Part 13 (2/2)

I wasn't sure if she weren't waiting for d.i.c.k, who might have strolled away from her for a minute, so I would have pa.s.sed on if she hadn't turned.

”Did you ever see anything so beautiful?” she asked me.

I had, but I didn't say so. I liked her to like everything in my Winchester, so I inquired what she admired most in the shop window. She hardly knew. But there was some wonderful old jewellery.

The girl was right. The antique jewellery was particularly good. There were some admirable necklaces and rings, with fine stones.

”What's your birth month?” I asked, on a sudden thought.

”July,” said she.

”What--this very month? I hope the birthday hasn't pa.s.sed.”

”No-o, not yet,” she answered reluctantly. She saw by now what was in the wind, and didn't want to seem greedy.

I persisted. ”Tell me when.”

”The twenty-fifth. But you are _not_ to.”

”Not to--what?”

”You know.”

”Yes, I will. It's a guardian's duty to his ward, and in this case a pleasure.”

”I'd much rather you didn't, really.” And she looked as grave as a statue of Justice. ”Some day you'll know why.”

I waived the subject at this point, for I felt obstinate, and wanted to give her a present. There was, and is, no doubt in my mind that her reason is a schoolgirl reason. Madame de Maluet has probably brought her up to believe it is not _comme il faut_ for a _jeune fille_ to accept a present from a _monsieur_. Still, her voice and expression were so serious, even worried, that I'm wondering if it could be anything else.

Anyhow, I have bought the present, and intend to give it her on the 25th. It is a quaint old marquise ring, with a cabuchon ruby surrounded by very good diamonds. I think she will like it, and I don't see why she shouldn't have it--from me. I feel as if I would like to make up to her for the injustice I've been doing her in my mind all these years since she was a little child, left to me--poor, lonely baby. Only I don't quite know how to make up. I don't even dare to confess myself, and say I am sorry I never seemed to take any interest in her as she grew up.

She must have wondered why I never asked to have her picture sent me, or wanted her to write--or wrote; and she must have felt the cold neglect of the only person (except an old French lady, her G.o.dmother) who had any rights over her. Beast that I was! And I can't explain why I was a beast. No doubt she adores the legend (it can't be a memory) of her mother, and I would have it always so. She need never know any of the truth, though of course, when she marries I shall have to tell the man one or two things, I suppose.

I'll let you know next time I write how the ring is received.

This morning, after breakfast, we all walked about the streets of Winchester, and, of course, went to the cathedral, where we stopped till nearly two o'clock.

The town and the place have all their old charm, and even more for me; the ”Piazza”; the huddled, narrow streets full of mystery, the Cathedral Close with its crowded entrance, its tall trees that try to hide cathedral glories from common eyes; its mellow Queen Anne and Georgian houses which group round in a pleasant, self-satisfied way, as if they alone were worthy of standing-room in that sacred precinct.

To me, there's no cathedral in England that means as much of the past as Winchester. You know how, in the nave, you see so plainly the transition from one architectural period to another? And then, there are those splendid Mortuary Chests. Think of old Kynegils, and the other Saxon kings lying inside, little heaps of haunted dust.

I was silly enough to be immensely pleased that the child picked out those Mortuary Chests in their high resting place, and the gorgeous alleged tomb of William Rufus, as the most unforgettable among the smaller interests of Winchester Cathedral, for they are the same with me; and it's human to like our tastes shared by (a few) others. She was so enchanted to hear how William the Red was brought by a carter to be buried in Winchester, and about the great turquoise and the broken shaft of wood found in the tomb, that I hadn't the heart to tell her it probably wasn't his burial place, but that of Henri de Blois.

Of course she liked b.l.o.o.d.y Mary's faldstool--the one Mary sat in for her marriage with Philip of Spain; and the MSS. signed by aelfred the Great as a child, with his father.

Women are caught by the personal element, I think, more than we are. And so interested was she in Jane Austen's memorial tablet, that she wouldn't be satisfied without going to see the house where Jane died.

There were so many other things to see, that Emily and Mrs. Senter would have left that out, but I wanted the girl to have her way.

Poor little, sweet-hearted Jane! She was only forty-one when she finished with this world--a year older than I. But doubtless that was almost old for a woman of her day, when girls married at sixteen, and took to middle-aged caps at twenty-five. Now, I notice, half the mothers look younger than their daughters--younger than any daughter would dare to look after she was ”out.”

A good many interesting persons seem to have died in Winchester, if they weren't clever enough to be born in the town. Earl G.o.dwin set an early example in that respect. Died, eating with Edward the Confessor--probably too much, as his death was caused by apoplexy, and might not have happened if Edward hadn't been too polite to advise him not to stuff.

<script>