John and Betty's History Visit Part 17

"Where can one see such a scene?" mused Mrs. Pitt. "Not in Italy surely, for there the 'picturesque dirt,' as they call it, is so much in evidence. For my part, I prefer the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of Clovelly."

Lunch at the New Inn tasted very good,--especially as here the young people first made the acquaintance of the much-praised "Devonshire cream." Served with wild strawberries, or any other fruit, this thick cream is truly delicious, and unlike anything else. The meal itself was partaken of in the Annex, a larger, newer house across the way, but having finished, the party returned to the original hostelry. It is the tiniest house imaginable, and the little rooms are so crowded with furniture, the landlord's collection of fine old china, and knick-knacks of all sorts, that John endangered many valued treasures by his awkward movements. Once, in pa.s.sing some people in the hall, his elbow struck a small cabinet of blue china, and there would have been a terrible catastrophe had not Mrs. Pitt arrived upon the scene at the opportune moment.

"Oh, bother!" exclaimed John, very much irritated, and more ashamed of his clumsiness than he cared to show. "How can a fellow have room to breathe in a bandbox like this! Come along, Philip; I'm going down to talk some more with those sailors."

The old fishermen who can no longer follow their loved trade sit sunning themselves comfortably on the doorsteps of their Clovelly homes, gazing dreamily out to sea. When Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and Betty went to find the boys toward tea-time, they discovered them sitting by a group of these old cronies, who were ensconced upon a bench affording a beautiful view of the lower part of the town, the bay, and the cliffs of the rugged coast. The tide had filled the little harbor, and numerous small boats with copper-colored sails bobbed about on the opal waters; near the Red Lion Inn stood a row of sleepy-looking mules waiting for the start up the street.

The men had been exchanging fishermen's yarns, much to the pleasure of their audience, but when the ladies appeared, they commenced telling ghost-stories or curious bits of folk-lore. One tale especially amused the girls, although John thought he preferred the wild adventures of the sea.

After looking long out over the bay, the particular old salt who was then entertaining them, removed the pipe from between his teeth, and began the following. Mrs. Pitt took pains to remember it, and this is how it reads to this very day in her journal:

"The father of a certain fair young girl had been carried off by smugglers, and kept for 'a year and a day,'--until a large sum of money was finally paid for his release. He only lived a short time after his return home, however, and his daughter died soon after, worn out by anxiety about her father. This young lady's ghost continually haunts a certain little village in Devon, where some of the fisherfolk were said to have taken part in the kidnaping of her father. Instead of doing anything more violent, the ghost simply appears on Sunday mornings, just as the dinners are being cooked, and touches the meat with her white, bony hand, thereby rendering it unfit to eat."

Mrs. Pitt's famous journal, which is often referred to, contains also this story heard that day at Clovelly:

"In front of a certain farm-house was a large, flat stone, which tradition said was as old as the Flood. Here, at midnight, there always appeared a female figure, clad in a gray cloak and an old-fashioned black bonnet. The apparition would remain there until dawn, always knocking, knocking upon the stone. The inhabitants of the house nearby became so used to 'Nelly the Knocker,' as she was called, that they paid no attention whatever to her, did not fear her in the least, and would even stop to examine her queer garments. Finally, however, two young men of the family decided to solve the mystery, so they blasted the rock one day. To their great surprise, underneath were lying two large urns, packed with gold, which treasure enriched them for the rest of their days. But 'Nelly the Knocker' came no more."

In place of repairing to the somewhat stuffy dining-room at the inn, they had their tea just outside one of the most sightly cottages, and were served by a pretty young girl. The china was coa.r.s.e and the thick slices, cut with a big knife from huge loaves of bread, were by no means daintily served, but it could not have tasted better, and John ate a truly alarming amount of bread and jam.

At Clovelly, the summer twilights are very long and lovely, and down on the breakwater our friends enjoyed this one to the full. One might look over the blue expanse of bay and see the faint outlines of the coast of Wales, and then turn and gaze at the picturesque harbor and the quaint, hanging village, in the houses of which, lights were slowly beginning to twinkle, one after another. They stayed until it was quite dark, and were even then loath to wend their way up the steep street, and to waste so many hours by going to bed in the "Doll's House," as John persisted in calling the New Inn.

