Emily, usually sparing of adjectives, pronounces the Lady Chapel "a dream," and I don't think she exaggerates; but for myself, the things least forgettable in the Cathedral will be the Chapter House Stairs and the beautiful fourteenth century glass. The ascent of the staircase is an exquisite experience, and, as Ellaline cried out in her joy, "it must be like going up a snow mountain by moonlight." The old clock in the transept, too, holds one hypnotized, waiting always to see what will happen next. Peter Lightfoot, the Glastonbury monk, who made it in the fourteenth century, must have had a lively imagination, and have loved excitement—"something doing," as Americans say. Ellaline and I are overcome with sympathy for one of four desperately fighting knights who never gets the colours. Hard luck to work like that for hundreds of years, and never succeed!
At last Emily has seen the Glastonbury Thorn, and obtained her slip, as an exceptional favour. She longs for Christmas to come, to know if it will bloom, as it does regularly every year in the gardens of the Bishop's palace.
Until now I couldn't have imagined envying a bishop, but to live in the palace at Wells, and own the palace gardens for life, would be worth a few sacrifices. I should think there could have been never a more poetical or charming garden on earth—not excepting Eden or a few Indian gardens I have admired. It is perfect; as Ellaline says, even pluperfect, in its contrast with the gray ruins, and the mellow, ancient house. There is an embattled wall, which makes a terrace walk, above the fair lawns and jewelled flower beds, and from the top as you walk, the hills girdling the old city go waving in gradations of blue to an opal horizon. There's an old Well House in the garden, which is one of its chief ornaments, and has adorned it since the fifteenth century. Bishop Beckington—the Beckington of the punning rebus (Beacon and Tun) built it to supply water to the city. But there were plenty of other springs, always—seven famous ones—which suggested the name, Wells; and had they not existed, perhaps King Ina (who flourished in the eighth century, and was mixed up in Glastonbury history) would not have founded a cathedral here. Blessed be the seven wells, then, for without them one of the fairest places in England might never have existed.
I had heard of the celebrated swans, and as I knew she would like them, I determined to pay the birds a morning call (the day after we arrived) with Ellaline. From any obtrusion of Emily's I felt safe, for her mind whirls here with old oak carvings, Flaxman sculptures, ancient vestments, carven tombs, and, above all, choral services. Indeed, Emily is never at her best except in a cathedral; and I knew that swans would not be ecclesiastic enough to please her. But of Mrs. Senter and Dick I had to be more wary; for the lady, no doubt because she is my guest, feels it polite to give me a good deal of her society; and Dick naturally considers that Ellaline's time is wasted on me, especially when he isn't by to alleviate the boredom.
My one chance was to lure the girl out early, for neither Mrs. Senter nor Burden loves the first morning hours. With all the guilty tremors of one who cooks an intrigue, I sent a note to Ellaline's room, just after she had gone to bed, asking if she were "sporting enough" to come for a walk at seven-thirty. I thought that way of putting the invitation would fetch her, and it did; but perhaps a card I enclosed had something to do with her prompt acceptance. I printed, in my best imitation of engraved text, "Mr. and Mrs. Swan and the Misses Cygnet, At Home, In the Moat, Bishop's Palace. Ring for Refreshments. R.S.V.P."
Five minutes later came down a scrap of paper (all she had, no doubt) with a little pencil scrawl, saying that Miss Lethbridge was delighted to accept Mr. and Mrs. Swan's kind invitation for seven-thirty, and thanked Sir Lionel Pendragon for obtaining it. I have put this away with my treasures, of course.
I was at the place appointed before the time, and she didn't keep me waiting. As a matter of fact, she's always extraordinarily prompt. Modern school training, I suppose, as Ellaline the First was never known to be in time for anything. And the swans were worth getting up for. They are magnificent creatures; but, unlike many professional beauties, they're as clever as they are handsome. For generations they and their ancestors have been trained to ring a bell when they breakfast; and to see the whole family, mother, babies, and cousins, breasting the clear, lilied water, and waiting in a dignified, not too eager, row while father pulls a bell in the old palace wall, tweaking the string impatiently with his beak, is better than any theatrical performance of this season in London.
Ellaline was entranced, and would have the play played over and over again by the swan actors and the stage manageress, a kindly and polite woman who conducted the entertainment. When we were both ashamed to beg for more, Ellaline suggested a walk round the town, which is of an unspoiled beauty, and you can guess whether or no I was glad to be her guide. I'm certain I should have proposed before breakfast (I wonder if any other man was ever in love enough for that?) if Dick Burden and his aunt hadn't turned a corner at the critical moment. But perhaps it was just as well. In spite of what you say, I am certain she would have refused me.
Nevertheless, for your encouragement, my dear old Pat, I am
Yours ever gratefully,