A GOOD CROSSING
It was not without trepidation that the three travellers embarked
at Dieppe. Visions of a long and rough passage across the Channel
arose before them and they watched the receding shores of France
momentarily expecting an attack of _mal de mer_, but the sea was as
smooth as a mill pond and all their fears were groundless, for a less
eventful, monotonous and easy trip could not be imagined. There was the
inevitable long wait for the customs at Newhaven, but they had reached
an English-speaking country and began to experience a homelike feeling
before even the Sussex downs came in sight. It was late when they
reached London, but it was not difficult to bargain for a four wheeler,
and they felt the sombre dignity of London’s streets as soon as they
had passed out of the station, and had turned toward the great centre
for American tourists, Russell Square.
“This lovely cab system,” said Gabriella, sinking back comfortably,
“is such a boon to the traveller voyaging into the unknown. Why don’t
we import it with a few other things? Imagine only paying two or three
shillings to go this distance. When we cram our cars as full as we
can get them so there is not even standing room, why don’t we clamor
for cheap cabs? It is ridiculous to be satisfied with such miserably
uncomfortable or expensive ways of getting about as we endure. I shall
lobby for a bill to settle cab rates as soon as I get home, and thereby
receive the undying gratitude of my fellow countrymen.”
“Gabriella is always going to do such wonderful things,” remarked
Sidney. “One would think she meant to revolutionize the entire world to
hear her. Doesn’t London seem quiet after Paris? London! Is it really
true that we are here? We aren’t dreaming, are we?”
“No more than we were in Rome or Paris,” returned Miss Cavendish.
“I shall be dreaming very soon,” declared Gabriella. “Let me but find a
pillow upon which to rest my weary head, and I will do all the dreaming
necessary for the occasion. It is very dim and hazy and Londonish,
isn’t it? But, oh, what a comfort it is going to be when we can gabble
out our difficulties in our own tongue to some friendly bobby. I am
eager for the fray. Will our landlady drop her h’s and will there be
a Boots and a slatternly maid such as we always read about in English
novels?”
“Let us hope the slatternly maid at least will be left out,” returned
Miss Cavendish. “We shall soon know, for I think this is our street.”
As they drew up before the door from every house within the square
arose the clangor of gongs. “Does that mean dinner, or is it their
way of welcoming us?” asked Gabriella, as she gathered up her bag and
umbrella.
“Presumably it is dinner,” answered Miss Cavendish.
“Then ho, for the roast beef, the mighty joint and the staying
pudding,” said Gabriella, as she stepped upon the pavement.
“The room is beastly and the bed is a rotter,” was the girl’s comment
after they had been shown their apartments.
“Why, Gabriella Thorne,” exclaimed her roommate, shocked at the
expressions.
“That is purely English,” was the calm response. “I have even heard
Miss Mildred use those terms, and I have no doubt the king speaks those
very words at times. There are words which we use with freedom but
which they look upon here with horror; I will not mention them lest I
shock the walls of this very dingy room. Is the dressing bureau placed
in front of the window so we may not look out upon the mews, do they
call them?”
“Never mind what they call them. Don’t try to be English in such a
startling manner, or you will terrify me.” And Gabriella followed her
friends down to dinner. The meal was substantial and good; all the
efforts of their landlady were evidently centred upon this department,
for the house itself bore a shabby and neglected look.
“It is rather depressing,” Miss Cavendish admitted, examining their
apartments when they had returned to them, “but we shall be in our
rooms very little of the time, and as we have brought all our luggage
here we may as well stay and see how it impresses us at the end of a
week.” Then they entered upon a discussion as to their plans for the
next day. Miss Cavendish wanted first of all to see Westminster Abbey,
Gabriella was for the National Gallery, while Sidney yearned for a trip
to Windsor and on to Stoke Poges. “It would be so lovely to worship in
that dear little church, and to see the graveyard which inspired Gray’s
Elegy,” she argued.
Miss Cavendish consulted her Baedeker. “But Sidney, dear, if we go
there it ought to be on a day when we can see the State apartments at
Windsor. There is no use in making two bites at a cherry.” So Sidney
yielded and Gabriella compromised by giving up the galleries and by
going to St. Paul’s for the afternoon service and to Westminster in
the morning. Then began their sight-seeing, which they pursued so
systematically and energetically that at the end of two weeks Sidney
looked pale, Miss Cavendish declared that she had mental indigestion,
and Gabriella was so wan and listless that her godmother became
alarmed. The girl had been anxious to occupy her every moment since
their arrival in London and never wanted to be left alone a moment or
to be obliged to spend the day in the house even when the others were
glad of a respite from the continual sight-seeing. Though they might be
exhausted she would urge them to further effort and wherever they went
the graceful little figure of Gabriella was always in the lead.
“We all need a change,” Miss Cavendish declared. “We have gone so
steadily since we came here; it has been warm, and we have walked such
distances looking at pictures and museums and such things that I think
it would be best to fly London for a time. What do you say, girls, to a
week by the sea? Miss Bailey is very urgent in begging us to join her
and her sister at that quiet little place in Sussex, so why not go? It
will do us all a world of good.”
