What is prettier than an old lady--except a young lady--when her
eyes are bright, when her figure is trim and compact, when her face
is cheerful and calm, when her dress is as the dress of a china
shepherdess: so dainty in its colours, so individually assorted to
herself, so neatly moulded on her? Nothing is prettier, thought
the good Minor Canon frequently, when taking his seat at table
opposite his long-widowed mother. Her thought at such times may be
condensed into the two words that oftenest did duty together in all
her conversations: 'My Sept!'
They were a good pair to sit breakfasting together in Minor Canon
Corner, Cloisterham. For Minor Canon Corner was a quiet place in
the shadow of the Cathedral, which the cawing of the rooks, the
echoing footsteps of rare passers, the sound of the Cathedral bell,
or the roll of the Cathedral organ, seemed to render more quiet
than absolute silence. Swaggering fighting men had had their
centuries of ramping and raving about Minor Canon Corner, and
beaten serfs had had their centuries of drudging and dying there,
and powerful monks had had their centuries of being sometimes
useful and sometimes harmful there, and behold they were all gone
out of Minor Canon Corner, and so much the better. Perhaps one of
the highest uses of their ever having been there, was, that there
might be left behind, that blessed air of tranquillity which
pervaded Minor Canon Corner, and that serenely romantic state of
the mind--productive for the most part of pity and forbearance--
which is engendered by a sorrowful story that is all told, or a
pathetic play that is played out.
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