choir boyssang, "Oh for the wings of a dove!" a tear rolled out of one of herlovely eyes and down her smooth brown cheek. I would have given a largeportion of my modest monthly income for the felicity of wiping away thatteardrop 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 thename of "aunt Celia," and the "nut-brown mayde," who comes when you callher "Katharine." I was sketching a ruined arch. The dragon dropped herunmistakably Boston bag. I expected to see encyclopaedias and Russiantracts fall from it, but was disappointed. The nut-brown mayde (who hasbeen brought up rigidly) hastened to pick up the bag, for fear that Ishould serve her by doing it. She was punished by turning it inside out,and I was rewarded by helping her pick up the articles, which were manyand ill assorted. My little romance received the first blow when I foundthat she reads the Duchess novels. I think, however, she has the graceto be ashamed of it, for she blushed scarlet when I handed her "A ModernCirce." I could have told her that such a blush on such a cheek wouldatone for reading Mrs. Southworth, but I refrained. After she had gone Idiscovered a slip of paper which had blown under some stones. It provedto be an itinerary. I didn't return it. I thought they must know whichway they were going; and as this was precisely what I wanted to know, Ikept it for my own use. She is doing the cathedral towns. I am doingthe cathedral towns. Happy thought! Why shouldn't we do themtogether,--we and aunt Celia?

  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 mynut-brown mayde at once on the pages of the Royal Garden Inn register:"Miss Celia Van Tyck, Beverly, Mass.; Miss Katharine Schuyler, New York."I concluded to stay over another train, ordered dinner, and took analtogether indefensible and inconsistent pleasure in writing "John QuincyCopley, Cambridge, Mass.," directly beneath the charmer's autograph.

  SHE

  SALISBURY, _June_ 1 The White Hart Inn.

  We left Winchester on the 1.06 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 cockneys in order to do it.

  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 at sketching one cathedral. Perhaps hebegan at the other end and worked down to Winchester. Yes, that must beit, for the Ems sailed yesterday from Southampton.

  * * *

  June 2.

  We intended to go to Stonehenge this morning, but it rained, so we took a"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 forever. There wereother visitors; nobody who looked especially interesting. Don't likeSalisbury so well as Winch
ester. Don't know why. We shall drive thisafternoon, if it is fair, and go to Wells to-morrow. Must read Baedekeron the bishop's palace. Oh dear! if one could only have a good time andnot try 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_

  [Drawing like two very circular n's next to each other]

  _and then joined together like this_:

  [Drawing like ///]

  _the way they used to scallop flannel petticoats_. _Gothic looks liketriangles meeting together in various spots and joined with beautifulsort of ornamented knobs_. _I think I know Gothic when I see it_. _Thenthere is Norman_, _Early English_, _fully developed Early English_,_Early and Late Perpendicular_, _and Transition_. _Aunt Celia knows themall 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, but,as 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 rightmerrily. "Did ever Jove's tree drop such fruit?" I quoted, as I fishedit out 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."Hereupon she came in sight, and I witnessed the somewhat unusualspectacle of my nut-brown mayde hopping on one foot, like a divine stork,and ever and anon emitting a feminine shriek as her off foot, clad in adelicate silk stocking, came in contact with the ground. I rose quickly,and, polishing the patent leather ostentatiously, inside and out, with myhandkerchief, I offered it to her with distinguished grace. She swayedon her one foot with as much dignity as possible, and then recognizing meas the person who picked up the contents of aunt Celia's bag, she said,dimpling in the most distracting manner (that's another thing there oughtto be a law against), "Thank you again; you seem to be a sort ofknight-errant!"