Gabriella immediately brightened at the prospect. “I should like it of
all things,” she answered.
“Do you think we can get in anywhere?” Sidney asked. “You know
everybody leaves London in August, and we have been told that all the
watering places are simply packed.”
“We will see what we can do,” was the reply. “I will write to Miss
Bailey at once and see if we can secure lodgings.”
“Lodgings? Real lodgings where you have a sitting-room and have your
meals served as you choose?” Sidney was interested.
“All that.”
[Illustration: “‘THERE IS A LITTLE OLD CHURCH NEXT TO CROSBY HALL ...
AND WE SHALL WANT TO SEE THAT.’”]
“Oh, how delightful. Can we do our own marketing?”
“I imagine so.”
“Then do let us go. I think it will be a delightful change. I will look
up the Windsor Castle route while you are writing, for we might not
be able to get that in when we come back to London and ought to do it
before we go. To-day we go to the City and hunt up that old Crosby Hall
and lunch there, isn’t that the plan?”
Miss Cavendish replied affirmatively and prepared to write her letter
to Miss Bailey.
Their frequent rides on top of a ’bus had familiarized them with London
streets and they had become nimble in climbing up and down and in
distinguishing the proper words: “Piccadilly Circus,” “Oxford Street,”
or “Bayswater” among the maze of signs which advertised Nestle’s Food,
Van Houten’s Cocoa and the like articles. Gabriella generally managed
to get next the driver, and by so going added many an item to their
fund of information. It was she who had discovered that Crosby Hall was
worth visiting. “It is in the old, old part of the city,” she told the
others, “and the name of the streets down that way are fascinating:
Threadneedle Street, Bishopsgate Within, Bartholomew’s Lane. There is
a little old church next to Crosby Hall--St. Helen’s is the name of
it--and we shall want to see that.”
As they stood before the venerable Hall, Miss Cavendish remarked: “And
this was considered at one time to be the finest residence in London.
Shakespeare mentions it in Richard III, and no doubt had dined here
more than once.”
“When it was a palace and not a restaurant,” returned Sidney. “It is
certainly a fine old building and I suppose we should be thankful it
has been preserved even for its present uses.”
“I don’t object to the uses,” declared Gabriella, “not when we can get
such excellent chops as we shall probably find here.” They passed into
the lobby and up the steps into the great banquet hall where, under a
noble Gothic roof, they seated themselves and gave themselves up to a
carnal enjoyment of the excellent food that was provided them, Miss
Cavendish meanwhile offering morsels of the history relating to the
building, which she found in a small book which had been presented to
her as they entered. “It was built in 1466 by Sir John Crosby,” she
gave her information between sips of ale from a quaint mug. “Afterward
it belonged to Richard III. ‘Here,’ says my little book, ‘were hatched
those intrigues which enabled the wily Richard to secure the crown.’ It
goes on to say that the situation of the Hall was favorable, for it is
near the Tower where the two little princes were murdered and--”
Gabriella laid down her knife and fork. “And to think we poor
commonplace persons sit here eating mutton chops,” she said, looking
around the room with a new interest.
“Sir Thomas More also lived here,” Miss Cavendish went on. “There is
a list of the notables who were occupants at different times. Queen
Elizabeth was a guest.”
“It seems much more intimate to eat in a place like this than merely
to look at it,” remarked Sidney. “You feel a certain personal sense of
possession when your chops have been cooked in that great fireplace.”
“Then think what a change from a palace to a Non-conformist
meeting-house. Finally it was bought, restored and put to its present
uses.”
“Which are exceedingly good ones,” decided Gabriella.
From the Hall they found their way to the ancient church set back in
an enclosure which one could enter from Crosby Hall, and which they
might have missed if they had not known where to look for it. As early
as 1216 there was a nunnery connected with the church. To this parish
belonged Shakespeare during his residence in London, and was rated in
the parish books for five pounds, thirteen shillings and fourpence.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for anything,” said Miss Cavendish
enthusiastically. “It has been one of our pleasantest London
experiences. We had an unusual combination of old-time associations
and surroundings with modern service.”
“It gave one a sense of fitness to see all those good-looking
Englishmen with their mugs of ale and their chops, just as one always
imagines them lunching,” said Sidney. “There is something exceedingly
stalwart and dependable in the appearance of most Englishmen, I find.”
Gabriella looked sober and proposed that they finish their day at the
Museum, which was always their stop-gap when nothing else specially
invited. There was one uncanny, red-haired mummy, which Gabriella
declared was perfectly fascinating, and which she never failed to look
for whenever she visited the Museum; this and the Elgin marbles were
her favorite exhibits. Miss Cavendish enjoyed the illuminated missals
and manuscripts of various kinds, while Sidney preferred the scarabae
and the treasures of ancient Egypt.
The early start for Windsor was made on a day when the sun was dimly
shining, but when the air was soft and balmy, yet not too hot. With
many other tourists they were rushed through the rooms of the castle
and were glad to get out again into the open air. “Here and at the
Tower were the only times that I have felt that I belonged to the
common herd,” said Sidney as they issued from the courtyard. “It is
good of them to let us see it at all, I suppose, and I did enjoy it,
but I do dislike to be prodded and poked and urged to come along as if
I were a stupid gaping Cockney who had only an insatiable curiosity for
things which belonged to kings and queens.”