"Well," said Betty comfortingly, "it will be fun after all,--sleeping in that funny wee inn, where there are only four bedrooms in the whole house. I choose the one with the pink rose peeping in the window! I saw it this morning. Come on."

The next day dawned as fair as one could wish, and at Mrs. Pitt's suggestion a walk along the "Hobby Drive" was first taken. This charming road was built by a Mr. Hamlin, the owner of the town of Clovelly, who lives at Clovelly Court. The drive starts just at the top of the village, and extends for three miles along the edge of the cliffs. The views are startlingly beautiful! Through the fresh green of the trees and vines, glimpses of the deep blue sea are to be had, and to add to the vivid coloring, there is the peculiar red rock which belongs to that part of the coast.

As they were retracing their steps, Mrs. Pitt said with slight hesitation:

"I promise not to give you very much history while you are here, but I must tell you just a bit about the relation which all this country bears to Charles Kingsley's great book, 'Westward Ho!' Have you never read it, John? Fancy! I'll get it for you at once! Well, Bideford is the nearest town to Clovelly, and it was from there that Amyas Leigh, Salvation Yeo, and all the rest set out with Sir Francis Drake. By the by, that very sailor, Salvation Yeo, was born in the old Red Lion Inn, at the foot of the Clovelly street. Oh, you'd like him, John, and all his brave adventures! At Clovelly Court, in the days of the story, lived Will Cary, another of the well-known characters in 'Westward Ho!,' and in the little parish church very near there, Charles Kingsley's father was rector. Kingsley himself was at Clovelly a great deal, and probably gained here his knowledge of the seas and those who sail them. One of those old fishermen last night (he who claimed to be ninety-eight) told me that he used to know Charles Kingsley well, and I suppose it is possible."

That afternoon toward tea-time, after another fascinating roam about the town,--into its back-yards and blind alleys, and along its pebbly beach,--as well as numerous exciting rides on the backs of the mules, the party gathered on the tiny veranda of the New Inn, crowding it to its utmost capacity. The purpose of this formal meeting was to decide where they should go the following morning, as they were then leaving Clovelly. Mrs. Pitt had promised them a week more of play in Devonshire before their trip to Canterbury, and she advised visits to Bideford, Minehead, Porlock, Lynton, Lynmouth, and finally Torquay. As the young people had no ideas of their own upon the subject and as they had vast confidence in anything Mrs. Pitt proposed, this plan was at once adopted.

"These places are all by the sea," Mrs. Pitt continued, "and I'm quite sure you'll like them. Torquay is just a watering-place, with big hotels, terraces, and gardens, but oh! it is so lovely, and nearby is the duckiest little village of c.o.c.kington! You'll never leave the thatched cottages there, Betty! Lynmouth is very fine, with its combination of mountain and seaside views, and its moors. Close by is the Doone Valley, which figures so prominently in the story of 'Lorna Doone,' and we'll visit that. It will all be beautiful--beautiful as only England and Devonshire can be--but you'll find nothing at all like this strange little Clovelly, so enjoy it while you may!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "YOU'LL FIND NOTHING AT ALL LIKE THIS STRANGE LITTLE CLOVELLY."--_Page 250._]

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ROCHESTER AND CANTERBURY

As soon as the familiar chugging of the motor was heard at the front door in Cavendish Square, John hurried out. Just as he was examining all the chauffeur's arrangements for the trip, and looking with approval over the entire automobile, the whir of the engine suddenly gasped, struggled to catch its breath, and then ceased altogether. The chauffeur, perfectly unconcerned, swung himself off from his seat and sauntered around to "crank her up," but his expression of a.s.surance soon changed, for the motor refused to start.

John's face was pitiful to see. "Oh, bother!" he cried, running to where the chauffeur stood, in front of the hood. "Why has it got to go and spoil it all like that! It's mean, I say! Can't you fix her?

