Just after I had settled myself, the flower of chivalry came in and ordered ale. I was disconcerted at being found in a dramshop alone, for I thought, after the bag episode, he might fancy us a family of inebriates. But he didn't evince the slightest astonishment; he merely lifted his hat, and walked out after he had finished his ale. He certainly has the loveliest manners, and his hair is a more beautiful colour every time I see him.

And so it goes on, and we never get any further. I like his politeness and his evident feeling that I can't be flirted and talked with like a forward boarding-school miss; but I must say I don't think much of his ingenuity. Of course one can't have all the virtues, but if I were he, I would part with my distinguished air, my charming ease--in fact, almost anything, if I could have in exchange a few grains of common-sense, just enough to guide me in the practical affairs of life.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 quite like an artist; or just a dilettante, but he doesn't look in the least like a dilettante. Or he might be an architect; I think that is the most probable guess of all. Perhaps he is only 'going to be' one of these 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 kind of self-reliance in his mien--not self-a.s.sertion, nor self-esteem, but belief in self, as if he were able, and knew that he was able, to conquer circ.u.mstances.

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

Memoranda: _Bath became distinguished for its architecture and popular as a fashionable resort in the 17th century from the deserved repute of its waters and through the genius of two men, Wood the architect and Beau Nash, Master of Ceremonies. A true picture of the society of the period is found in Smollett's 'Humphry Clinker', which Aunt Celia says she will read and tell me what is necessary. Remember the window of the seven lights in the Abbey Church, the one with the angels ascending and descending; also the rich Perp. chantry of Prior Bird, S. of chancel. It is 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's name is Hetty Precious, and I could eat almost anything brought me by such a beautifully named person. A little parcel postmarked Bath was on my 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 read before, but was glad to see again, because I had forgotten that the scene is partly laid in Bath, and now I can follow dear Anne and vain Sir Walter, hateful Elizabeth and scheming Mrs. Clay through Camden Place and Bath Street, Union Street, Milsom Street, and the Pump Yard. I can even follow them to the site of the White Hart Hotel, where the adorable Captain Wentworth wrote the letter to Anne. After more than two hundred pages of suspense, with what joy and relief did I read that letter! I wonder if Anne herself was any more excited than I?

At first I thought Roderick Abbott sent the book, until I remembered that his literary taste is _Puck_ in America and _Pick-me-up_ and _t.i.t-Bits_ in England; and now I don't know what to think. I turned to Captain Wentworth's letter in the last chapter but one--oh, it _is_ a beautiful letter! I _wish_ somebody would ever write me that he is 'half agony, half hope,' and that I 'pierce his soul.' Of course, it would be wicked to pierce a soul, and of course they wouldn't write that way nowadays; but there is something perfectly delightful about the expression.

Well, when I found the place, what do you suppose? Some of the sentences in 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 by such 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 feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. [underlined: You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine.] I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.

Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

'F. W.'

Of course, this means nothing. Somebody has been reading the book, and marked it idly as he (or she) read. I can imagine someone's underlining a splendid sentiment like 'Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman!' 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 of approach. A false move would be fatal. We have seven more towns (as per itinerary), and if their thirst for cathedrals isn't slaked when these are finished, we have the entire Continent to do. If I could only succeed 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 has observed me. This absent-mindedness of hers serves me ill now, but it may prove a blessing later on.

I made two modest moves on the chessboard of Fate yesterday, but they were so very modest and mysterious that I almost fear they were never noticed.

_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 placard pasted on the window of a first-cla.s.s carriage. It had 'VAN TYCK: RESERVED,' written on it, after the English fashion, and we took our places without question. Presently Aunt Celia's eyes and mine alighted at the same moment on a bunch of yellow primroses pinned on the stuffed back of the most comfortable seat next the window.

'They do things so well in England,' said Aunt Celia admiringly. 'The landlord must have sent my name to the guard--you see the advantage of stopping at the best hotels, Katharine--but one would not have suspected him capable of such a refined attention as the bunch of flowers. You must 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 most interesting country in the world; and as for the cathedral towns, how can 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 of the flower of chivalry; you might call it the dawn of reason. We had spent part of the morning in High Street, 'the n.o.blest old street in England,' as our dear Hawthorne calls it. As Wordsworth had written a sonnet about it, Aunt Celia was armed for the fray--a volume of Wordsworth in one hand, and one of Hawthorne in the other. (I wish Baedeker and Murray didn't give such full information about what one ought 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 down on a bench in Addison's Walk, where Aunt Celia proceeded to store my mind with the princ.i.p.al facts of Addison's career, and his influence on the literature of the something or other century. The cramming process over, we wandered along, and came upon 'him' sketching a shady corner of the walk.

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

She called to me, and I appeared. Mr. John Quincy Copley, Cambridge, was presented 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's affections. Theological students, ministers, missionaries, heroes, and martyrs she may distrust, but architects never!

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

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

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

Memoranda: _'The very stones and mortar of this historic town seem impregnated with the spirit of restful antiquity.'_ (Extract from one of Aunt Celia's letters.) _Among the great men who have studied here are the Prince of Wales, Duke of Wellington, Gladstone, Sir Robert Peel, Sir Philip Sidney, William Penn, John Locke, the two Wesleys, Ruskin, Ben Jonson, 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 have done 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 so rich in joy!' or something of that sort.

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

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

'My niece did not come to Europe for a London season,' replied Miss Van Tyck. 'We go through London this time merely as a cathedral town, simply because it chances to be where it is geographically. We shall visit St. Paul's and Westminster Abbey, and then go directly on, that our chain of impressions may have absolute continuity and be free from any disturbing elements.'

Oh, but she is lovely, is Aunt Celia! London a cathedral town!