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Updated: June 27, 2025
Esme Darlington was paying a little visit to his old friend and crony, the Dean of Welsley. He had known the Dean well, almost ever since he could remember, and the Dean's wife ever since she had married the Dean.
"My Welsley!" was Rosamund's thought as she sat in her stall, quite alone, looking up at the old jeweled glass in the narrow Gothic windows, at the wonderful somber oak, age-colored, of the return stalls and canopy beneath which Canon Wilton, as Canon-in-Residence, would soon be sitting at right angles to her, at the distant altar lifted on high and backed by a delicate marble screen, beyond which stretched a further, tranquilly obscure vista of the great church.
I shall have to be in London." He spoke rather indecisively. "I'm taking a fortnight's holiday, and then we shall settle down." "I've been in Welsley," said Mrs. Clarke. "It's beautiful but, to me, stifling. It has an atmosphere which would soon dry up my mind. All the petals would curl up and go brown at the edges. I'm glad you're not going to live there. But after South Africa you couldn't."
He only knew how great it was when he got out at the Welsley Station. He had never seen Welsley before, though its fame had been familiar to him from childhood. Thousands of pilgrims had piously visited it, coming from afar; now yet another pilgrim had come from afar, sensitively eager to approach a shrine which held something desired by his soul.
The strong sanity which marked her, and which had always kept her in central paths, far away from the byways in which the neurotic, the decadent, the searchers after the so-called "new" things loved to tread, led her to welcome each season in is turn, and to rejoice in its special characteristics. So she loved the cloistral feeling autumn brought with it to Welsley.
Jasper on the other; Canon Wilton, Beattie, the Archdeacon of Welsley and the Precentor were just in front; behind peacefully streamed minor canons and their wives, young sons and daughters of the Precincts, and various privileged persons who, though not of the hierarchy, possessed small houses within the sacred pale. Only the Bishop and his consort drove majestically home in "Harrington's Fly."
And he walked on down the tiny street towards the muffin which awaited him at home, well pleased with his perspicuity, and making mental preparations for the astonishing of his wife with a tidbit of news. Dion came into the Green Court, and immediately felt Welsley, felt it in the depths of him, and understood Rosamund's love of it so often expressed in her letters.
Through the mist the sunshine filtered, lightly pale and pure, a sensitive sunshine which would surely not stay very long in Rosamund's garden. A sort of thin stillness had fallen upon the world. And so another chapter of life was closing, the happy chapter of Welsley!
She arrived by the express, which reached Welsley Station in the evening, and found Canon Wilton at the station to meet her. His greeting was: "The 'Wilderness, Wesley, at the afternoon service to-morrow." "That's good of you!" she exclaimed, with the warm and radiant cordiality that won her so many friends. "I shall revel in my little visit here. It's an unexpected treat."
"I believe everything we do for others, without any thought of ourselves, we do for ourselves," he said, very seriously. "Altruism! But then I ought to live in London for you, and you in Welsley for me." They both laughed. Nothing had been absolutely decided; and yet it seemed as if through that laughter a decision had been reached about everything really important.
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