What's wrong?"

Off came the chauffeur's nicely-brushed coat, his clean hands handled oily tools, and a big streak of grease soon appeared upon his trousers. Great was his humiliation! After about fifteen minutes of disagreeable work, all was well, however,--the engine started, and the sound was again smooth and steady. John's expression was radiant, and he came to help the ladies in, while the forlorn chauffeur retired to make himself presentable.

"Now, we're off for Canterbury!" John announced triumphantly, as they at last glided around a corner into Piccadilly.

Slowly and carefully they wended their way down to London Bridge, crossed, and stopped for a moment before the site of the old Tabard Inn.

"I'm going to take you to Canterbury by the very road which Chaucer's pilgrims in all probability traveled, and I thought that to make the illusion as perfect as possible, we really should halt here in Southwark. This is where the pilgrims met, you know, and from here they set out in the lovely month of April: the 'verray perfight, gentil knight,' his son, the gay young squire, the stout Wife of Bath, the dainty prioress, the pale clerk (or scholar), the merchant with his fine beaver hat, the parson, the plowman, the pardonner, the summoner, the cook, and all the rest! They traveled on horseback, you remember, and to beguile the tedious hours when they advanced slowly along the dusty road, they took turns in telling the stories which Chaucer gives us in the wonderful 'Canterbury Tales.'"

"I never did know just why they went," Betty ventured, in some confusion lest they should laugh at her.

"Neither did I!" John promptly seconded. "Please tell us, Mrs. Pitt."

"Dear me, yes! I certainly will, for you must surely understand that!"

After pausing a moment in order to think how best to make her meaning clear, Mrs. Pitt went on in her pleasant voice. "You see, pilgrimages were always made to some especial shrine! We'll take Becket's for an example. After his terrible murder, Becket was immediately canonized (that is, made a saint), and for many years a very celebrated shrine to him existed at Canterbury Cathedral. In those days, sumptuous velvets and abundant jewels adorned the shrines, and if a person journeyed to one, it meant that his sins were all atoned for. It was a very easy thing, you see. If a man had committed a wrong, all he had to do was to go to some shrine, say certain prayers there, and he thought himself forgiven. Such trips cost men practically nothing, for pilgrims might usually be freely cared for at the monasteries along the route; a man was quite sure of good company; and altogether, it was very pleasant to see the world in this way. The numerous terrible dangers to be met with only added the spice of excitement to many. In short, such numbers of poor men started off on these religious pilgrimages, leaving their families uncared for, that the clergy finally were forced to interfere. Laws were then made which compelled a man to procure a license for the privilege of going to a shrine, and these permits were not granted to all. You understand then, that toward noted shrines such as St. Thomas a Becket's, pilgrims singly and in companies were always flocking, and among these was the little group which Chaucer has made so familiar and real to us all."

"Here's Deptford," announced John by and by, seeing the name upon some sign. "What went on here?"

"What makes you think anything 'went on here'!" Mrs. Pitt exclaimed.

"Fancy! What a curious boy!"

"Oh!" John burst out. "That's easy enough! I haven't seen more than about two or three places in all this country where some fellow didn't do something, or some important thing go on."

Mrs. Pitt pushed up her veil, removed her gla.s.ses, and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. "I think you are about right, John. And something did happen here in Deptford; in fact, there were several things. First, I'll tell you that it was here that Queen Elizabeth came in 1581 and visited the ship in which Drake had been around the world. The Queen dined on board the vessel and knighted Drake while there. Event number two was the death of Christopher Marlowe, one of the greatest of all England's dramatists. Marlowe was only thirty years old when he was killed in a vulgar fight in a tavern. Fancy!

Poor Anne of Cleves, after the early divorce from her royal husband, lived near Deptford, at Place House. Writers say that she used often to go up to London, and visit the Court, just as though she had not been (for a few short days, to be sure) the 'first lady of the land,'

as you Americans say. Poor Anne! She always seemed a pitiful character to my mind. She couldn't help it if Henry VIII didn't find her good to look upon!"

