Changes of
glorious light from moving boughs, songs of birds, scents from
gardens, woods, and fields--or, rather, from the one great garden
of the whole cultivated island in its yielding time--penetrate into
the Cathedral, subdue its earthy odour, and preach the Resurrection
and the Life. The cold stone tombs of centuries ago grow warm; and
flecks of brightness dart into the sternest marble corners of the
building, fluttering there like wings.
Comes Mr. Tope with his large keys, and yawningly unlocks and sets
open. Come Mrs. Tope and attendant sweeping sprites. Come, in due
time, organist and bellows-boy, peeping down from the red curtains
in the loft, fearlessly flapping dust from books up at that remote
elevation, and whisking it from stops and pedals. Come sundry
rooks, from various quarters of the sky, back to the great tower;
who may be presumed to enjoy vibration, and to know that bell and
organ are going to give it them. Come a very small and straggling
congregation indeed: chiefly from Minor Canon Corner and the
Precincts. Come Mr. Crisparkle, fresh and bright; and his
ministering brethren, not quite so fresh and bright. Come the
Choir in a hurry (always in a hurry, and struggling into their
nightgowns at the last moment, like children shirking bed), and
comes John Jasper leading their line. Last of all comes Mr.
Datchery into a stall, one of a choice empty collection very much
at his service, and glancing about him for Her Royal Highness the
Princess Puffer.
The service is pretty well advanced before Mr. Datchery can discern
Her Royal Highness. But by that time he has made her out, in the
shade. She is behind a pillar, carefully withdrawn from the Choir-
master's view, but regards him with the closest attention. All
unconscious of her presence, he chants and sings. She grins when
he is most musically fervid, and--yes, Mr. Datchery sees her do
it!--shakes her fist at him behind the pillar's friendly shelter.
Mr. Datchery looks again, to convince himself. Yes, again! As
ugly and withered as one of the fantastic carvings on the under
brackets of the stall seats, as malignant as the Evil One, as hard
as the big brass eagle holding the sacred books upon his wings
(and, according to the sculptor's representation of his ferocious
attributes, not at all converted by them), she hugs herself in her
lean arms, and then shakes both fists at the leader of the Choir.
And at that moment, outside the grated door of the Choir, having
eluded the vigilance of Mr. Tope by shifty resources in which he is
an adept, Deputy peeps, sharp-eyed, through the bars, and stares
astounded from the threatener to the threatened.
The service comes to an end, and the servitors disperse to
breakfast. Mr. Datchery accosts his last new acquaintance outside,
when the Choir (as much in a hurry to get their bedgowns off, as
they were but now to get them on) have scuffled away.
'Well, mistress. Good morning. You have seen him?'
'I'VE seen him, deary; I'VE seen him!'
'And you know him?'
'Know him! Better far than all the Reverend Parsons put together
know him.'
Mrs. Tope's care has spread a very neat, clean breakfast ready for
her lodger. Before sitting down to it, he opens his corner-
cupboard door; takes his bit of chalk from its shelf; adds one
thick line to the score, extending from the top of the cupboard
door to the bottom; and then falls to with an appetite.
