She had not meant to stay for the service. The
door had stood invitingly open, and a glimpse of the
interior had suggested to her the idea that it would
make good copy. “Old London Churches:
Their Social and Historical Associations.”
It would be easy to collect anecdotes of the famous
people who had attended them. She might fix up
a series for one of the religious papers. It
promised quite exceptional material, this particular
specimen, rich in tombs and monuments. There
was character about it, a scent of bygone days.
She pictured the vanished congregations in their
powdered wigs and stiff brocades. How picturesque
must have been the marriages that had taken place there,
say in the reign of Queen Anne or of the early Georges.
The church would have been ancient even then.
With its air of faded grandeur, its sculptured recesses
and dark niches, the tattered banners hanging from
its roof, it must have made an admirable background.
Perhaps an historical novel in the Thackeray vein?
She could see her heroine walking up the aisle on
the arm of her proud old soldier father. Later
on, when her journalistic position was more established,
she might think of it. It was still quite early.
There would be nearly half an hour before the first
worshippers would be likely to arrive: just time
enough to jot down a few notes. If she did ever
take to literature it would be the realistic school,
she felt, that would appeal to her. The rest,
too, would be pleasant after her long walk from Westminster.
She would find a secluded seat in one of the high,
stiff pews, and let the atmosphere of the place sink
into her.
And then the pew-opener had stolen up unobserved,
and had taken it so for granted that she would like
to be shown round, and had seemed so pleased and eager,
that she had not the heart to repel her. A curious
little old party with a smooth, peach-like complexion
and white soft hair that the fading twilight, stealing
through the yellow glass, turned to gold. So
that at first sight Joan took her for a child.
The voice, too, was so absurdly childish—appealing,
and yet confident. Not until they were crossing
the aisle, where the clearer light streamed in through
the open doors, did Joan see that she was very old
and feeble, with about her figure that curious patient
droop that comes to the work-worn. She proved
to be most interesting and full of helpful information.
Mary Stopperton was her name. She had lived
in the neighbourhood all her life; had as a girl worked
for the Leigh Hunts and had “assisted”
Mrs.
Carlyle. She had been very frightened of
the great man himself, and had always hidden herself
behind doors or squeezed herself into corners and
stopped breathing whenever there had been any fear
of meeting him upon the stairs. Until one day
having darted into a cupboard to escape from him and
drawn the door to after her, it turned out to be the
Copyrights
All Roads Lead to Calvary from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