Beyond Deptford, as they were smoothly gliding along, all at once there came a loud report.

"Goodness!" cried John. "What in the world was that!" Then he shouted with laughter at the frightened expression on Betty's face.

"Dearie me! It must be a 'blow-out'! Is that the trouble, Jo? Yes?

Well, come, girls; we may as well step out." There was forced resignation in Mrs. Pitt's voice; she was trying not to mind the delay.

For forty minutes she and the girls sat by the roadside and watched the chauffeur and the two boys at work on the tire. It seemed as though every part of this operation took longer than usual. The tools seemed never so easily mislaid; it surely was a longer task than ever to inflate the tube, and then to fit on the wheel-rim. Finally, however, the three rose, grimy and dusty, but triumphant, and ready to set forth once again.

The accident came just at the edge of Blackheath, amid very historic surroundings. Some one has called Blackheath the Rotten Row of the olden days, for there royalty and fashionable people of the town went to ride and disport themselves, just as they now do in Hyde Park; and there important guests on the way to London, were wont to be met with much ceremony by the Mayor and certain great citizens. After the battle of Agincourt, the victor, Henry V, when returning to London, was given a magnificent reception at Blackheath, and many were the speeches of praise which had been prepared. The great soldier cut them all short, however, insisting that the honor be given G.o.d. At Blackheath, his descendant, Henry VIII, first saw Anne of Cleves (officially, that is), and straightway decided to divorce her. But perhaps the most joyful scene of all those at Blackheath, took place on the May morning when Charles II came into his own, and all England was glad, after the dark days of the Commonwealth and the iron rule of the sober Puritans.

"This," declared Mrs. Pitt a little later, "is 'Shooter's Hill.' That should bear a familiar sound. How many have ever read d.i.c.kens's 'Tale of Two Cities'? You have, I know, Philip. Well, in the second chapter, the stage which carried Mr. Jarvis Lorry on his way, is described as slowly mounting this very hill, while most of its pa.s.sengers toil along the wet, snowy road, by its side. Do you remember, Betty? You must try to think over all of d.i.c.kens's works which you have ever read, for we are coming to a district which that author knew well and often put into his novels."

Sure enough, they almost felt as though they had stepped into the world of d.i.c.kens's stories, for so many of the places mentioned therein they were able to find. Slowly they drove through Rochester's streets, stopping when they came to any spot of especial interest.

"Here's the old Bull Inn," said Mrs. Pitt, pointing it out as she spoke. "It is supposed that there are no less than twenty-five inns named in d.i.c.kens's 'Pickwick Papers' alone. This is one of them, for Room Number Seventeen was Mr. Pickwick's bedroom, and there is also Winkle's, which was 'inside of Mr. Tupman's.' Come, shall we go in?"

The landlord of the Bull has most carefully preserved and cared for all which is of even the slightest interest in connection with d.i.c.kens or his books. He most kindly took Mrs. Pitt and her party all about the old house, showing them everything,--including the room where the famous ball in "Pickwick Papers" was held.

Leaving the Bull, they noted the Crown Inn, on the site of the one where Henry VIII went privately to take a look at Anne of Cleves, and the old White Hart, built in Richard II's reign, which once sheltered Samuel Pepys. In Restoration House (built in 1587) Charles II stayed after his landing at Dover.

"'d.i.c.kens wrote thus about Restoration House in "Great Expectations,"'" Betty read from the guidebook. "'I had stopped to look at the house as I pa.s.sed, and its seared red brick walls, blocked windows and strong green ivy clasping even the stacks of chimneys with its twigs and tendrils, as if with sinewy arms, made up a rich and attractive mystery.'"

"Doesn't that describe it exactly?" exclaimed Mrs. Pitt, with enthusiasm. "That house always fascinated me, too. When d.i.c.kens last visited Rochester, it is said that he was seen gazing long at this old place, and some have thought that the result of those reflections would have appeared in the next chapter of 'Edwin Drood,' which novel, as you know, he never finished. Now, we'll drive out to take a look at Gad's Hill. Luckily, this is Wednesday, so we will be admitted."