Settling down at Abbey Close after a month at Highfield was like
transferring oneself from a noisy farmyard to the calm of the cloister.
The house was so near to the Minster that it seemed pervaded by the
quiet Cathedral atmosphere. When Winona drew up her blinds in the
morning, the first sight that greeted her would be the grey old towers
and carved pinnacles, exactly opposite, where the jackdaws were
chattering, and the pigeons wheeling round, and the big clock was going
through the chimes and striking the hour of seven. There was a
particular gargoyle at the corner of the transept roof which appeared to
be grinning at her across the road, as if some imp were imprisoned in
the stone image, and were peeping out of its fantastic eyes. Winona had
grown to love the Minster. She would go in whenever she had ten minutes
to spare after school. The glorious arches and pillars, the carved choir
stalls, the light falling through the splendid rich windows on to the
marble pavement, all appealed to the artistic sense that was stirring in
her, and gave her immense satisfaction. But even the beauty of the
Cathedral was as nothing when the organ began to play. Mr. Holmes, the
organist, was a great musician, and could manage his instrument with a
wizard touch. In the afternoons, between four and five o'clock, he was
wont to practice his voluntaries, and to listen to these took Winona
into a new world of sound. He was a disciple of the extreme modern
school of music, and his interpretations of Debussy, César Franck,
Medtner and Glazounow came to her as a revelation. The glorious weird
harmonies, the strange, unaccustomed chords of these tone-poems stirred
her like the memory of something long forgotten. As Anglo-Indians, whose
knowledge of Hindustani faded with their childhood, yet start and thrill
at the sound of the once familiar language, so this dream-music brought
haunting elusive suggestions too subtle to be defined. It held a
distinct part in Winona's development.