John and Betty's History Visit Part 12

The former is the most interesting of all the apartments, for here one stands in the very room where Shakespeare is said to have been questioned by the pompous Sir Thomas Lucy, after the deer-stealing episode. This lofty hall has a slight modern atmosphere about it now, but the dark paneling, bits of really old gla.s.s in the windows, and, above all, the bust of Shakespeare, recall the past very vividly to mind.

Most historians admit that there is some truth in the story that Shakespeare came into unpleasant contact with the Lord of Charlecote, through a more or less serious boyish prank; but not all believe that there can be any truth in the statement that he was brought into the Great Hall by the forester who caught up with him at the "Tumble-down Stile." It may be, however, that Shakespeare was later on friendly terms with the Lucy family, and so it is possible that he was then entertained in the hall.

"You know," remarked Mrs. Pitt, "that the disgrace of that affair with Sir Thomas Lucy is thought to have caused Shakespeare to leave his native town and go to seek his fortune in far-away London. Therefore the prank is said by some to have been a most important, though seemingly trivial event in the Poet's life. Shakespeare's revenge upon the owner of lovely Charlecote came later, when he very plainly described Sir Thomas in his plays, under the name of 'Justice Shallow.'"

Another room at Charlecote is very attractive,--that is, the old library. There is preserved some wonderful inlaid furniture which tradition describes as a gift from Queen Elizabeth to Leicester, and which consequently would once have found a place at Kenilworth Castle.

A very charming view of the lawn sloping gently down to the river is seen from the library windows.

Within the precincts of Charlecote is a beautiful church which was erected by Mrs. Henry Spenser Lucy, in 1852, upon the site of an ancient chapel. Here there are huge tombs in memory of three Lucys, and also an interesting monument to the wife of Sir Thomas, with its tribute to her lovely character, supposed to have been written by Shakespeare's "Justice Shallow" himself, who seems at least to have been a devoted husband. This last-mentioned monument was originally a part of the older edifice, of course.

It was now about noon, and they were feeling rather hungry, so at a short distance from Charlecote they selected an inviting place by the roadside, and there they unpacked the lunch which Mrs. Pitt had brought. How good it did taste! They all thoroughly enjoyed the picnic, and when a scarlet automobile went rushing past them, the ladies' veils fluttering in the breeze, Betty merely remarked:--"An auto's lovely, of course, but to-day I'd rather have a bicycle. It seems more appropriate, somehow."

"Yes," Mrs. Pitt responded. "When you are in such a beautiful county as this, and want to see it well, a bicycle is best. And then, I think it is more respectful to Shakespeare to go through his beloved haunts at a fairly leisurely pace. I imagine that he never would have understood how any one could care so little for Warwickshire as to go whirling and jiggling along through it in a motor, at thirty miles an hour."

Betty had absent-mindedly picked a daisy from the tall gra.s.s in which she was sitting, and was pulling off its petals, reciting the little verse about:

"Rich man, Poor man, Beggar man, Thief."

"Oh, dear! It's thief!" she cried, making up a wry face. "I'd rather have any one than that!"

"Try the other verses," suggested Barbara, entering into the fun.

"What others?" asked Betty in much surprise. "I didn't know there were any more."

"Dear me, yes," Mrs. Pitt broke in. "I used to know several of them myself,--the one about the house:

'Big house, Little house, Pig-stye, Barn,'

and about the conveyances:

'Coach, Carriage, Spring-cart, Wheelbarrow.'

Wasn't there one more, Barbara? Oh, yes, about the dress materials:

'Silk, Satin, Muslin, Rags.'"

"Well, well!" exclaimed Betty. "I never heard those. They must be just English."

"Perhaps so. At any rate, when I was a little girl, I used to say them, and believe in them, too. I lived here in Warwickshire, in my childhood, you know; my father was rector of a tiny village not far from Coventry. There are ever so many queer old rhymes, verses, and customs still common among Warwickshire children."

"Tell Betty about some of them, Mother," Barbara urged. "I'm sure that she'd like to hear, and we don't need to start on just yet."

Mrs. Pitt leaned thoughtfully against the lowered bars, at the entrance to a field. "I'll have to think about it," she said; but she soon added, "There was the 'Wishing Tree.' I remember that."

"What was it?" the two girls eagerly questioned. John and Philip, privately considering this talk "silly stuff," had retired to the farther side of a hay-rick, where they were whittling industriously.