“Never mind, dear little aristocrat, you shall not be crowded at Stoke
Poges,” Gabriella tried to console her.
A short railway journey to Slough, a drive of two miles over
picturesque country roads brought them to the quiet little churchyard
at Stoke Poges. They left their carriage a little way up the road and
wandered across the fields to the church. There were but few other
visitors, and the peaceful solitude was theirs to enjoy. “Could one
imagine a more restful place,” murmured Miss Cavendish.
“Or a more beautiful English landscape,” put in Sidney.
“Or a dearer little church,” said Gabriella. “I could almost write an
elegy myself. It is all here, Gem. I can hear the lowing herds; there
is the ivy-mantled tower, though the moping owl seems to be missing,
but there are the rugged elms and here where we are standing is the
very yew tree’s shade.”
But Sidney had no words for her emotions and she mopped her eyes until
Gabriella asked her if Melancholy had marked her for her own. “I didn’t
suppose,” said Sidney by way of excuse, “that it could stay so exactly
as it must have been when Gray used to come here, and when you find
a thing like this that isn’t in the least disappointing, and that is
as perfectly enchantingly peaceful and lovely as this is, you can’t
help filling up and feeling as if you had realized a dream you never
expected to come true. I suppose I am very incoherent, but I can’t help
it. Don’t let us go back, Gem, till the very last minute. I wish we
could spend days here, a Sunday anyhow, so I could come to this little
church and could steep my soul in the loveliness of it all.”
“You brought the Elegy, I hope,” said Gabriella.
“No, but I can repeat it. You know it was my father’s favorite poem.”
And she began the beautiful elegy, pausing every now and then at an
interruption from one of the others, but at the close they all sat very
thoughtful until Gabriella tip-toed across the grass to the tomb which
enclosed the body of the poet and that of his mother. Here the girl
stood and read the pathetic inscription, and then stooping, gathered a
tiny flower and laid it on the slab.
“The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,” quoted Miss Cavendish, as
the shadows deepened. “We must get back to the ‘madding crowd,’ girls.”
“Oh, but I can’t bear to,” exclaimed Sidney, rising reluctantly. “Don’t
let’s ever go back. Let’s send for our best beloveds and stay here the
rest of our lives.”
A leaf from the ivy-mantled tower, a bit of the yew tree, some
photographs, and better than all, a sweet and lasting memory they
carried away with them. Windsor Castle, in all its magnificence, filled
their thoughts with less joy than did the quiet little churchyard set
in the lush green of an English landscape.
“One doesn’t realize till going over the poem,” said Sidney, “how many
ordinary quotations we take from it. I am always surprised myself, well
as I know it. I must try to get an English copy and put my photograph
in it with the ivy leaf and the bit of yew.” This finding of a simple
copy she discovered was not an easy thing to do, and wondered that no
enterprising publisher had seen the need of a cheap edition of proper
size for the photograph, inasmuch as such would find a ready sale.
“London isn’t exactly lovable,” remarked Gabriella, as they passed
through the tranquil streets where rows of sombre houses showed
hazily. “It is dignified and kindly, while Paris is gay and amusing.
It doesn’t seem to be London itself with its smoky atmosphere, and its
general dinginess that one cares for, but it is the associations. It is
altogether too big to be taken into your heart of hearts in the way we
did the little church, yet you do admire it. I feel as if I might live
here for centuries and still have to learn parts of it. We have been
going, going constantly for three weeks, and yet there is much more to
see than when we began, for every day something new turns up. I don’t
believe I should ever care to live in London, but if all rural England
is as charming as that part of it that we saw to-day, I shall love it,
in spite of high walls, iron gates and unresponsiveness in general.”
“I don’t think it is unresponsive,” replied Sidney. “I think it is
merely retiring. I like the way they make a garden of the back yards
and have their tea out there. Why don’t we do such things? The back
gardens are lovely and the people enjoy them as we never do. I think
afternoon tea is a great institution, and have become very dependent
upon it.”
“No wonder, after having had nothing but cold water to drink at
luncheon. With no hot bread for breakfast, but only cold toast and the
eternal bacon and eggs, and for dinner vegetable-marrow, cabbage and
potatoes, I yearn for our American markets,” declared Gabriella. “We
have our advantages at home, and there are some of the English customs
I can never get used to. If I lived here a thousand years I would not
set my dressing bureau with its back to a window, nor would I serve
bacon and eggs for breakfast three hundred and sixty-five times a year.
The back door garden and the afternoon tea go very well, but give me
less grass and a country where you don’t have to grow all your tomatoes
under glass; I am rather dependent upon tomatoes, you remember. I
should like to borrow a cathedral or two, a couple of castles and some
other antiques, but for the rest I shall be quite satisfied to exchange
England for America.”
“You were not so wont to extol our new and raw country,” returned
Sidney with a smile.