“It was Aunt Ann’s fault,” she grumbled to me—“and mamma’s. They were a good half-hour looking at the stuff for the children’s winter frocks. Aunt Ann maintained that cashmere was best, mamma held to merino. All the shelves they had taken down! I would not be a linen-draper’s shopman for the world.”
Just in time, were we, to get into our seats before the procession of clergy and choristers came in. The chanter that afternoon was Mr. Leafchild’s rector: I knew him to speak to. But there’s no space to linger upon details.
A small knot of people, ourselves and others, had collected in the transept after service, waiting for one of the old bedesmen to do the honours of the cathedral, when the chanter came down the steps of the south aisle, after disrobing in the vestry.
“Do you know who he is?” I said to Helen, who was standing with me a little apart.
“No—how should I know? Except that he must be one of the minor canons.”
“He is Mr. Leafchild’s rector.”
“Is he?” she eagerly cried, the colour coming into her face. And just then he chanced to look our way, and nodded to me. I went up to him to speak.
“This is a terrible thing about Leafchild,” he exclaimed in a minute or two.
“What is it?” I asked, my breath stopping.
Helen, who had slowly paced after me on the white flags, stood stock still and turned as pale as you please.