"The 'Wishing Tree' was a large elm that stood in the park of a neighboring n.o.bleman's estate. To all the girls of the village, it was a favorite spot, and we used to steal through the hedge and very cautiously approach the tree. If the cross old gardener happened to see us he'd come limping in our direction as fast as his lame legs could carry him, calling out angrily that if we did not 'shog off right away, he'd set his ten commandments in our faces.' That's an odd expression, isn't it? It's very, very old,--so old that Shakespeare was familiar with it and used it in one of his plays--'King Henry VI,'

I think. The gardener meant that he would scratch us with his ten fingers--but he wouldn't have, for he was too kind-hearted in spite of his threats. He was a queer man, with a brown, wrinkled old face. I can see him just as though it were yesterday."

"What was that you said?" asked Betty. "'Shog off!' What does it mean?"

"Simply Warwickshire for 'Go away,'" was Mrs. Pitt's careless answer.

Her thoughts had gone back to her childhood.

"You forgot to tell us what the 'Wishing Tree' was for," Betty timidly suggested, fearful of interrupting her reminiscences.

"Why, so I did! We would tiptoe all alone up to the tree, and if, under its wide branches, we made a wish, we thought it was sure to come true. There was another curious old game of finding out how many years we were to live, by a ball. We would bounce it upon the hard ground, and catching it again and again in our hands, would chant all the while:

'Ball-ee, ball-ee, tell me true, How many years I've got to go through, One, two, three, four,--'

If that had proved true, I shouldn't be here to-day to tell of it, for I was never very skillful with the ball, and could only catch it ten or fifteen times at the most."

Mrs. Pitt laughed. "There is so much of ancient folk-lore here in Warwickshire," she went on. "I remember that the old country people always crossed themselves or said some charm for a protection, when one lone magpie flew over their heads. That meant bad luck, for the verses said:

'For one magpie means sorrow, Two, mirth, Three, a wedding, And four, a birth.'

Why, what is it, Barbara?"

Barbara had jumped to her feet, and was wildly waving her arms about her head. "It's only a bee," she said, rather ashamed. "I don't like them quite so near."

It was delightful to ride along on this "rare day in June," through the fair county of Warwickshire,--the "Heart of England." If they were just a bit uncomfortably warm on the hill-top where the sun beat down upon the fields and open road, they were soon again in the beautiful woodland, where the cool air refreshed them, or pa.s.sing through the street of some remote village, shaded by giant elms. In each little hamlet, as well as the row of peaceful thatched cottages, with smoke curling upwards from their chimneys, there was the ancient vine-covered church, with perhaps a Norman tower, where the rooks found a home, and the gray old rectory close at hand.

When Betty asked if it was in a church "like this" that Mrs. Pitt's father preached, and if her former home resembled the particular rectory they then chanced to be pa.s.sing, Mrs. Pitt replied, "Yes, my home was somewhat like this one. All English country churches and rectories look very much alike,--that is, almost all are vine-covered, and very old and quaint--yet, I think each has its own very distinct individuality, too."

Mrs. Pitt, of course, wanted some tea, so about four o'clock they stopped at a clean little cottage, near a stretch of woodland. Mrs.

Pitt herself dismounted and stepped up to the door, which stood hospitably open. A little flaxen-haired child ran out curiously at the sound of the knock, and then, frightened, scampered away to call her mother. That good woman, in her neat black dress and stiffly-starched white ap.r.o.n, at once understood the situation.

"You just seat yourselves there under the trees," she ordered them, "and I'll bring right out a shive off a loaf of bread, and a tot o'

tea for each of you."

The young people looked puzzled at this speech, but Mrs. Pitt smilingly led the way to the place their hostess designated. In a surprisingly short time the woman brought out a table (having scorned the a.s.sistance of the two boys), spread it with an immaculately clean cloth, and set thereon a very tempting loaf of brown bread and a pot of steaming tea. There was also jam, of course. While they enjoyed their meal, she stood by, her hands on her hips, and a radiant smile upon her face at the praises of her guests. Every few moments the little girl would peep out from behind the cottage, and once she almost came up to the group under the trees; but her mother, when she spied her, sent her hastily back, saying by way of an apology:--"She's all swatched, but she's only my reckling, you must know." As they rode away into the woods, the good woman stood in the middle of the road waving her table-cloth for good-by.

"Wasn't she a dandy!" John burst out. "Couldn't understand what she said, though! Might just as well have been Greek!"

"She certainly did have some old Warwickshire expressions!" laughed Mrs. Pitt. "I don't know when I've heard that word 'reckling.' It simply means her youngest child, who she said was all 'swatched.' That signifies being untidy, but I am sure I couldn't see the tiniest spot of dirt anywhere upon the child."

Betty was rather glad when they at last jumped off their bicycles at the hotel in Leamington.

"I guess I'm not used to quite such long rides as you," she said. "It has been beautiful, though, and I wouldn't have come by train for anything. I just love Warwickshire, and everything about it, especially the language, which I mean to learn while I am here."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WARWICK AND KENILWORTH CASTLES

The bicycles were returned to their owner in Stratford, and Mrs.