"O-ho! Then you mean it to be talked about?"
"I mean it to be known that May is to take her place in the world as Miss Cheffington."
"But is she? That's more than you can say, Sarah."
"I shall have a try for it, Jo."
Now whenever Mrs. Dobbs had said in that emphatic manner that she would "have a try" for anything, that thing, so far as Jo Weatherhead's experience went, had infallibly come to pass. But with all his faith in his old friend, he could not help doubting her success in the present case. He was eagerly curious to know how she intended to proceed; but Mrs. Dobbs refused to say any more on the subject, declaring that she must think things over quietly.
"I don't see it," said Mr. Weatherhead to himself, poking forward his nose, and pursing up his lips as he walked homeward. "Sarah Dobbs is a wonderful woman, but even she can't gather grapes from thorns. And in respect of justice or generosity—not to mention common honesty—I'm afraid all the Cheffingtons are rather thorny."
CHAPTER IV.
Among other features peculiar to itself, Oldchester possesses a quadrangular building with an inner cloister, commonly called College Quad. It is in the immediate neighbourhood of the cathedral, and is divided into small tenements inhabited by clergy forming part of the cathedral body. At the back of the houses on the south side of the quadrangle, pleasant gardens slope down towards the river Wend. The cloister is a very beautiful piece of Gothic work, with fretted roof and springing pillars. Peace and quiet reign within it. In summer there comes a sleepy sound of rooks from the Bishop's garden close at hand; and, towards sunrise and sunset, the chirp of innumerable sparrows mingled with the richer notes of thrush, blackbird, and nightingale in their season. At certain times of the day, too, the stillness is broken by the thrilling freshness of children's voices, as the scholars of the ancient Grammar School scatter themselves over the Cathedral Green, shouting and calling in the shrill silvery treble of boyhood. But these sounds are softened and subdued by distance and thick masonry before they penetrate within the precincts of College Quad. In autumn and winter there is a chill dampness on the greenish-gray paving-stones of the cloister, and the rain drips heavily from carven capitals into the resounding court. The very order and cleanliness of the place—its decorous, clerical, smooth-shaven air—seem sometimes under a watery sky, and when the winds are moaning and complaining, or thrumming like ghostly fingers on the fine resonant Gothic fret-work, to fill the mind with melancholy.
A rich contrasting note is seldom wanting:—firelight and the glimpse of a crimson curtain seen through lozenge-shaped window-panes; or an open door sending out a gush of warmth and spicy smells from the kitchen, and the sound of friendly voices. Yet even within doors there seems to be a haunting sense of the old, old times when hands long crumbled into dust built up that dainty cloister, and when patient monkish feet, long stilled for ever, paced its stones. It is not a wholly sad feeling. It may even give zest to the glance of living eyes, and the warm pressure of dear hands. But it has a peculiar pathos:—a pathos which, perhaps, is felt peculiarly by northern people, as the sad-sweet twilight belongs to northern climates, and which many of those, to the manner born, would not exchange for the unbroken garishness of golden-blue days and silver-blue nights.